#upper limb difference | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dimepdf · 10 months

Text

★ 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇-𝐀, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇-𝐀, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄. + 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

masterlist. / taglist. / tip jar. synopsis. no matter how many times you try to convince yourself that Miguel is the bane of your existence, the way you react during training proves otherwise.

─── ☆ notes. i need fics of miguel being an absolute dick, like a petty bitch just for the hell of it i need more attitude yk? Like if that man isn't calling me a slut it ain't canon! | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

─── ☆ length. 4.3k (33 min read).

─── ☆ genre and warnings. +18 nsfw under the cut. minors dni | no spoilers | smut, enemies to lovers, maybe mutual pining, fighting and violence, semi public sex, gym sex, mentions of abuse, size difference, pain kink, strength kink, degradation kink, manhandling, power play(?), begging, rough sex, cervix kissing, choking, fangs, biting, marking, cunnilingus, eye contact, hair pulling, creampie, open ended, not an taiyo fic without a few typos.

IF YOU ASKED any of the other Spider-men what they loved so much about being Spider-Man, their answers would all be the same, ranging from "the suit" to "the enhanced abilities." It was a no-brainer that being a superhero came with a few awesome perks.

Which was why your answer was just a bit confusing, "the combat." You would always smile, despite the many eyebrows raises and looks that convinced you you had to be some type of overcover masochist, especially since you would never really go into true detail about why.

Your reasoning behind putting on the mask was similar to all the others: another traumatized kid being thrown into a whole new reality that you never would have dreamed of being possible.

Sadly, you had been raised with the loss of most of your loved ones, and your family was in shambles from the abuse you would go through from them. It was the reason why it was difficult for you to grow up and make many friends, let alone navigate your abilities on your own accord, which was why it was a whole different ball game when you first joined the spider society.

When you first met Miguel O'Hara, you thought he was an overly intimidating man with an even more scary personality. Your aesthetics and morals would clash in the first few run-ins you would have with him.

In all honesty, you first thought him to be a massive dick who surprisingly needed more therapy than you did. From his bored expression to his unnerving glare, it was clear upon the first introduction that you two just would not get along.

Which was why the universe made him the only spider person willing and with enough free time to train you. It came as a surprise to you both, who are usually butting heads. Miguel was adamant about not wanting to waste his time training some little girl who didn't even know how to throw a punch.

With much shit-talking on your part and a lot of teasing claims of him being afraid that you were going to kick your ass, training had quite literally started in full swing.

It was probably a bad move on your part to push the buttons of the guy who was teaching you how to fight. Miguel was clear with his fight-style techniques. He was nimble with his limbs and swift on his feet. It was hard for anyone to get a hit on him, especially since he wasn't the type to hold back his punches.

His teaching style was the same: your sessions included throwing you around as if you were some ragdoll and picking you up as if you weighed nothing, just to slam you into the ground with full bruising force.

There would be some very rare occasions when you would manage to get the upper hand on him. Miguel was about a foot taller than you, not to mention how pathetically compressed you looked standing next to him. You learned that the only way you could manage to get the upper hand was by using your size difference to your advantage.

All the sessions you won were hosted by you managing to tangle yourself from his claws and climb his towering figure into a headlock, praying that you had enough strength in your legs to make him tap out.

"How is she not dead yet?" Miles would mutter, looking concerned, as he stood from the sidelines of the training room, watching one of your sessions, as the blonde by his side didn't even wince at the sound of Miguel untangling you from the headlock you had him in.

His arms moved faster than you could process as he managed to loosen your hold enough to slam the air from your lungs as you fell back facing against the mat so hard that even Miles was convinced he could feel the blow in the lower spine.

"I mean, at this point, I'm kind of convinced she’s turned into his personal punching bag." Miles strains to watch Miguel not even wipe a sweat as he sprung back on his feet. He stretched out his full body, towering over you, curled flat against the mat, trying to collect your breathing as well as your broken ego.

Gwen nodded in agreement. "I don't even know how someone could hit someone so...squishy? She’s just so cute." She muttered, watching with her arms crossed.

"This punching bag needs to learn that in the real world, people aren't going to go as easy on her just because she’s cute." Miguel, despite glaring at the two bystanders, leaned down and yanked you back onto your stumbling feet.

Your fingers combed through the matted curls now drenched in sweat away from your forehead, using your water break as the perfect excuse to help cover up the reaction to the sudden compliment that came from his lips and the way he had made you feel.

"And her being my personal punching bag is completely at her fault, if you want to learn how to fight, you have to learn how to take a few punches." You couldn't help but roll your eyes and wave your hand out in annoyance at another one of Miguel O’Hara’s famous lectures.

"I’m not a punching bag, did you not see the hold I had on him early?" You huffed, almost choking on your water, trying to protest. Gwen humored your claim, the blonde reaching out and rubbing your shoulder out of support as you continued with your defense. "Any tighter, and I would have easily snapped his neck."

Of course, Miguel only smirked as you continued grasping at straws at the point of trying to prove to your friends your improvement, his eyes flitting back and forth at the exchange, expressionless at the sight of you managing to still joke around as if you weren't about to pass out from fatigue at any second.

"And was that before or after the part where I kicked your ass, little girl?" He shot out, chipping away at the final lock that held back your annoyance, you hadn't even had time to process the insult before he bumped his shoulder into you on his way out of the training room.

His rude exit enticed a round of reactions from Miles and Gwen trying their awkward best to comfort the boiling pot of anger they saw written all over your face, rolling your eyes, you pushed past the two, not without grumbling a string of insults in Miguel’s name to the washrooms.

You blessed the spider lords for somehow having the ability to shower under running water, let alone the unexplainable strange amount of amenities that the spider society dimensions had.

Like a web shooter's wonderland, you quickly shed the sweating clothes you trained in and stepped foot into the cold cubicle shower booth, letting the water run for a bit until enough steam fogged clouded stepping under the stream. Even with the hot water splashing pressure against your aching muscles, no amount of water could manage to wash away the annoying feeling in your legs.

It was enough of a jab at your pride to even find Miguel attractive in the first place, and here your body was betraying you once more, begging, throbbing desperately for his every touch in its every form, and having the nerve to grow more intense during your training.

The feeling had yet to fully disappear the next day, even with your session starting off with you fueled from yesterday's comments. You tried pushing the feeling as you were just ready to have Miguel mutter another word insult with the ass kick you were ready to give him. It was the only possible explanation for why you were so jittery about getting to training on time.

"It took you long enough." Was the first thing you heard Miguel announce throughout the empty room.

He wasn’t wearing his suit—neither of you did while training—instead, he was wearing dark gray sweatpants paired with some random dark red graphic shirt that fit him a bit too snuggly to leave room for imagination around his arms.

"Almost thought you were gonna skip out."

You were aware enough to spot this quick observation of your outfit as well. Keeping it casual and opting for better mobility, you shimmied yourself into plain Nike shorts that stopped higher up than you had expected them to on your thighs with a loose tank top that peeked out the straps of your sports bra.

Nothing about your clothes screamed attention grabbing—at least that's what you thought before you caught Miguel’s red-tinted stare on the way your shorts hugged your thighs.

He glanced away, muttering something in Spanish you couldn't quite translate the moment your fingers fidgeted with the bottom hems of the shorts, tugging them slightly more down while deciding to break the tense silence that had managed to sneak up on you. "So what are we doing today?"

"Huh, I’ve been thinking." He answered, followed by the clearing of his throat, "We try something a little different." You could never get used to the roughness of his voice or the way he spoke with so much arrogance that it reminded just about everyone that he thought he was better than just about everyone.

Even now that you stepped towards the middle of the mat, standing rigidly just a few paces away from him, you could tell from that stupid, cocky expression as he stood looking down at you that there was no possible way that he would ever see you as a real threat. "I want you to try to hit me."

Your brows creased together in confusion.

"What?" was all you asked, which seemed to be the wrong question to ask as Miguel stretched out a sigh from his mouth, his hands coming close to his to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I said hit me." He speaks more slowly, making sure to mockingly over pronounce every symbol in every word as if you were a child. "Preferably soon and as hard as you can." A grimace finds itself twisting on your lips before you can even process your bubbling annoyance. Your body moved on autopilot because of your keen senses, jumping over the swing of his left leg with ease.

You couldn't say that swift grace stuck with your attempt at a counterattack. Bending your knee just enough to reach out and kick, you were only met with the bottom of your foot stomping flat against the floor mat and Miguel dodging your kick, standing just a few paces away. "Too predictable," he scolded in that annoyingly deep voice you hated oh so much and totally did not turn on you at all. You sprung yourself up by the heels of your feet and charged at him with full determination to land at least one punch on his stupidly chiseled, handsome face.

It had been your second mistake, giving him too much time to brace himself. Already regretting your emotionally impulsive start, resulting in the punch you swung being easily deflected by Miguel.

His hand wrapped entirely around your wrist, bending your arm almost out of your socket and kicking the back of your knee to the mat with his heel. You feel down to a kneel with a hissing pain in your arm threatening to get worse at any wrong twist.

"Lose that fucking attitude, or you’ll get sloppy." As if your body could radiate any more anger, you knew he was just trying to push your buttons, trying to throw you off your game with smack talk that was not working on you or anything.

"Again," he prompted, letting your arm go and stepping back, egging on another attack from you.

"Give me a damn minute." No matter how much you wanted to snap back at him with something snarky, you knew it would only prove his point entirely—not only that but also the fact that he was mentally hitting you in all the places that he knew counted the most to throw you off your game.

Biting back the insult you already had threatened to slip from your tongue instead of making a point by rolling your eyes as you stumbled back to your feet. Rolling your sore shoulder back as your eyes scan over his stance, trying to find the best opening for a better attack, you steady your breath and cloud your mind in thought. "You aren't going to get anywhere but dead standing around like that, you know."

So much for wanting to consider your options. Miguel took the first swing at you and was on the verge of kicking you on your ass if it weren't for your shoddy dodge.

"Didn't you just say I had to be less fucking predictable?" You snarled, lifting your foot with most of your weight pointed in the direction of his jaw. Surprisingly, the kick landed just not in the place you wanted it to; instead, Miguel’s arm blocked the blow, much to your annoyance.

"I also said—" All he was doing was using dodging moves on you, swiping your other foot from under you as he held the other one that you kicked up in his arm, resulting in you landing once again flat on your ass. "to lose that fucking attitude."

You had not gone down without a fight, twisting and kicking, trying to wrestle your limbs free by any means. Miguel had almost embarrassingly quickly ceased your squirming, his palm cuffing your arms and pressing hard against your chest as his other hand pressed tightly into your thighs, folding your legs in place under his hips.

The position was interesting, to say the least, but you still had some fight in you, wiggling against his grip with any strength you had left to break free. It was a useless battle, but the man had his grip around you tight as well as an overpowering size difference that blanketed your entire figure like one big rock.

And that's how you caught yourself in another web of misfortune. Your nerves are surging at the feeling of something—him brushing against your calf. Maybe it was all the adrenaline pumping through your veins or the fact that you were practically being manhandled so easily that did another thing to your body, or maybe it was just pure horny instability that your brain couldn't even process the lewd whine that tugged from your throat after the fact that it had happened.

Watching in pure horror as Miguel loomed on top of you, his mouth slightly agape as his chest heaved and his brows pulled together, the embarrassment from his confused, almost offended looking expression hit you fast. Here your body was betraying you once more, this time going absolutely haywire and melting like a stupid pile of putty at the fact that you were being body pressed against some mat with some guy's hard junk pressed into your leg.

You couldn't bear to even look him in the eye anymore, your head tilting to the side, pressing your cheek into the mat, and squeezing your eyes closed, not suddenly envying the spidermen with teleportation powers. "Fucking Christ, can you get off now?"

A beat of silence hovered between the small distance between you two, neither moving nor talking. It was starting to become unbearable how tightly Miguel had folded your legs against him, in the sense that you could already feel his body heat radiating. The close proximity did not help with how unbearably your heart was beating against your chest. "How do you manage after all of that to still have that shameless fucking attitude?"

You stilled at how his voice had managed to cut through your own thick cloud of betraying thoughts as well as the ringing in your eardrums. "Shameless? As if you don't have your dick pressed against me right now."

"By the sounds of it, you don't seem that bothered at all." Miguel taunted, You thought you were bound to die of embarrassment.

Yeah, this is how you went out—by dying from the sheer effect of your own extremely horny though—not some overpowered supervillain with a vendetta against you but Miguel O'Hara and his dick print.

You could already hear the new taunts that he would use against you, "Not even in your fucking dreams." being the only comeback that you could muster, your limbs tingling with slight pins and needles, threatening to go stiff under his unbound grasp.

"Oh, like you wouldn't love to," he sneered, shifting the weight from his hips flat against your thighs. "Probably thinking about me taking off these tight fucking shorts and having my way with you?" Your body reacted first to the accusation, cursing under your breath as you felt your second heartbeat flutter in between your legs.

His lingering stare hadn't helped one bit, and you watched from the sidelines as his eyes raked over your body with interest.

"I bet this was your plan the entire fucking time, huh?" He asked, leaning in as the distance dwindled until you could feel the brush of his breath against your face. "Put on some sweet naive act in front of everyone, knowing that you're getting yourself off on me throwing you around, touching yourself like some bitch in heat."

You hadn't bothered covering the whine that parted from your lips at the feeling of his erection slowly rutting against your thigh, the cocky smirk on his lips wanting you to melt away against the mat.

Miguel practically growled at the pathetic sounds that parted from your lips, tugging your legs apart to rut his hips down against your core. You shivered at the intrusion of his bulge pressed against your eagerness, the foreign feeling of him grinding against you left your thoughts in a dizzy fog.

"What? Can’t fucking speak now," he said as if he were dangling your most prized possession in front of your face, his fingers creeping into dangerous territory, making it a point for his fingertips to drag down your lower torso only to halt right above the elastic waistband of your shorts. "Go on, use your words."

"...fuck you."

The small amount of distance made the space between you two fall tensely thick, and the words spoken from your lips were different from the feelings that made your heart thud against your ribs. You weren't stupid, you knew Miguel could sense it, he could sense just about everything about your body from how close he kneeled on top of you.

Maybe that was why he had closed the distance so quickly after, letting the tight grip around your wrists give way to his hand finding a new objective, wrapping his fingers around your neck, not bothering to be gentle as he guided your lips towards his. The kiss was as rough as you had dreamed it to be. Eager for each other's kiss, you couldn't even process the noise that vibrated sharply from your throat before Miguel could pull away first, leaving you panting for more of his touch.

"First time I've ever seen you so quiet," his deep taunts were starting to grow unbearable, shifting your hips at the brush of his fangs against the jugular of your neck with every word, "who knew all you needed was some dick?" The harsh kisses he left trailing down to your collarbone made you feel like a hot, needy mess of putty. If it weren't for the tight grasp he had on your body, you were convinced that you would feel like you'd melt into some type of puddle. The growing frustration had only started to build up more as Miguel let go of your thighs, his hand trailing between your legs ruthlessly as the bud of his fingers rubbed against your clothed pussy.

As for why you shifted your hips up and let him impatiently tug and yank at the bow knotted around the waist of your shorts, breaking away from the red splotching light bruises already forming against your brown skin and wiggling you out of your shorts, Miguel thought it was quite the image, his eyes were fixated on the drooling sight of you under him, so vulnerable with your thighs hugging to your chest, spread open, revealing yourself in your pants.

All sanity was thrown out the window the moment he tugged you closer by your knees, your lower half lifted in his arms just enough for him to sit face to face with your cunt. His eyes darkened, his pupils blown as his tongue lapped over his lips, leaving you feeling restless. It was a slow and almost painful battle of trying to reach down and shove his face closer or buck your hips as his fingers sheathed and explored themselves against the fabric of your underwear.

As if Miguel could read your mind, his fingers hooked the fabric under the bend of his finger, followed by a quick tearing sound. "I’ll get you new ones," the comfort emitting a whine from your throat as you couldn't even scowl at him for ruining your underwear because you were too busy admiring the work his fingers were doing. Without warning, Miguel leans in closer, the warmth of his mouth almost sending you into a frenzy as his fingers spread open your lips, his lips sucking at your clitoral area, prompting you to let out a very lewd moan.

"Too loud," Miguel mumbled against your pussy, too busy webbed up in your own pleasure to even notice how every embarrassedly sloppy wet noise had seemed to perfectly echo throughout the empty room. You couldn't even explain the number of emotions that were flowing through you, from shame from being tongue fucked and fingered against the floor about the one man you hated so much to bashfulness from holding eye contact with him as he lay between your legs and ate your pussy like he was starving for you.

"I can't help it," you whined, shivering at the string of spit that contacted Miguel as he lifted his head in an idea. It took a second to process Miguel picking you up and turning you on your stomach, his hands guiding your hips up and stripping your torn panties down your legs to stuff them in your mouth.

Without a word, Miguel grabbed your ass with another hand, guiding your lower back into an arch as the other made small indents from his nail bearing into your cheeks as he spread them apart.

Before you could even feel embarrassed at the new position, he shoved his face between them, your moan being muffled by your makeshift cloth gag that worked a bit too well in lowering your whines as Miguel’s mouth sought his tongue out for your pussy once more.

"You're close I can smell it," you almost missed Miguel's groan over your building ecstasy, "just let it go, baby, let me take care of you. That's what you want, right?" His voice is drastically different from his usual rough, rude tone, softened to something of a coo that has managed to unknot your pleasure with his tongue. Your body tensed against his mouth for a moment as he had the nerve to suck his fingers clean. No grace period was given before he could lift you once more with a grunt, laying you flat on your back.

Slotting himself back between his legs, Miguel chuckled at the dazed look on your face. "It's alright, baby, I can take it from here." taking the balled up drool covered panties from your mouth and instead replaced them with his lips. The sensual change of pace wasn't enough to stop the shiver that rid your nerves of the feeling of his bare cock rutting against your slit, using his thumb to spread your lips apart to sink his tip inside of you with a low hiss against your mouth.

A gasp left yours as his girthy length intruded deeper inside of you, the burying stretch of his dick having your nails roughly grasping at the nape neck of his hair tugging a handful as his pace hadn't bothered to even get familiar already. Miguel’s hips weren't letting out as he fucked you almost animalistic against the floor. You were convinced he was trying to fuck you into the mat, to be one with the floor, which would perfectly explain the rough pace that left you breathless with each piston of his hips.

The graphically lewd sounds of your weak groans were nothing compared to the pornographic sound of your skin meeting his, your brain empty with nothing but greed, wanting to take everything and more of what Miguel was giving you. His fingers reach to unwrap your fingers tangled in his hair to intertwine them in his. "That's it, mama, that's it," he whispers against the shell of your ear, earning a whimpering reply from you, almost close to spilling the tears clouding your waterline.

Your mind couldn't process anything other than how good Miguel’s dick felt being shoved inside of you, his cock dragging against your tight, flustering walls with each shaky breath brushed against your ear. Your cunt seemed to react to Miguel’s lashes tickling against your neck as his eyes screwed tightly shut, muttering a string of compliments in his mother tongue.

You weren't lucky enough to be more stable, surprised that your throat hasn't gone horse with how ruined your vocal cords sounded in the pace of his pistoning hips. Only going up an octave higher as one of Miguel’s hands reaches down to pay attention to your clit, he doesn't stop even when your limbs start to tremble from your climax.

With one last hard thrust, he finally stills, your name being the only thing you could make out through his mumbling as his unfamiliar warm sensation welcomed itself inside of you.

Groaning right in your ear, he cums inside of you with his entire dead weight pressed against you, caging you against the floor. "Alright," Miguel sighs, settling on top of you once more with his arms holding himself just a few inches away from your face. "Again."

🔖 @adonis-is-dead-lmaoo @thesebitcheslovesosadotcom @inumakiiz @iheartlinds @creamyarishi @marzipaanz

tap here to be added to taglist.

#[ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ ★ — t.wrks. ]#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #spiderman smut #marvel #into the spider verse

4K notes · View notes

submalevolentgrace · 1 year

Note

Hi! I'm very interested in attempting to write a disabled character (not for this blog, I assure, for an book I'm writing) in which the story doesn't fetishize/objectify her prosthetic limb. I'm in many writing circles and have been for a long while, but I've never seen this issue brought to light which I realise is a very important one. I have much to change in my thought process, and thank you for bringing this issue to attention.

I'm curious, and I apologise if this has been asked before, but what sort of design could you see for a functional prosthetic that doesn't go for a plainly aesthetic appearance, or is soully to please others? I do note that you said prosthetics are generally... not that helpful. So is there a way that it could be? Or do you think it would always generally be better to not use a prosthetic, as its mostly for aesthetic purposes, as you said?

I apologise if this ask is too outright or anything, and I don't mean to intrude. Thank you for your time and have a beautiful day!

okay, i want to answer this as in depth as possible, because whenever i talk about having a prosthesis, someone will always tag some variation of "#writing reference" and i do wonder what message they're taking away, and i want to get as much of my experience out as possible to maybe help shape how this is all portrayed in the future. and yeah… this is gonna be one of those rambly smg posts that the expand feature was invented for, so i'll start with the very abridged TL;DR:

if you're writing a character with an upper limb prosthesis; don't. arm amputees are unicorn level rare even compared to leg amputees, and i've never interacted with or even heard of an upper limb amputee that regularly uses a prosthesis, let alone relies on one. fiction has lied to you for the sake of cool aesthetics, don't repeat the cycle. more in depth writing advice including nuance and "but i waaaant to" will follow.

that said, grab your donning parachute and let's get started...

context for everyone involved: i am an upper limb amputee that rants a lot about how prostheses suck, i lost my right hand roughly five years ago at roughly the age of 30 after a very rough decline in health… it was pretty rough. this question is being asked in the context of a previous rant post of mine, and i checked that the ask is about an upper limb prosthesis in particular.

the situation regarding the usefulness of lower limb prostheses is totally different; i am definitely no expert, but by all accounts, prosthetic legs are incredibly useful for many people. getting a good leg can be absolutely life changing and more or less necessary for day to day life for some; mostly because infrastructure and society is just so fucking hostile to wheelchair users. being able to walk - at the cost of pressure sores and rashes and increased residual limb pain - is a preferable option to many people than being unable to fit through a doorway or in a bathroom stall or find out that the key to unlock the only elevator is in the admin office up three flights of stairs (true story).

but upper limb prostheses… see, the thing is, hands are incredibly complex organs that rely on a lot of immediate haptic feedback to work at all. hand dexterity is all about control, you need fine granular movements of the digits yes, but you also need the subtle sensations of pressure and proprioception in order to adjust your movements on the fly. i speak from experience, in the years leading up to the full loss of my hand, i was slowly losing function of it, usually swinging between numbness that made it clumsy at best, or screaming overstimulation from moving it at all resulting in unpredictable spasms… and let me tell you, a half working hand is infuriating to try and deal with. you can never know if you have a good grip on something or if it's slipping because of the wrong amount of pressure, and there's only so many smashed bottles of pickles on the floor before you give up using it all together… so amputation wasn't a great loss there, i had time to adapt.

a prosthetic hand of any kind has all of those issues and more. they're heavy and bulky, the cosmetic faux fingers or gripping claw have crude movement at best, and there's zero feedback (put a pin in this). 100% of the time you're using a prosthetic hand you have to keep your eyes on the grip and visually guesstimate whether or not the thing you're carrying is held tight enough but not too tight, that is if your "heavy duty" prosthesis can even support the weight without the servos disengaging or the wrist attachment socket just busting loose. i dropped a whippersnipper on my foot last week when my socket couldn't take the weight and i think that was the final straw in me desperately trying to prove to myself that there is a single task my prosthesis actually helps with.

this is usually where fully two handed people start talking about bleeding edge DARPA tech, and how we just need to invest more,research more, develop more. better tech, more tech, neural integration, more more more. okay i promise the writing advice is coming! for starters on tech, my experience is already with a mid-to-high end ottobock terminal device: i've got a myoelectric nerve-signal operated proportional control heavy duty greifer; about the only upgrade left for me to get would be a rotating wrist joint if i could coflex. it's not military, it's not "rockclimber that owns a prosthetic company", but it's quality tech. it still fucking sucks. secondly, that high level military tech exists primary for PR purposes so they can say they treat their discarded casualties well, "we can rebuild him, we have the technology" style. every war vet i've read about or heard from that's been gifted that high level tech also abandons it for the same reasons; it's imprecise, there's no feedback (or the haptic interface has to be fully recalibrated every time they put it on), but mostly they're more capable without one.

okay, the transhumanist ableds say (i should know, i used to be one), what if we did more ~research and development~ and got that neural feedback working? then we could have fireproof superhumanly strong robot arms to fix up everyone! here's where i take out that pin we put up before and i tell you that a class of prosthetic arms/hands already exists that has perfect proportional control, fine motor control, and physics perfect pressure feedback piped directly into the patients' existing sensory systems! they're called body-powered prostheses, and they were invented in like the 1600s. you strap a whole bunch of stuff to your arm and shoulders shoulders, and control the operation of the terminal device and elbow through cable tension by flexing your shoulders. they do take a considerable amount of training to operate - though hell i spent 18 months training to use my myo - but based on everything i've read, body-powered prostheses are the best option if you're an upper limb amputee and absolutely need a second hand for some reason.

but they don't look cool and futuristic, and according to my prosthetist, most people give up on using them too. we all give up on our prostheses, no matter the type. my rehab OT was impressed i lasted the 18 months of my training. towards the end, they even asked if the clinic director could drop in to one of my sessions to see my progress; he expressed genuine amazement at me casually using my bulky robot claw to use a brush and dustpan, and made an offhanded (hah) comment about what someone can achieve "if they stick it out to the end", implying it was somewhat of a rarity for me to have done so. several years on, and yesterday i wedged the dustpan between my ankles to sweep up into it, awkward but exponentially less effort than putting my dusty robot arm on. which, by the way, is a whole thing. look up some videos, they're all awful to don. i don't actually know the official technical name of what my clinic calls a "parachute" but it's a bitch to use! have you ever tried to pull back with your arm whilst also pushing it forwards at the same time, and simultaneously lean in to and away from an external force pulling on you? that's how you get a myo socket on.

bare with me, i promise writing advice is coming, and i promise it's more than the tl;dr. but. remember when i said a half working hand is infuriating to deal with? any prosthesis, from fancy myo tech to pirate-era body powered, will only ever be half as good as a working hand, and being juuuust within capability to do something but not quite able to is maddening! but you know what works way better than a half working hand? no hand at all. using whatever residual/vestigial limb you have - whatever "stump" you have, i hate that word - is pretty much always better than trying to use a prosthesis. i can use the inside of my elbow to grip and carry things, i can use the nub of my arm to apply pressure to hold things, open doors, use a computer mouse, turn on taps and lights, if i put a glove over it i can use it to prep for cooking. i have full proprioception and pressure feedback with skin contact, i don't think i've ever dropped and broken anything from my elbow, unlike countless things slipped from my greifer - which, by the way, absolutely will start clenching as tight as it can if i get even slightly too sweaty around the electrodes, which has both broken things i'm holding and also injured me, because surprise surprise but servo operated robot claws have pinch points on them right near the "emergency disengage" lever for some reason!

but i am exponentially more capable without it on than with it. no, i'm not fully independent, i rely on housemates and loved ones to help me out with some tasks that simply just need two handed dexterity, but none of those tasks are things a prosthesis makes me able to do anyway. i used to imagine my prosthesis would be like a bra; a bit awkward and uncomfortable, but i'd wear it throughout the day because it's helpful and take it off in the evening to decompress. in reality it's actually exactly like a bra: an absolute bitch to put on one handed, unbearably uncomfortable because it never sits right, ugly af unless you're a millionaire, and absolutely useless except for the fact that i get gawked at and judged by strangers if i leave the house without it on.

and if you really want to discover how far "no hand is better than a half working hand" goes, brace yourself, and look up the patient's stories (not medical system stories) of people that have had hand transplants. the first man to receive one hated it, he was promised a return to normal function, and what he got was a nightmare worse than being one handed; he wanted it removed again but the doctors refused because it would undermine their grand achievement of the first hand transplant. the doctors and society wanted him to be fixed, they wanted him to be normal, they wanted him to be abled. they failed. they made him less able to do things, denied his autonomy, and left him with someone else's hand slowly rotting on him, prioritising the idea of "scientific progress" and "two hands good" over the physical health, mental health, and ability to function of this man.

he's not alone; every story from the patients' perspective about hand transplants that i've read goes this way, including a woman who was born quad limb different and was promised hands would improve her life, pressured into a double hand transplant, only to find herself after the surgery essentially experiencing disability for the first time ever, because she had lived her whole life getting by just fine with her 'underdeveloped' limbs, but half working hands are worse than useless. you can try to find these stories yourself, but i'm not going looking for sources on any of these cases, because if you look back through enough of my posts you'll get a glimpse of the horrors and abuses that i too was put through by doctors who prioritised trying to "fix" me at any cost, rather than providing me the best quality of life, and in turn traumatised me and left me more broken than any loss of limb on its own could. dear goddess, i promise the writing advice is coming.

so. why do upper limb prostheses exist at all? if they're so terrible and useless, what is their function? i want to borrow something someone else left in the tags of a previous rant here, from someone who i believe works in prosthetics and/or rehab, cleaned up and anonymised at their request:

"upper limb functions are wildly more complex than: 1) bear weight static, and 2) bear weight moving. but every single upper limb amputee i know has a fancy expensive prosthetic just gathering dust in the closet because there is literally nothing it can do like a few years of adjustment and if needed non-dominant hand retraining can't do. the existence of forquarter prosthetics to begin with is just kind of silly and useless and entirely to make OTHER people feel comfortable, especially considering they universally are UNcomfortable for the amputee. i hate the notion that as soon as you get the amputation the prosthetic is The Thing That Will Fix You And Make You Feel Normal again because it universally isn't! but every forequarter person i know had like this ideal of Being Fixed By Magic Prosthetic that they were then obviously wildly disappointed by and had to do yet another grieving process with, versus if the dominant narrative were just one of: yeah. it'll take time, there is no magic fix."

and i think that really nails down what the actual purpose of upper limb prostheses is: they're not for the user, they're for the sake of other people. and not just their comfort when looking at our bodies, although based on the pressure for both amputees and people born limb different to get functionless cosmetic plastic hands, there is a lot of that. but it's not just that.

i fully believe that the reason prosthetic hands exists is to comfort the fears of the two handed. "don't worry", they say, "we can fix you again. you don't have to fear becoming Disabled, you don't have to worry about adapting or your life changing. we can make you Normal™ again."

you would not believe the number of people that have approached me to shower me with pity, to tell me how horrific my life is, how they can't imagine it. people have told me, apropos of nothing, that they'd kill themselves if they lost a hand. indirectly, that my life isn't worth living. unless, of course, i happen to be wearing my cool as fuck looking robot prosthesis! then they tell me how wonderful it is, how lucky i am, how glad they are that we have the technology to fix me. that's what a prosthetic hand says, what all the happy fishing photos on limbs4life posters at the rehab clinic say: don't worry, we can fix you. that's what the bleeding edge DARPA flexi-whatever fully articulated neuro-feedback hands say: don't worry if you get IED'd while hunting civilians for us to drone bomb, if you get hurt, we will fix you, we will fix the fuck out of you, we will motherfucking adam jensen you into a cool as fuck cyborg that your son will idolise; come on boys, don't you wanna enlist just for the chance at being as cool as this? join the bomb squad for a ticket to the upgrade lottery.

and so we arrive at fiction. as much as his dialogue options protest, adam jensen loves his robot arms, they punch through walls, turn into fucking swords! they make him the most special man in the world. what would he do without them? learn to cope? grieve? practice acceptance? take up poetry? just, be disabled? there's no power fantasy for ableds in that.

in fact, can you think of a single fictional character that's an upper limb amputee that's, well, just an amputee? they all have robot arms. not realistic prostheses, not medical devices; robot arms. sleek or bulky, top of the line or broken down self built, steampunk or nanomachines or magitech automail; they're never without them. never just an amputee. never born limb different either! there's always that element of tragedy to overcome, always suffering and misery porn, always focus on the pain and the helplessness without the absolutely vital robot arm that makes them Normal and Whole. the closest amputee example i can think of is furiosa from mad max, who iirc fucking punches max in the face with her residual limb like a motherfucking badass! i can barely lean on mine wrong and she punches a guy! but she still apparently needs a dieselpunk robot hand to drive a truck, something you can do one handed so easily most drivers don't even notice they're doing it! please don't, by the way

and so many disabled fans love to point to robot armed characters as disability representation; the winter soldier, luke skywalker, edward elric, misty knight, that genderswapped furry girl from ratchet and clank, jet cowboybebop, finn the human, and yes, adam jensen…. these are all characters that someone disabled i know has told me they love because they "represent disabled bodies"…. and i know nobody wants to hear this, because i've been screamed at for saying it before, but… they do not. they are not disabled, functionally or within fiction. they are either perfectly able bodied Normal people with chrome paint on an arm, or tortured misery porn we are supposed to pity and feel lucky we're not them. sometimes both!

also you ever notice how it's basically always arms? lower limb amputations are orders of magnitude more common than upper, my prosthetist said i was probably only the 4th or 5th upper limb she'd worked with in her career, with literally hundreds of lower limb fits. but fiction doesn't seem to reflect that, huh? or any other part of the reality of disability. it's always cool as fuck robot arms, never cool as fuck wheelchairs or crutches or dialysis machines or colostomy bags. a fair few "i was blind but now i can see with Robot Eyes and also infrared and xray" around, which again, plays into that "we can fix you and make you cooler" propaganda.

by the way, up above when i was describing body powered arms, if you wondered to yourself why i went with a myoelectric one instead when i clearly believe body powered is better… yeah. i am not immune to propaganda! i too wanted to be cool as fuck. i spent years with deteriorating function in my hand for reasons that are still unknown, was misdiagnosed and medically neglected to the point that removing my hand seemed to be the only option left to offer some relief, and even that was a clusterfuck that left me worse than ever… of course i wanted to believe in the power and prestige of a cool robot arm that fiction promised me.

but fiction promises fantastical lies. and so.

we get to the writing advice portion of the novella that is this post. you asked for advice on how to write a disabled character with an upper limb prosthesis. you've read the tl;dr, you've read everything above i assume, you know i don't want you to do it. the obvious twist is that it's been writing advice all along, me trying to share my perspective on what it's like being an amp with a robot arm and how shitty it is, implying how almost any fully realised and realistic character that's missing an upper limb would give up on a prosthesis at all. you can already tell that every value judgement in me says "don't give her a prosthesis, no matter how functional or cool you make it. don't try to make the tech better to justify it, just let her be one armed, one handed. just let her be disabled, but not helpless. let her show off her elbow or underarm carry strength. let her love interest appreciate how soft and squishy her residual limb is in a moment of tenderness. let her natural disabled body be respected and valued."

but that's a personal value judgement from me, and you are the author of your own work. i know it's trite to say, but you are! even the act of deferring to someone with lived experience in the hope of doing a better job at representation is a value judgement, a good choice in my opinion, but one you needn't necessarily take. maybe you do want to write a character that has a cool as fuck unrealistic robot arm as a power fantasy, or a comfort blanket… i did.

i've been slowly writing my own probably terrible scifi epic for over a decade now, and when my arm was giving me hell back then, i'd take great comfort in this fantasy of my protagonist with her chunky robot arm, the terrible traumatic suffering of her loss, overcoming, the power and ability her advanced prosthesis gives her over others, that she alone has access to, because others are not willing to make the sacrifices required. inspiration porn. awful stuff to me now, but empowering to me then. as i grew and gained direct experience, i slowly reimagined her, rewrote her, ship of theseus'd her into an entirely new character; a reflection of me now, bitter at the whole thing, spiteful that her natural flesh arm evokes fear and distrust, but unwilling to suffer the pain and frustration of her unnatural prosthesis just to make others comfortable and respect her as "whole", however artificial that whole is. and as with the ship of theseus being two ships, once i realised the transformation, i re-added the old protagonist back in whole cloth as a separate character; proud of her robot arm and its power, but in new context, as a foil and antagonist, an in-universe military prosthesis propaganda figure to reflect how i now feel characters like her exist to us, the readers.

i'm not just sharing that as egotistical self promotion, but to highlight that, even if i sit here begging you all up and down not to write characters with robot arms for how bad and unrealistic they are; there's still something genuine and true that their inclusion can say. the great thing about the story that you're writing is that only you can write it, as they say. but i whole heartedly believe that to write to your best, you have to be aware of what you're writing and why. as tempting as it is to feel these characters form naturally in us and therefore we're averse to changing traits about them that feel organic and self evident; as authors we have omnipotent control over the text, every trait and detail is a reflection on us, so we'd sure as hell better understand why we're choosing to write a character with this trait. because anything you write without being aware of intent will take on its own meaning in the space between.

and on that note, if i don't say this, i'm leaving it to be inferred: i definitely don't want to appear to come down on the side of saying "you cannot write an amputee unless you are one", because we are rarer than single young bisexual unicorns! and it would be a tragedy if anyone read through all this and then turned away in fear, deciding to never write an amputee character (with or without robot arm) because they feel they can't do it justice… believe me, no matter what anyone says, some hack writer somewhere is going to keep writing adam jensens and winter soldiers. don't let them be the only voices in fiction! just try to do your best.

so my ultimate advice on the topic of writing a character with a prosthetic limb is to ask yourself one question in two different frameworks, and meditate on what you feel the answer is:

why does she have a prosthesis?

from a doylelist perspective as the kids say, as an author with omnipotent control, why are you choosing to write about this topic? why are you choosing to give this trait to this character? what does it say about how you view ability and disability, what makes a person normal, and what our society values? will you let her be in her natural body? or will you give her a prosthesis, force her to wear it by authorial fiat, or author her a meaningful reason to choose to? if yes, be sure you know; why did you give her a prosthesis?

and from a wastonian perspective, diegetically, inside the story, why does she choose to wear a prosthesis? what does it say about her inner character, and how she interacts with the world? how does she feel about doing it, is she prideful and loves the attention she gets, or does she resent whatever necessitates its use? how do people in this world view ability and disability, what does this society value? and above all, whatever the answer to these questions, whether or not she uses a prosthesis or is badass without one, how does she deal with the eternal freezing cold that every amputee ever feels constantly in their residual limb and why does nobody make a heat pack that fits over a nub without drafty gaps???

i can't outright tell you how to write a good upper limb amputee, but if you at least know why you're writing one and for what purpose, you're on track to write the best character that you can. that's the best advice i can give… other than, like, this whole rambly mess.

and, as a reward for reading this far, please have a very blurry cryptid photo of my cat doing his old man sit:

#prosthesis #prosthetic #disability #ableism

8K notes · View notes

darkdemeter · 2 months

Text

𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍, 𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄

— BUCKY BARNES COLUMN (ONESHOT)

Dark Pirate! Bucky Barnes x Siren! Female Reader

—- not my gifs, credit to original posters! -—

| A/N | DISCRETION |

A/N — Yes. Yes... YAAAAS! IM DOING IT! I'm frickin' writing a pirate Bucky! Mmmm! Fuckin' love pirate stuff, I'm just living for Bucky being a hotto potatoh commanding a vessel on the high seas.

Pirate Bucky — semi dark Bucky — submissive/soft captive reader — possessive Bucky — SMUT 18+, Minors DNI! — P in V sex — memory loss/wiping via magic (reader affected) — light use of physical and sexual acts to avoid conflict — indirect breeding kink? — pet names — brief consumption of alcohol — I think that's it?

| SUMMARY |

He is your captain. There is no place you'd rather be than by his side, nothing you could ever want for that is not him. You owe everything, your entire self, to him. Yet overboard and on the tide you sail across, in search for a great and ancient treasure, a song continues to seep through the cracks of your heart and soul… a song so familiar yet unknown. Forgotten. Bucky reminds you yet again that there is no place else for you that isn't beside him, that there is nothing out there.

*4.1𝐤 ────────────────┘

| M-LIST | TAGLIST:

@identity2212 @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic

────────────────┘

There lays a song forgotten in your heart and soul, distantly faint as the receding tide to the shore. With each spare moment of peace you were given to dwell beneath the lapping waters, you spend a portion of it in search of that song. And what time remains within the falling sand’s glass, you bask in the blue and faded black abyss.

Tonight is no different. You could not remember the forgotten song that lulls you tenderly, pulling through skin and scale, calling you somewhere far, much too far, away from the balancing hull above.

You could not abandon your captain. Betray the trust between you both. After all, it was he who found you washed atop the rocky crevices of the island, who rescued you from a fate of drying out in the sun’s merciless heat. Who took care of you when there was nothing left of the life you once knew.

To break that earnt trust, to betray him, you can’t think of anything far more heartbreaking than that.

“Time’s up, my Siren,” the voice of your captain beckons you. He calls you to the surface.

A sigh ripples through the water and your head tilts up towards the surface, the darkened slits in your milky white eyes shrink away from the moonlight penetrating through the waves. The long limb of your tail sweeps back and forth, thrusting you upwards, skin and scales shimmering brighter as you near the barrier between water and air. The breach pulls a lungful gasp of the night's chillingly crisp air, the only warmth coming from The Avenger.

Hair drench-pressed and thinned forms a curtain over your features as you peer up at the looming figure pridefully arching over the ship’s wooden rail. The slivered slits of your eyes grow wider as they focus on him, with a lantern beside him, glass scorched and worn by smoke, it illuminates the upper portion of his body. His white shirt ruggedly wrinkled and loosened to showcase a muscled chest, skin tanned by the sun’s heated kiss, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black ink painted legendary stories over his body in memorabilia. Stories forged into his flesh for all to study and cower in fear.

He summons you with a kink of his finger and you obey his silent command with an all too eager nod. Around you, the water spirals into a column and rises up, pushing you higher to reach the wooden railing. Aboard the ship, the crew is merry in their celebrations. Another successful day of conquest and battle on the high seas, another amassed sum of gold and valuables to add to hull and reputation.

Of course spirits would be high and cheerful tonight. And of course, what was a conquest without the captain’s prize at the end of it all?

Gathering yourself over the rail and onto the deck, the glistening shine of your tail morphs into two shapely legs, the milky hues of your eyes and other remnants of your true body hide in their human disguise. Your eyes find the hourglass on his opposite side, the sand all gathered in the bottom glass pit. Your captain holds something out for you and you graciously accept his gift, pulling the thin veil of your robe over your naked body.

His ocean blue eyes scan you up and down, the left corner of his plush, chapped lips turns upwards.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” He purrs his question and it brings a cold chill to run up and down your spine, your lungs freeze with what little breath they had at that moment.

He turns his body properly to face you, burly shoulders and thick muscles straining the fabric of his shirt. His eyes fold slightly into a sharpened stare of interrogation.

“I–I don’t…” You shake your head, breath hitching. “I don’t understand, Captain. I search for nothing that is not you.”

“Aye?”

Your gaze drops to the limb of his remaining flesh hand, the other limb itself brings an uncomfortable yet hazy familiarity, you dare not to look at it up close when in the awoken presence of his intimidating stature. Often you would question its being there and admire its raw and unique - mystical - materials, when your captain lay beside you fast asleep.

Wrapped tightly over and under the callousness of his palm, the golden chain twinkles in the pale moonlight, the larger pearl at its centre holstered by binding gold and tinier pearls, beneath the gilded net a more refined shape of a pearl dances on its link.

However, your mesmerised pupils flicker up in an instant, brought to the attention of your captain awaiting your obedient answer. A noise is pitched in your throat with the answer but it dies swiftly before its deliverance.

Your vision focuses behind him then, up near the ship’s helm, her fingers lace slowly in their hypnotic movement as the fabric of her scarlet magic is weaved together. A warning. You do your best to hide the distressed visage of fear, batting your eyelashes and brushing aside the death of your verbal response, you bow your body forward submissively to his that towers over you.

When your lips touch his, he almost instantly devours yours in a hungry kiss, the soft caress of your fingers tracing the curves of his chest brings pride and lust to possessively reel you into him, your nude front colliding against the hardened wall of his own.

Your hands run their course of exploration up the swollen bulk of his arms until they find purchase and entangle themselves in his dark locks. His own hands ravage your body, kneading the flesh and slim muscle of your hips.

He groans when you submit to his overpowering will, mouth parting to his eager tongue that shoots forward like a fired cannon, aimed to dominate you in every sense of the word. Your soft whimpers beneath him bring him unimaginable pleasure, the sort that drives him to seek it evermore, with no seeming end to his insatiable hunger for what is you; your entire being. Wolves are known to be ravenous beasts. It’s why he’s known by the moniker as the White Wolf.

His tongue fiercely dances over yours, swirling and his bottom teeth tease you by nipping your lip, earning a high pitched squeal from you. He chuckles, the sound rich and dark in its intention. Your core comes alight, burning hotly and the once cool air dissipates as heat courses through every vein and nerve in your body, your mind swimming in the ocean pools of his eyes. Eyes that at times are the only thing you need to be connected to the sea.

The prominent tent of his erected endowment presses against your stomach and lower abdomen. You finally pull away, however, in his caging embrace it’s not very far you’re able to move back.

“Wait for me in my cabin, little Siren,” he orders gruffly. Your mouth falls agape and you sputter in your rattled confusion.

“But I—” Still he penetrates you with that cold stare. It prods at you with radiant intensity, it matches the ominous scarlet glow that now burns brighter now as it moves down the upper deck’s stairs. Your eyes dart between the woman who controls the rolling waves of red magic and the ferocity of your captain’s hardpressed gaze.

Your head bounces quickly. “Yes...”

A few words of compliance are cut off by a gasp. As you attempt to follow his order and return to his cabin, he halts you within his metallic grasp and pulls you back in, curled lips mere inches from your own, in the clutches of his brazen hold, he commands your attention. Your hands are forced to rest over his chest.

He drawls with a warning growl, “Yes?”

“Yes, Captain Barnes.”

Bucky nods his head once and lets you go, his eyes flicker between the cabin door and you, silently instructing you to hurry along. Your bare feet barely make a sound over the wooden deck in your traversal towards the cabin, where you would await your captain to claim his prize. Treasure that he greedily gets to have all to himself. The conquest he takes glee in ravishing himself full of.

Once you’re tucked inside, exactly where he wants you, Bucky scratches at his stubbled jaw, his recent shave already beginning to grow in again. Wanda approaches his side, the fabric of her magic ceasing at her fingertips like embers passing over into lowly ashes.

“That was a close one,” Bucky growls, his tongue that savours your taste runs over his teeth. She hisses with a hushed tone, “With each outing she is given to delve into the sea, my magic weakens, Captain.”

His eyes roll to glare at the woman beside him. She sighs with a bow of her head, eyes downcast as to not provoke him into thinking her words a challenge.

“All I mean to say is that you must reinforce her rules. She’s beginning to suspect far too much, and with each piece of recollection, my power is sapped by her own. Enforce her rules once more.”

Bucky’s shoulders shrug upwards with an all too arrogant huff, haughty in his conviction. He idly tilts his flesh hand, admiring the piece of you he has wrapped up in his iron grasp.

“She will do well to keep in mind her place. She’s intimidated.”

“She’s conflicted, Captain.” Her words bring about a scowl to Bucky’s face, lips coiled into a snarl and nose wrinkling, eyes thinning. “And it will be a matter of time before she is free of you, and you will be known as the captain who lost his siren.”

The bridge of this knowledge leaves Bucky in a state of strife. An aspect to his notorious reputation was garnered by your captivity. The White Wolf known by all as the fearsome pirate captain who tamed a siren; held you in the oyster of his clutches. If he did lose you, then his reputation would be suffering a heavy loss. As if to sense his change of demeanour, her hands raise up with her glowing, magic tipped fingers. His nostrils flare and the harsh prestige that made him a force not to be trifled with, he commands, “Do it.”

Bucky struts off with a roll of thunder beneath his leather worn boots, swiping up a half drunk bottle of rum and swallows an animalistic gulp, joining in on the festivities of his crew. Wanda observes her captain for a moment before diverting her attention towards the cabin. Her hands fold over one another, and with her palms outstretched, the scarlet hue dances through the air in a thin, cloudy blanket, searching and finding the miniscule gap beneath the wooden door.

He pummels into you until your back pushes far into the mattress, eliciting sharp whines and sultry moans from your parted lips, breath caught in a pattern of shallow pants. He chases after his second high as he drives his cock deep into you, the sound of skin slapping skin perverts the cabin’s air and already you begin to feel your core tremble in its own pursuit for its fourth orgasm. With each powerful snap of his hips, his throat chokes out a grunt in his exertions, the girth of his cock sinks deep into the channel of your hot, velvety cunt.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls lowly with a hiss, “so fuckin’ tight! You feel so good, you’re— taking me so well.”

With an exceptionally powerful rut of his hips and he has you on the precipice of screaming, thighs quivering in their hold around his waist, heels digging into the dip of his large, muscular back. Any coherent thoughts and words die on the vine of your vocal cords, only able to procure sounds of pleasure, to chant his name over and over again.

“Captain Barnes!” you mewl with fervour. Bucky’s chest vibrates with a husky chuckle. “That’s right, scream my name, let the crew hear you, Love. Let them hear how drunk you are for my cock.”

His one palm is laced with sweat, thick and roughened fingers squeeze yours in a passionate display of his dark possessiveness over you. Your captain could be very jealous when another’s eyes lingered on you for even a second too long, many others had suffered the brunt of his fury - weapons ablaze - and you in the end suffered the brunt of his envy with his cock pounding into you for the next several hours.

To remind you to whom it was you belong to.

His lips suckle one of the erected peaks of your breasts, moaning as his tongue leaves a wet trail around it before passing over to the second to repeat the treatment. Your head turns to the side sharply when the head of his cock splits you open even further than you could previously imagine, hitting a hidden crevice that leaves you without breath.

He gauges your reaction, the colour of your eyes blurring, phasing between the natural milky white canvases and the hue of your disguise, your canines and incisors now elongated, all because of the pleasure that pools at the junction where your bodies meet. But for a moment, you catch the glimmer of gold still wrapped around his hand, glimmering metal gnawing and rubbing across his skin, you’re torn between your euphoria and clouded curiosity.

“Say it again,” he grunts with a hard thrust that makes his muscles ripple insanely beneath his skin.

“C’mon, say it for your captain, Love.”

Your lips and tongue drag across the flesh of his wrist, the pulse of his racing heart beats through, you can almost taste the rhythm. His sweat tastes strong with his musk, a strong flavour of the salty sea, sandy beaches and gunpowder.

You moan softly, almost in a whisper, “Captain… C-Captain Barnes.”

The effect you have on him is indescribable to him. Never has he been able to put it into words, all he can do is feel it; carnally. The repetitive pounding into that deeper and sweeter spot has your back arching up, the smooth layer of your sweat covered body rubs against his, able to feel each defining muscle, he uses his metal hand to grip hold of one of your thighs, angling you so that you’re spread further apart for him. Your eyes begin to fall heavy and roll back into your skull in your drunken haze, the shimmer of scarlet presently blooms from time to time in them.

“That’s right. You belong to me, little Siren. It’s my cock that has you dripping wet.” His thrusts become faster, losing the precise edge he had before, his climax inevitably as close as your own. Your nails embed crescent moons into the skin of his one hand while the other bites into his shoulder.

“I’m the only man— fuck! The only man who gets to have you like this. Shit… shit. ’M going to fill you up.”

“Please, please… Cap—”

“Aye, I’m going to fill you up, have you nice ‘nd full until my cum is leaking out of your little cunt, Siren. Fuck… you want that, don’t you? I know you do.”

You gasp with each attempt to breathe, each push and pull of his cock strikes you like a match to light the powder keg, the explosion of your climaxes comes as a white hot flash in your vision, momentarily blinding you. Your hot walls squeeze around his large endowment, forcing him to thrust back and forth even harder, grunting hot breaths against the shell of your ear.

His seed is flushed into the channel of your pussy in thick, seething spurts that paint your walls that milk him for every precious drop.

What he gives makes your lower abdomen weigh a little heavier, a little bit fuller than you were before. His hips grow slower with each dissipating explosion from his tip. His large chest expands hugely with every intake of air to his lungs before deflating as a pleased groan.

In his reverie of contentment, having had his fill of his prize - for now - he withdraws his softening cock from your pussy, a moistened pop echoes in the emptiness of your thoughts. Bucky rolls off of you to lay at your side, atop the furs and silken drapes of the bed. Before you can make a move he uses his metal arm to drag you in closer, tucking you into his side, the coldness of his fingers skimming the delicate texture of your arm.

The soothing rock of the ship is enough to lull you to sleep, the lids of your eyes inching closer and closer together.

“Still deny that you found nothing?”

His question only brings your brows to knit together. You shake your head and huddle closer into his side, basking in the comforting warmth of his body. Why on earth would he ask you such a silly question? As if there was anything of importance that outranked him, by being at his side.

The answer you give is instant in its resolve, “I don’t understand, Captain. I needn’t find anything out there… I have you.”

Your answer, though unable to see it from your position, pleases him and his lips curl into a toothy smirk, long sweeps of his dark brown hair tousled about in his post sex state. You lay your head against his chest to hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat, eyes closing to seek rest and refuge in the arms of your beloved captain. The man that grants you safety, that promises you nights of passion followed by the comfort of his body next to yours. All he asks in return is your loyalty. Your devotion.

For you to be his siren.

Behind the blurry curtain of sleep layered over your eyes, you awaken and by your estimation, only for around an hour or maybe a little more. The morn still hasn’t risen over the ocean’s horizon, the moonlight shimmering and shining over the waves. The candlelight that bathed the cabin with a sensual atmosphere had now burnt out.

Breaths of deepened sleep sound next to you, the chiselled sculpt of his chest you’d used as a pillow takes steady form, as he sleeps. It makes you wonder as to what he dreams about, sometimes a scowl is etched into his attractive visage and he becomes restless, leaving you to somehow comfort him. And other times, mostly after he’s spent drawing orgasm after orgasm from the two of you, he finds respite.

You take the time to thoroughly yet delicately rub your eyes, robbing the tiredness of its hold to take you once more. With a tilt of your head, hair coming over your shoulder to graze the top of your breasts, his other hand lay out over the bed, residing just over the edge.

The mysterious object that somehow you know is linked with you, but as to how or why, or its significance to you in any case, is still laced around his calloused palm. Despite its odd gleam of familiarity, you believe this is the first time you’ve seen it before, however, the tiny voice in the back of your mind says otherwise. Then you must have seen something like it before somewhere.

Something deep in the recess of your heart, you have to know. Is this somehow linked to the estranged longing to a home you can’t remember? Does this necklace bind you to the lost melody of times erased from your memory?

You take caution in moving carefully, inching your way to lean over the sleeping form of your captain, skin brushing skin, you slowly rotate your hips and hoist a thigh over his waist. Heated crimson flushes into your cheeks as you analyse your newfound position, but also from the way his body stirs lightly, still enraptured by sleep yet his body adjusting to your core lining over his naval.

Thawed from your frozen idle of panic, you take a moment to calm the racing of your heart that hammers vigorously against your chest, your nimble fingers reach out towards his flesh hand that clings protectively to the mysterious necklace.

This almost feels… too easy. You swallow a silent gulp, fingers grazing against his palm when his body shifts, bumping up into yours, you pull your reach back so fast, your hand slaps against his ribs, doing your best to cover up your true intentions. His stills beneath you once more and your shoulders fall lax with a sigh of relief.

Again you dare another attempt to grab the necklace, this time you don’t risk breathing, holding it for what seems like forever until your lungs begin to swell with an ache that makes them feel like bubbles about to burst.

You work the chain until it's loosened and finally allow your held breath to escape you, the strain to remain silent proving far more difficult than you would have liked. The weight of your body shifts backwards, now sitting up, you allow your eyes to take in every detail of the object in your hands. The gold chain is light, ghostly as it graces your hands, your fingers lace and loop it around amidst the process of your conjuring thoughts.

Like a puppeteer pulling the strings you raise the necklace up by its precious thread. The pearl encaged by its makeshift net swings from side to side, as though even when you are completely still, it has a soul of its own accord.

Everything you knew about pearls is forfeit, the identity of this one brings the bevel between your brows to form in thoughtful wonder. Therein lies the piece of some puzzle, the missing notes to the melody to which you only recall the faint rhythm of the song.

It has to mean something of greater importance. But if it did, then why is your captain so adamant to dismiss your curious nature to find the answers?

As if the pearl itself is the key, you hear within your heart and soul the song. Voices sing a tone that is calming to your senses, a sweet and endearing lullaby meant for you to hear whenever you find yourself in the loneliest of places, in the darkest reaches of the ocean, the connection will bring you somewhere you call home.

But your home is The Avenger. Aboard the ship with Captain Barnes. The man known as Bucky to his closest inner circle. So why do the voices mingling with the tide call you away from all that? With each passing second you become ensnared by the spell of the pearl, the voices of whom you somehow find solace in become louder, the softened chorus of their song echoes a hundred times over in your head.

Before you even give pause to reason, your own voice becomes paired with the orchestra of sirens. You have no words, and maybe you never did, all you did need is the pearl to help guide you in remembering the melody. The uncertainty of your humming eases, the unforeseen instructors aiding you, your voice is soft within its deep reverie when it all comes to an abrupt pause, a gasp severing the tune.

He has you by the wrist, fingers bruisingly tight and giving you no choice to pull away from him, as he often did whenever he saw you retreat from him without his say so.

Bucky’s eyes bear into yours, penetrating the barrier of the necklace, he stares you down the way a wolf does the lonely prey in its path. His eyes match the brooding darkness of a storm at sea, a breed of villainy that threatens those who dare to try him.

“Captain…” Your throat bobs with a nervous swallow. “I– I wasn’t—”

Out of pure instinct to not tempt his fury, your hold on the necklace ceases and it gathers in the roughened pad of his palm, large thumb that has caressed your sensitive nub plenty of times now works against the spherical shape of the pearl, brows heavy in their judgement to assess your punishment. His movement is sudden upon the brink of your awareness, a sharp gasp that cuts into the tender muscle of your chest as he plants you flat on your back, hands both of flesh and metal pin your wrists on either side of you until the bruising ache becomes far too unbearable. But you do nothing to voice the level of your pain. He would not hear of it. His newly erected shaft ghosts over your entrance, the beginnings of your slick painting his already drooling tip. “I’m beginning to think you like breaking my rules, Siren.”

#female reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #pirate au #pirate bucky #siren reader #bucky smut #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #bucky x reader smut #bucky x reader

883 notes · View notes

peachesofteal · 5 months

Text

18+ mdni / dark and twisty, whump

It’s snowing.

You don’t even have to move your head to see in order to know. There’s something about how it hangs in the air, how the world sounds and feels during a snowfall that blankets everything, houses, trees, mountains, your mind.

You love it. Always have. Even as a child, winter was your favorite. Winter brought you a sense of calm, of peace. It was what drove you to move out here in the first place. Chasing the snow. The feeling of a quiet forest, lying still beneath the soft spun expanse of white. The smell of the air the morning before a big snow, the eternal quiet that exists in the darkness when everything is dampened down by the weight of a million, billion unique, crystallized webs.

Except this snow feels different. It doesn't feel like a velvety white, soft dream world, but a nightmare... one filled with pain, anxiety. Why are you here? What's happened?

And why do you hurt so fucking bad?

"You're awake." A deep voice says from your side, and you flinch on instinct, immediately wishing you hadn't as lighting sharp pain shoots through your upper arm all the way to your neck, and you cry out. "Easy." It's the brown eyed man, the bigger one. He's sitting in a chair that cannot possibly be comfortable, watching you.

"Where... am I?" You manage to choke out through stiff lips, your head spinning and the world tilting at the same time. It sours your stomach, more than you thought possible, and you try to choke back the burn of bile that's racing up your throat.

"Are you going to be sick?" He reaches, stroking a finger down your face. You hold your tongue, unsure, and he must not like it, because he sighs, and then frowns at you. "Tell me."

"No, I don't-" You can't even finish your denial before your stomach is heaving, and he's springing to action shifting you amidst unbearable pain, turning you on your side to where a clean bucket sits, right beneath your bed.

"It's alright, that's it." A hand soothes up and down your back as you dry heave, sputtering on nothing, tears leaking from your eyes.

"Nnnrgh-"

"I know, I know. Poor thing." He coos, and it sounds so... endearing, so sweet yet... frightening, like the poison of a predator, a pretty display meant to draw you in before it snaps a set of jaws shut around your face.

"H-hurts." You cry as he rolls you back into your original position. "It hurts."

"I know it does, sweet girl. We're going to fix it." He dabs a cloth on your face, across your forehead and then down to clean your mouth up, just as the man with the mohawk appears on the bed, one knee down, leaning over you, concern rife in his features.

"Poor baby. Were ye sick?" You blink up at him. What is going on? He presses a glass to your lips, encouraging you to drink, and then pulling it away after you've had a few sips with a gentle 'not too much'.

"Who are you?" You smack your lips. The water is cold, refreshing, but a ting acidic, and you wonder if it's well water, maybe?

"I'm Johnny." He's setting up something, beside you. You can see him organizing something, but can't quite make them out due to your lack of mobility. "An' this is Simon. Or Si. But ye probably won't be callin' him that quite yet." Johnny and Simon. Did they find you? Did they rescue you? Why can't you remember?

"What happened?" You try again, gritting your teeth against the pain.

"Ye had an accident, remember? We talked about this yesterday? Ye slid off the road, ended up in a thick of trees. Ye're lucky the one didnae impale ye." Impale?

"And you found me?" You're starting to feel tired again, all the sudden, woozy and weird, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Shouldn't you be in a hospital? Why haven't they taken you to a doctor?

"Aye, we did. Pulled ye free, brought ye home." Home?

"We couldn't leave you to die, and the storm is pretty bad. Pass is closed." Simon offers as an explanation, and you close your eyes. Of course. The pass is closed.

"Thank... thank you." Johnny hums, and then to your complete shock, leans forward, brushing his lips against yours as you blink furiously.

"Want ye to know, if we didnae have to do this, we wouldnae." What?

"Do what?" The broad one, Simon, casts you a mournful glance, rising from the chair. He's got a piece of leather in his hand, like a cut from a belt, and your eyes dart between them. Do what?

"Bite down on this, precious." Simon instructs, placing it against your bottom lip, to which you jerk away in protest with a whimper.

"Do what?" You try again.

"We need to set your humerus, and clavicle." Set your humerus? And your-

Oh. Oh no.

"N-no. No, you ca-can't." You stutter, but Johnny gives you a sad look, shifting on the bed to place a hand on your belly, stroking upwards to the middle of your chest, the other holding firm against your good shoulder, the one that doesn't hurt. His hand is warm, so warm against you, and his thumb rubs in a cautious motion against your skin, lightly grazing the underside of your breast. It feels weird, and wrong... intimate. "Please, don't. Please, please-"

"It's alright." He shushes you, and the pressure against your body increases as Simon wedges a thick finger between your teeth, slipping the worn leather into your mouth, bracing a hand above your elbow, and below your shoulder on the side that hurts. You gasp for air, fear shaking your body, and Johnny coos at you, telling you you'll be alright, that you're with them now and they'll take care of you, that it will only hurt for a little. "Ye'll probably pass out, bonnie. We'll get the second one done while ye're down, and I already gave ye something for the pain." He assures, like it's supposed to relieve you, and your nostrils flare as something tightens against your arm. Simon's grip.

This can't be happening. How can this happen? No, nononono-

There's a crack. A crunch. Burning, obliterating agony that's delivered to your arm like a shot. You scream and bite down at the same time, raw misery trying to claw it's way out of your throat. You think you're crying, hallucinating from the pain, having a heart attack, everything all at once. It hurts. It hurts so bad, it hurts-

"We're sorry, we're sorry." Simon soothes, thumb wiping your cheek, but you can hardly hear him, your mind starting to sever itself from your body, floating away as you slip inside a dark tomb of your mind, losing yourself to unconscious as they both stare down at you, sickeningly sweet concern layered overtop the faces of a bear and a wolf, predators licking their maws in preparation, waiting to devour their prey.

#peaches writes #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish #simon riley #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader

987 notes · View notes

bethanythebogwitch · 7 months

Text

I recently found out a show I liked is 10 years old now so to not be the oldest thing on this blog I'm talking coelacanths for Wet Beast Wednesday. Coelacanths are rare fish famed for being living fossils. While that term is highly misleading, it is true that coelacanths are among the only remaining lobe-fined fish and were thought to have gone extinct millions of years ago before being rediscovered in modern times.

(image id: a wild coelacanth. It is a large, mostly grey fish with splotches of yellowish scales. Its fins are attached to fleshy lobes. It is seen from the side, facing the top right corner of the picture)

Coelacanth fossils had been known since the 1800s and they were believed to have gone extinct in the late Cretaceous period. That was until December 1938, when a museum curator named Marjorie Courtenay-Latimer was informed of an unusual specimen that had been pulled in by local fishermen. After being unable to identify the fish, she contacted a friend, ichthyologist J. L. B. Smith, who told her to preserve the specimen until he could examine it. Upon examining it early next year, he realized it was indeed a coelacanth, confirming that they had survived, undetected, for 66 million years. Note that fishermen living in coelacanth territory were already aware of the fish before they were formally described by science. Coelacanths are among the most famous examples of a lazarus taxon. This term, in the context of ecology and conservation, means a species or population that is believed to have gone extinct but is later discovered to still be alive. While coelacanths are among the oldest living lazarus taxa, they aren't the oldest. They are beaten out by a genus of fly (100 million years old) and a type of mollusk (over 300 million years old).

(image: a coelacanth fossil. It is a dark brown imprint of a coelacanth on white rock. Its skeleton is visible in the imprint)

Coelacanths are one of only two surviving groups of lobe-finned fish along with the lungfishes. Lobe-finned fish are bony fish notable for their fins being attached to muscular lobes. By contrast, ray-finned fish (AKA pretty much every fish you've ever heard of that isn't a shark) have their fins attached directly to the body. That may not sound like a big difference, but it actually is. The lobes of lobe-finned fish eventually evolved into the first vertebrate limbs. That makes lobe-finned fish the ancestors of all reptiles, amphibians, and mammals, including you. In fact, you are more closely related to a coelacanth than a coelacanth is to a tuna. Coelacanths were thought to be the closest living link to tetrapods, but genetic testing has shown that lungfish are actually closer to the ancestor of tetrapods.

(image id: a scientific diagram depicting the taxonomic relationships of early lobe-finned fish showing their evolution to proto-tetrapods like Tiktaalik and Ichthyostega, to true tetrapods. Source)

There are two known living coelacanth species: the west Indian ocean coelacanth (Latimeria chalumnae) and the Indonesian coelacanth (L. menadoensis). Both are very large fish, capable of exceeding 2 m (6.6 ft) in length and 90 kg (200 lbs). Their wikipedia page describes them as "plump", which seems a little judgmental to me. Their tails are unique, consisting of two lobes above and below the end of the tail, which has its own fin. Their scales are very hard and thick, acting like armor. The mouth is small, but a hinge in its skull, not found in any other animal, allows the mouth to open extremely wide for its size. In addition, they lack a maxilla (upper jawbone), instead using specialized tissue in its place. They lack backbones, instead having an oil-filled notochord that serve the same function. The presence of a notochord is the key characteristic of being a chordate, but most vertebrates only have one in embryo, after which it is replaced by a backbone. Instead of a swim bladder, coelacanths have a vestigial lung filled with fatty tissue that serves the same purpose. In addition to the lung, another fatty organ also helps control buoyancy. The fatty organ is large enough that it forced the kidneys to move backwards and fuse into one organ. Coelacanths have tiny brains. Only about 15% of the skull cavity is filled by the brain, the rest is filled with fat.

(image id: a coalacanth. It is similar to the one on the above image, but this one is blue in color and the head is seen more clearly, showing an open mouth and large eye)

One of the reasons it took so long for coelacanths to be rediscovered is their habitat. They prefer to live in deeper waters in the twilight zone, between 150 and 250 meters deep. They are also nocturnal and spend the day either in underwater caves or swimming down into deeper water. They typically stay in deeper water or caves during the day as colder water keeps their metabolism low and conserves energy. While they do not appear to be social animals, coelacanths are tolerant of each other's presence and the caves they stay in may be packed to the brim during the day. Coelacanths are all about conserving energy even when looking for food. They are drift feeders, moving slowly with the currents and eating whatever they come across. Their diet primarily consists of fish and squid. Not much is known about how they catch their prey, but they are capable of rapid bursts of speed that may be used to catch prey and is definitely used to escape predators. They are believed to be capable of electroreception, which is likely used to locate prey and avoid obstacles. Coelacanths swim differently than other fish. They use their lobe fins like limbs to stabilize their movements as they drift. This means that while coelacanths are slow, they are very maneuverable. Some have even been seen swimming upside-down or with their heads pointed down.

(image: an underwater cave wilt multiple coelacanths residing in it. 5 are clearly visible, with the fins of others showing from offscreen)

Coelacanths are a vary race example of bony fish that give live birth. They are ovoviviparous, meaning the egg is retained and hatches inside the mother. Gestation can take between 2 and 5 years (estimates differ) and multiple offspring are born at a time. It is possible that females may only mate with a single male at a time, though this is not confirmed. Coelacanths can live over 100 years and do not reach full maturity until age 55. This very slow reproduction and maturation rate likely contributes to the rarity of the fish.

(image: a juvenile coelacanth. Its body shape is the same as those of adults, but with proportionately larger fins. There are green laser beams shining on it. These are used by submersibles to calculate the size of animals and objects)

Coelacanths are often described as living fossils. This term refers to species that are still similar to their ancient ancestors. The term is losing favor amongst biologists due to how misleading it can be. The term os often understood to mean that modern species are exactly the same as ancient ones. This is not the case. Living coelacanth are now known to be different than those who existed during the Cretaceous, let alone the older fossil species. Living fossils often live in very stable environments that result in low selective pressure, but they are still evolving, just slower.

(image: a coelacanth swimming next to a SCUBA diver)

Because of the rarity of coelacanths, it's hard to figure out what conservation needs they have. The IUCN currently classifies the west Indian ocean coelacanth as critically endangered (with an estimated population of less than 500) and the Indonesian coelacanth as vulnerable. Their main threat is bycatch, when they are caught in nets intended for other species. They aren't fished commercially as their meat is very unappetizing, but getting caught in nets is still very dangerous and their slow reproduction and maturation means that it is long and difficult to replace population losses. There is an international organization, the Coelacanth Conservation Council, dedicated to coelacanth conservation and preservation.

(image: a coelacanth facing the camera. The shape of its mouth makes it look as though it is smiling)

#wet beast wednesday #coelacanth #marine biology #biology #zoology #ecology #animal facts #fish #fishblr #old man fish #lobe-finned fish #sarcopterygii

1K notes · View notes

cow-smells · 7 months

Text

Decisions | Vinsmoke Sanji / Roronoa Zoro x reader

Summary: You and Sanji are friends. Just like you're friends with Zoro. When a misunderstanding pushes emotions to a boiling point, you're put on the spot to make a tough decision - who really is the man for you?

Word count: 1100

Warnings: none

A/n: this is going to be a choose-your-destiny type thing, where you can choose who you want to end up with! this first part is the prequel to that ~

you chose: Zoro , Sanji

Read on AO3

“Here, like this.”

Sanji took to standing behind you, wrapping his arms around you to place his hands on yours, guiding you through the proper motions to chop a carrot as evenly as he did. You couldn’t help but notice how his biceps flexed against your own, how he smelled of the bath he took this morning, the light caress of his breath on your neck. It was nearly overwhelming. You had to hyperfocus on the task in front of you so to not zone out and chop off a finger.

The carrots now chopped, Sanji’s excuse to wrap himself around you was gone. Reluctantly, he took a step back; you weren’t sure if the sudden coldness you were feeling was disappointment at his lack of proximity.

“Okay,” he started, his voice a little shaken; you wondered – was that because of you? “breakfast’s about as good as done. Do you want to call everyone in?”

“Sure,” you agreed, earning yourself one of Sanji’s beautiful, deep-dimpled smiles.

Gathering the crew for breakfast was rarely a hassle; you were often tasked with the mission after helping Sanji prep breakfast, and so, you already knew everyone’s routines and where to find them. Luffy was usually nearby the kitchen somewhere, ready to pounce on breakfast the moment Sanji permitted; Nami could be found on deck, drawing maps of where you’ve been; Usopp was a bit less predictable, but he’d usually find you as you were making the rounds. And then there was Zoro – which, you learned, was not a morning person.

While Sanji was up at the crack of dawn, already dressed to the nines and on his feet working in the kitchen, Zoro would sleep in until forced out of bed. They really were polar opposites.

This morning was no different; you knocked twice on Zoro’s door before letting yourself in. You smiled at the sight of his sleeping form, splayed across the bed, limbs tangled in his sheets – so unlike the proper way he held himself during his waking hours.

Perching yourself on the side of the bed, you lay a hand on Zoro’s shoulder. He opted to sleep on his stomach, and you couldn’t help but be appreciative of the sight of his muscular back, shaped by the hours of training he put in daily. “Zoro,” you called calmly, caressing his upper back in what you believed to be a friendly manner. “Hey, it’s time for breakfast.”

Zoro mumbled incoherently in to his pillow before shifting to throw an arm around you, his eyes still shut peacefully. “Zoro,” you laughed, being tilted on to him. “come on, it’s time to wake up.”

Finally, Zoro responded. “Mm. Sleep better.”

“Better than Sanji’s cooking?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned. You should have seen that coming. After a short pause, Zoro opened an eye, taking you in. “Did you cook?”

“I helped.”

“Fine.” With that, Zoro threw off the sheet that was covering him, hopping out of bed in surprising speed. While he’d usually sleep in trousers, last night was hotter than usual, and he seemed to opt against them today.

“Sorry,” you apologize, seeing Zoro in nothing but his boxers. You stood up to make your way out of the room when Zoro interjected, “What’s the rush? I’ll walk with you,” as he pulled on a pair of pants. He grabbed a button-up and followed you out of his room, threading an arm in to his shirt.

You stopped dead in your tracks as you came face to face with Usopp. You could see from the way he was looking at you two, just what he was thinking. You both were leaving his room quietly early in the morning, Zoro being half undressed. Usopp’s gaze jumped between you and Zoro, his mouth falling slightly open, trying to think of how to express himself.

Zoro, however, didn’t give him the opportunity. “Usopp.” Zoro greeted sternly. Zoro then placed a hand on your lower back, maneuvering you to keep walking, leaving a confused, suspicious Usopp behind.

Usopp was the last to join you all for breakfast. When he had finally arrived, the expression he wore was one of slight terror, or maybe just pure disbelief; a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the crew. Usopp took his place sitting opposite Nami, who wasn’t afraid to just ask – “Usopp. What’s up with your face?”

Usopp, reluctant to vocalize at this place and time, opted for giving Nami a wide-eyed look before raising his brows and shifting his eyeline between you and Zoro.

If that was meant to be a discreet message from himself to Nami, it failed, because even your oblivious captain had picked up on the cue – “What’s going on with y/n and Zoro?”

You could see Sanji tense visibly, his eyes growing wide. Zoro, however, seemed completely unbothered.

You could see the panic rise on Usopp before he blurted out, “Zoro and y/n are sleeping together!”

You, Luffy and Nami all shout – “What?!” to varying degrees of emotion. Strangely, Zoro doesn’t protest.

Then, a chair falls back to the floor. Sanji was on his feet, his hands fisted. You knew him well enough to know how mad he was just from the way he held himself.

“No.” Sanji said, his voice almost a growl. Slowly, he picked up his gaze from the floor to Zoro. “This… This is the one thing, I refuse to lose to you. I won’t let you have her.”

“Sit down, cook. This doesn’t regard you.” How Zoro could be so unbothered right now, you had no idea. Why wasn’t he clearing things up? Was he – was he okay with the others thinking you were together?

You could see Sanji flaring up – there was a fight about to break out, you were certain about it. “Sanji, I literally spent all morning with you.”

Instantly, Sanji’s rage melted away. Sanji made his way to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you to him. “That’s right. I shouldn’t be listening to this nonsense when I know I’m the first person you see when you wake up.”

Zoro’s brow twitched at that. “What are you saying, cook?”

Looking more smug than need be, Sanji replied, “What do you think, mosshead?”

“Enough with this already!” Nami yelled, far too tired with the duo’s one-upmanship. “You’re talking about a real person here, not a toy. Ever think to ask her how she feels, what she wants?”

“Yeah, y/n.” Zoro stood, and the look he was giving you could set you ablaze. Sanji’s arms around you tightened. “What do you want?”

you chose: Zoro , Sanji

#vinsmoke sanji #one piece sanji #one piece live action sanji #sanji x reader #sanji fanfic #sanji fanfiction #vinsmoke sanji x reader #one piece sanji imagine #one piece sanji x reader #one piece live action sanji x reader #opla!sanji x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro roronoa x you #opla zoro #one piece live action zoro #roronoa zoro fanfic #zoro x reader #zoro roronoa

1K notes · View notes

queenimmadolla · 2 months

Text

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈: 𝐑𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬

(A Lisa Frankenstein, Eddie Munson AU)

previous — next part ┊ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ( + playlist)

Summary: You learn the identity of your new undead friend, get a mini ‘makeover’, catch your crush’s attention and bury a body while Eddie learns throwing up on the girl he’s interested in probably doesn’t display his potential as a boyfriend, but his protective nature might.

Chapter Warnings: a stinky boy, dark humor, unpleasant home life, intense longing (on eddie’s behalf). oh yeah, and murder.

a/n: so i lied, this is actually longer than the first chapter and i accepted my fate. we’re getting to the fun stuff, though. next up: more vigilante justice, eddie lore and emerging feelings for a certain dead man walking. hope you like it!

light dividers ℗ cafekitsune ♡

“C’mon, over here.” You gestured to your open doorway, watching your new zombie pal hobble up the final step and round the staircase. His movements were harsh, stiff as hell and made your bones hurt to watch for whatever reason. Every over limp was accompanied by an inhuman grunt, and you wondered if moving his limbs might actually be painful for him.

You were never particularly skilled in the art of masking your emotions, so your eyebrows were furrowed, mouth parted and upper lip tucked up to clearly display your phantom discomfort.

Once he was close enough, you crossed over the threshold, standing a little in front of your bed as he wandered in, large eyes immediately raking over everything on your walls. After beckoning him further in, you moved around the filthy corpse standing in your room to close the door.

“Despite your deadly good looks, we can’t risk anyone seeing you. No one else can know you’re here.” You informed him, trying to stress the seriousness of the situation without seeming too controlling. While you had waited for The Zombie to struggle up the stairs, you’d determined there were three possible ways this town would react to discovering a member of the dead had risen—that only seemed to be socially acceptable and celebrated in the form of Jesus Christ:

1.) Pitchforks and Torches.

2.) News, Military, and Government attention, which would no doubt mean you’d have to break him out of some lab.

3.) Pitchforks and Torches, News, Military, and Government attention, which would mean you’d have to save him from an angry mob before inevitably losing him once News stations picked the story up, causing subsequent Military and Government interference and the scientific study of your undead friend in some high tech/high defense lab, leaving you to figure out how to break into and get him out of it.

Or, he could just not leave your bedroom. A beautiful alternative.

The Zombie didn’t even pay you any attention, stumbling forward—and banging his foot against the leg of your bed frame—to take a better look at your things. He was grunting and groaning, though this time it seemed to be a little different. It almost sounded like he was talking to himself. Or maybe to you.

Zombies in film seemed to be able to voice their demands for brains. Could he? Did he have the same urge or need to eat brains? How would you even feed a zombie?

“Can you talk?” You asked, leaning back against the door, eyes on him as he had to hop in place in order to turn his body to face you, “Like, speak? With words?”

He seemed to consider your question for a moment, eyes darting to the side.

“Uuuuuuunnnggghhh.”

“So, that’s a no. Do you…do you need brains? Because I’m not sure I can get you any of those—and if you think for one second that you’re gonna eat mine, you should know I fall under fight when it comes to fight or flight responses. I’m like an alley cat, I’ll fuck you up.”

The Zombie stumbled back, rocking from side to side. It took you a moment to realize he was trying to shake his head, no.

Interesting.

“No brains?”

Again, he rocked from side to side, “Uunggh-uunghh.”

“Oh. Okay.” Your defenses dropped immediately as you played with your hair, pulling gently at a section of it, “Well, what do you eat?”

He did the choppy shoulder raise he’d done in the livingroom earlier, “Unnhh unnhh.”

Your lips curled into a small, fascinated smile. Okay, you knew he had been once alive, once a human being existing on this earth with blood pulsing through his veins—and now he was dead.

Yet, he wasn’t dead. He was dead but standing in your bedroom, amongst your girly things and not so girly things, staring at you in his grotesque form, and shrugging I dunno, like some alive person. A full blown, supernatural one-time (to your knowledge) occurrence only depicted in Sci-fi films and horrors.

Why you? What did he want with you?

You hadn’t realized you’d voiced the question until he hobbled back around to your bedroom wall, raising his left hand, and the only one he seemed to have, up to one of the tombstone etchings. His fingers were all sorts of fucked up, frozen in the most uncomfortable looking positions as a result of rigor mortis in whatever position he’d died.

“What? That? It’s just an etching I made of a tombstone.”

He craned his head around, and you tried not to be freaked out with the way his neck hadn’t turned enough with it, tapping his crooked pinky finger against the craft paper and then moved it to his chest.

Your eyes zeroed in on the etching, trying to understand what he was attempting to tell you.

It was MUN’s tombstone—no, Eddie Munson’s tombstone.

Your jaw dropped. Had to be somewhere around your feet, on the floor. Holy. Shit.

“That’s you? You’re Eddie Munson?” It was rude, but you openly pointed at him.

He didn’t grunt in response this time, rather, he began to cough and gag as he jerked his body around to get his hand in his dirty jeans.

While he did whatever it was, you took the time to take him in even further. He wore black jeans, but under his leather jacket he seemed to be wearing a discolored dress shirt that had once probably been white. You had a feeling the sneakers on his feet, while horrendously dirty, weren’t all that worn out. Dress pants were pricey, you knew that much after buying some for your father when your mother would take you to outlets and malls with her. Dress shirts were a little cheaper and new shoes were seen as a staple in big events for peoples’ lives, such as graduations, birthdays, dances, weddings and funerals.

You had a sneaking suspicion this lively carcass hadn’t been from this part of town when he was alive.

“UUUUUUNNNNGGGHHHH!” The Zombie moaned out, almost victoriously as his stiff arm stuck straight up in the air. Dangling from his curled fingers, was your mother’s pearl necklace. You’d seen it last when you’d entrusted MUN with it yesterday.

You gasped, reaching out as he lowered it into your furled palm.

With the proof in your hand and his corpse before you, you knew you were speaking to Eddie Munson. He was, without a doubt, the grave you’d been running to.

“Holy crap, you are Eddie Munson!” You gripped the pearls in your fist, eyes wide and blinking rapidly to try to make sense of it all, “You were murdered and now you’re not—I mean, you were, but you’re back from the dead, standing in my—ooh, standing pretty close actually.”

You tried not to flinch as you became aware of just how close he’d stumbled over to you. Definitely within arms-length. He didn’t exactly stink, his flesh looked much too leathery to actually smell (you weren’t about to lean in and sniff to test the theory), but the scent of wet dirt was strong and the smell of whatever he’d spat on you earlier seemed to be lingering.

Zombie Eddie was in desperate need of a shower.

“So, this is all pretty cool and bizarre—I’m a fan of both—but uhm, why are you here…? Like, in my house.”

He slouched even further into your space, this time you did flinch a little as the most muffled whimper sounded from him. Reminded you of the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz when he couldn’t speak properly because he was all rusted up.

Eddie held eye contact as he struggled to grab hold of your hand and the minute he did, dirt from his skin pressing into yours, you knew what was coming.

Because of course it would. This is something that would only happen to you.

Shakily, Eddie tried lifting your hand and your mouth puckered, brows furrowing before you sucked your lips into your mouth as you watched him prepare to kiss your hand with his filthy, dead, dried out lips that still had bits of that green goop he’d spat up around it.

You were a nice person—a relatively decent human being, but you weren’t that nice and you didn’t wanna have to go to the hospital on the off chance that you caught something from a corpse. Explaining that one would send you straight to the psych ward and probably end in some sort of abuse of a corpse charge, so you quickly pulled your hand out of his grasp, rubbing your fingers together to roll some of the dirt off of them.

“Okay, okay, I see, mhm—alright. You’re here because—when I said I wished I was with you, I didn’t mean like, I wanted to have your dead body…y’know, pressed up against mine. I meant like…in the grave. Next to you. Like buried there because I’d be dead. It was a moment of intense angst—I’m nineteen and my life is in the fucking gutter. I’m surrounded by terrible people in this town and I have the rest of my life to live out this way.

“I didn’t mean to lead you on or something, and I’m pretty sure it’s a crime to do literally anything with a corpse, other than bury it.”

The two of you stood there, just staring at each other. He still hadn’t moved out of your space and you were still kind of leaning back, away from him, so you added, “So. Just a little recap, I wanted to be dead. Did not mean I wanted to be with you. Romantically. Together. Like a couple.”

And then you felt a little guilty because that wasn’t entirely true.

“Well, not with you as a cadaver.” Because you had fantasized about the person in the grave being a source of comfort to you, “Or—or, you in general. ‘Cause…’cause I didn’t know it was you given how fucked up your shit was, and I didn’t know you when you were alive.”

God, you were messing this up. Rather than continuing your ongoing word vomit, you flashed him a tight smile.

Finally, you got a reaction out of him. He creaked back, those little whimpering sounds coming from his lips before that same nasty ass green shit from before started leaking out from behind his eyeballs.

You’d made him cry.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings—I just moved here a couple of months ago and you were already dead by then! I’m sure you were a lovely person and I would have liked y—y—yo—ECH!”

You gagged, hand flying up to cover your mouth and nose as you felt the contents of your stomach start to make its way back up. While your hand was in that position, it squeezed the tip of your nose, cutting of the assault currently taking place against it.

Whatever it was Zombie Eddie was secreting instead of his tears, stunk. It was the most putrid scent you’d ever had the misfortune of knowing. Nothing could compare to it, not literal shit, not vomit, not pasta that had been left out to cook in the sun for several weeks, nothing.

You were sure one more sniff of it, and your nostril hairs would either shrink and curl up, or disintegrate.

“MOTHER OF GOD—your tears smell horrendous—I’m gonna throw u—ECH!”

You gagged again, tears flooding your sight and you hurried over to the bathroom, gesturing for him to follow behind you.

Chrissy had left her door to the bathroom open, so you skidded across the tile to shove it closed, desperate to make sure the scent didn’t reach the room and wouldn’t linger in there.

She’d drive you straight to the ER to get checked out, because nothing you could possibly shit out should ever and would ever smell that bad.

You yanked the shower curtain back from the tub, setting Chrissy’s products to the side and out of the way, “You need to bathe like two years ago, my dead guy.”

You stepped to the side, pointing into the tub with a finger as your other hand rested on your hip like you were ordering a misbehaving child in.

Eddie groaned, and you got the feeling that he was unimpressed with your theatrics. Unfortunately for the both of you, you hadn’t been dramatic about it. His stank tears had to be an actual biohazard and you didn’t want to think about the fact that very same biohazard had been projectile vomited onto your face a couple of minutes ago. You were so gonna scrub it raw.

Begrudgingly, he hobbled over to your tub and struggled over the edge until he was in—his upper half slamming into the tile wall.

You didn’t say anything about him being fully clothed, shoes and all, because everything he wore needed a good rinse off. If not, you’d have to hose his clothes down in the yard before subjecting the dryer and washer to them.

“There’s my soap.” You pointed out the pink bottle of pomegranate and berry scented shower gel, “And my shampoo and conditioner—those two are very expensive and a little goes a long way, so don’t waste any.”

You eyed him for a moment, mouth twisting in consideration, “Nevermind, it’ll take half the bottles to get your hair clean, I’ll just have to replace them a little earlier than my budget expected.”

This time, Eddie’s mouth parted rather wide as he moaned out, “UHNNNGGHH.”

He was probably telling you to fuck off already, but you were distracted by whatever insect was currently in his mouth, on his tongue.

“SPIT IT OUT!” You shrieked, and he aimed his head down, the large thing with too many legs falling right out to crawl around on your bathroom floor.

You screamed as you began to stomp around, trying to crush it beneath your remaining slipper but it kept evading it! Finally, your foot flattened it with a satisfying crunch.

The evil had been defeated. You were nearly panting, shoulders rising and falling as you calmed your breathing and another sound registered.

Eddie was croaking now, it sounded almost like the most painful gasps someone would let out on their deathbed. You stared, puzzled for a moment before it dawned on you.

“Are you laughing at me?”

He did it again, stiff body leaning completely back on the shower tiles now.

“Oh my god, you are! YOU DICK!” You slapped the side of his arm and then quickly yanked it back, frowning at the mud now caked to the back of your fingers.

“Ugh,” you tried to shake some of it off over the tub, your head shaking as well—and despite the predicament, you found the corners of your lips twitching but you refused to smile. Wouldn’t let him get that over you, “You’re gross. That better be the last living creature to come out of you, you Zombie Headbanger, take a shower.”

You didn’t give him a chance to moan, groan or croak at you again, yanking the curtains back to shield the tub and it’s undead occupant.

You rolled your eyes, almost fondly, and gathered too much toilet paper to wipe up the remnants of the bug and toss it in the trash. Should’ve been in a different corpse’s mouth if it wanted to live.

“You know how to work a shower, don’t you?” You asked aloud as you approached your bathroom counter, taking notice of the bathroom mirror as you uncapped a room spray and gave your bathroom a good burst of it. The mirror had already been replaced, looked like Laura couldn’t stand to know there was something imperfect in the house—aside from you.

You heard the tub start to run before the shower stream took over. At least he still remembered that much.

“You wanna listen to some music?” You asked over the loud stream of the shower.

“Uunngh.”

You took that as a yes and leaned over the counter to tweak the knob of the radio you and Chrissy always left on it. Immediately, a country station started playing and you quickly switched the station.

“That’s not one of mine! Chrissy listens to Country whenever she misses her ex-boyfriend, I don’t know why.”

You kept twisting the dial through various stations. When you hit a station midway through Disposable Heroes, you turned the knob again only for your companion to voice his outrage.

“UUUUUUNNNGGHHHH!!!”

“What?” You switched the station back, “You like Metallica?”

He grunted from behind the shower curtain, and the scent of your body wash began to fill the bathroom, much to your relief. You could hear him banging around in there, probably not the easiest to wash up with a bad case of rigor mortis.

“They’re alright, I liked Ride the Lightning, but Master of Puppets is good, too. Their last album was good, too, but it felt kind of different. Not the same without Burton.”

Eddie made a sound of confusion, hand with the fucked up fingers reaching out to push the curtain back so he could poke his head out.

You met his gaze through the mirror, “You don’t know?”

He just blinked, almost owlishly.

Shit. He must have died before the fall of ‘86. You’d have to ask Chrissy when exactly Eddie had died.

“The bass player, Cliff Burton? He died in ‘86. Bus accident.”

You watched as Eddie’s gaze dropped, and the groan he let out sounded remarkably sad as he ducked back behind the curtain.

Unsure of what to say to make him feel better, you let the radio play out the rest of the duration of Eddie’s shower and took diligent care in washing your face and brushing your teeth. Once he was done, smelling amazing and just like you, you’d had him shed his clothes for one of your nightgowns and dragged him back to your closet.

You knew he was quite literally stiff, but he seemed extra unenthused with his choice of ensemble, so you were going to let him choose his own.

“Alright, take your pick.” You yanked the doors of your walk-in closet (as in you could take three steps in and that's it) open and he flinched back at the amount of pink seeping out of it. When he made no move to look through his options, you selected one for him.

An even gaudier nightgown you tried to shove in his arms. And he let you, before purposely dropping it to the ground while holding eye contact.

“Well, I thought you would have looked great in it.” You mumbled as he creaked down to pick it up for you. When Eddie hobbled into the closet to hang it up, you shut the doors behind him, “Pick something else and then you can come out!”

Your closet doors didn’t lock though, so you were just banking on him assuming they did and you heard his offended zombie groaning. While you waited, listening to him no doubt bang into the walls as he struggled to dress himself, grunting and groaning, you twirled around on your desk chair.

Eventually, the closet doors parted and you gasped at the sight of him, standing there in your lavender fluffy, oversized sweater and pair of white pajama pants with hearts all over them. He couldn’t really move his face all that much, not very expressive and yet you could somehow tell he was scowling.

“You look like Grimace.” Was all you said, mind conjuring up Ronald McDonald’s purple monster friend.

The closet doors were promptly slammed shut. When he emerged once more, gone was the former ensemble. Eddie was wearing a neon green skirt, a tight off the shoulder black top, and nothing else.

You wolf whistled at his skinny, severely discolored legs.

He stuck one out, modeling it for you and you realized he was humoring you. You laughed, eyes crinkling.

“You tryna knock me dead, too?”

When he nodded, you laughed again and stood up to rummage through your dresser. You found a band tee you used as a pajama top, and some black pants that looked like they might fit him. Then you spotted a red plaid flannel you had hanging on your bedroom door, waiting to be placed in the closet.

The clothing items were shoved into his arms and you pushed him back into the closet.

When he came out (eheheheh) again, you were practically bouncing in your seat. You’d never seen Eddie alive before, had never seen him in clothes that weren’t his burial ones, and he definitely still looked as much of a Zombie as Michael Jackson had looked in the Thriller music video, but he also looked like a young adult, and very much so in his Metal element. He was stretching your baby blue socks to their limit, but they’d have to do until you could steal some from your dad. You’d scrub his shoes tomorrow, before class.

If Eddie were alive, he’d look…hot.

You smiled to yourself, still taking him in as you realized you were looking at Eddie Munson.

To show your admiration, you clapped for him, “That’ll do real well. What do you think?”

Eddie raised his forearm and you tilted your head, confused. He followed your gaze and groaned, rolling his eyes as he realized that was the arm lacking a hand. Then, he held up his other arm, painful looking thumb finger cracking and popping until he was giving you a thumbs up. You ended up tying a scarf around the wrist without a hand, just to hide the gaping wound.

With the matter of his clothing solved, you moved onto his hair, sitting on the bathroom counter while he stood in front of you as you worked on detangling with a spray bottle and a legion of hair products. It took some TLC, and ignoring the hole where his ear should’ve been, but you brought his curls back to life. You were shocked to even see he had bangs, they’d been plastered to the top of his head when he was the Swamp Thing.

They framed his eyes, looked real good on him and he seemed to enjoy the entire process, eyes slipping shut and little moans (not like that) coming from him.

“Well, I think we’ve got you back in good shape.” You put down the comb, placing your hand on his shoulders to turn him towards the mirror, “Is this Eddie Munson?”

You watched his gaze scan his reflection, before those eyes were on yours in the mirror.

“Unnnghhh.” Eddie held up his arm with the missing appendage and you nervously scratched the back of your heard.

“Well, you see, I don’t really have any extra hands on me, at the moment. Just down to these two,” You emphasized the sentence with some jazz hands to display yours, then immediately felt guilty over still having yours so you hid them behind your back.

Eddie groaned low, lifting his wrist to the side of his head, where his ear should have been and you made a displeased sound.

“Oh. Noticed that, did you?”

His eyes narrowed and even though you had no idea what Eddie had sounded like, you could still hear him in your head, Notice my fucking ear is missing? Yeah, I did.

“I don’t have any extras of those, either. If it’s a body part, I’m out of stock. But—who cares? Plenty of people live without them.”

Eddie grunted, eyes narrowing even further at you.

You winced, “Poor choice of words—the point is, no one will even notice. Because no one is going to see you.”

Eddie’s next grunt sounded disappointed and you felt even guiltier. What were you supposed to do? You’d already made him look as relatively normal as you could, there was only so many ways you could disguise a zombie who walked oddly, communicated via moan, groan and grunt, and looked like he had a medical skin condition.

You were about to try to comfort him when you heard the front door open and you gasped.

“WHAT IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN?” You heard Laura cry out, and your dad shouted your name.

“I don’t mean to sound homophobic, but back in the closet!” You shoved him out of the bathroom and in the direction of his new hiding place. He hadn’t looked very keen as you shut the closet doors on him, but he’d have to wait for now.

Your dad was probably having one hell of a heart attack, staring at the mess of the house, the broken window, fearful a similar situation as your mother’s assault had taken place with you as the victim.

“I’m alright, daddy!” You reassured as you raced down the stairs to your concerned father. He was concerned alright, but not about you.

He had Laura in one arm, who was openly distraught about the shards of her damn plates, and Chrissy, who was staring at the mess with open confusion, in the other.

“You,” Laura spat at you with venom the moment her chilling gaze locked onto your approaching figure, “What. Did. You. Do?”

Wow. You’d seen an actual Zombie—he was upstairs, in your bedroom closet—and still the most unbelievable thing to happen to you was your ‘family’’s ability to immediately blame you. You hadn’t expected Eddie’s corpse to be the first suspect in their head, still, they’d seen your house ransacked—as you tried to escape your friendly deceased headbanger—with you nowhere in sight, and hadn’t been at all concerned for your wellbeing. God, they sucked.

“Me?! I didn’t do this!”

“Then who did!?” Laura screeched back and you found yourself getting angry.

“The guy who broke in!” You shouted back and Laura immediately rolled her eyes. You could hear your dad say both of your names to calm you down, but you were growing tired of him, too. Like Eddie, he seemed to be missing parts of his body. Noticeably, his goddamn spine.

“Really? You expect us to believe that after last night? The smashing of the mirror, my precious moments figurines? Muffin, your daughter is out of control. She destroyed my house!”

“Do you ever use those creepy eyeballs stuck in your skull?” You found yourself blurting out, “Does it look like any part of my body came crashing through that window?!” You pointed aggressively in the direction of the livingroom, where glass littered the floor. It was too much for just an object to have been thrown through and your body had no cuts, nothing to show from possibly jumping through it.

“Mom, if sissy was attacked─” Chrissy tried, her her mother was having none of it.

“Attacked? Who would want to attack her? She’s invisible, taking up space!” Laura was practically hysterical as she gathered pieces of her broken dishes, “That’s why she’s acting out, can’t you see? She’s recreating the crime scene that got her so much attention and you’re all falling for it!”

The woman was crying, mascara smearing around her eyes as her angry glare was once more directed to you, and you found yourself shrinking and hurt at the accusations, “You need serious help. You’re crazy and a danger to us all!”

“I think you might be mistaking me for your psyche.” You mumbled before turning your attention to your father with pleading eyes, “Daddy, there was a home invasion! I tried to call the police, but as soon as I heard him, I ran up to hide in my room.”

“She needs help, institutional treatment.” Laura hissed into your father’s ear as as though she was the devil on his shoulder.

“Daddy…”

“Mom, sissy’s not a nut, we can’t send her to the looney bin!”

You wanted to scream. All this talk about you being insane, and there was a literal walking corpse upstairs who could disprove that. You just weren’t willing to sacrifice Eddie for yourself.

“Dad, I’m not crazy. Okay? Last night was just a mirror, and tonight someone broke in. There’s a huge difference between the two, I’m not crazy.” You tried to reason, desperate to not get shipped off to some mental ward.

Your dad appeared sympathetic, “No one is calling you crazy, sweetheart.”

”I did.” Laura guffawed at your father siding with you.

“She did, I heard her.” Chrissy confirmed, frowning at her mother.

“No, Chris. Your mother’s just upset, she’d never say something like that and mean it.” You watched with disgust as he pulled Laura into his arms. It was more than you could stomach so you stormed out of the dining room, making a retreat for your room.

You were on your own. Your father had just proved that. Laura could say anything to you, treat you like crap, starve you and he wouldn’t ever step in, just continue being his wishy washy self. If it had been him and not your mother that night, you wouldn’t be suffering like this.

You’d have a loving parent.

You quietly shut your bedroom door once you made it in, leaning your forehead against it as a tear slipped from the corner of your eye. Emotions were something you tried to embrace, but crying because of your family felt…wrong. Like something you shouldn’t have to do.

Wiping your face, you realized more tears would be coming. Tonight was meant for crying. So, you slipped into bed, tears leaking steadily down your temples to seep into your hair and pillows. You were so hurt and you wanted to sob, but you were conscious of the dead guy in your closet. What if he heard you?

With a stuttering breath, you peered over at the closet to see the doors barely open and Eddie peaking out at you.

You rolled onto your side, back facing him to hide your tear stained face and weakness as you thought about how loud you and Laura had been downstairs. He’d probably heard what she said about you.

It was one thing to be treated the way you were, it felt extra pathetic to have someone bear witness to it.

The closet doors closed quietly behind you and just as you did every night, you squeezed your eyes shut, willing sleep to come so you could be done with the day and move onto the next, just solemnly trying to make it through life.

Maybe you and Eddie had more in common than you originally thought. Maybe you were a zombie, too.

When your alarm blared from your nightstand, rousing you from sleep—the only peace you ever seemed to get—you stumbled out of bed almost blindly, eyes heavily lidded with exhaustion as you yanked your closet doors open.

A garment was immediately thrown over your head, covering your face and you remembered your current house guest.

With a sigh, you yanked the clothing off your head, balled it up and threw it back at Eddie, “Dude, I have to get dressed. I have class today.”

Eddie grumbled, un-balling the little black dress and holding it up for you. It was the dress Chrissy had bought on sale and then given to you when she came to the conclusion that black washed her out and she looked much better in pastels.

“I’m not wearing that, not so much my style.” You tried to push past Eddie, but he remained planted where he stood, grunting as he held the dress out to you once more.

“Do I look like Madonna to you?” You asked, pushing the dress back towards him. Eddie groaned and threw the dress at your face again, closing the closet doors while you yanked it off your head, again.

“We’re gonna have to have a conversation about your communication skills later.” You called through the door and fiddled with the dress, “Can I get a sweater or something to go along with this?”

The closet doors were quickly opened and a new article of clothing was flung over your head before they closed. You’d just pulled the sweater off of your head when the doors opened once more and a hat was tossed at you.

“Dang—anything else?”

“Uuunggh.” Eddie moaned through the door, and you tried to pull at them but he must have been holding them shut from the otherside.

Resigned to your fate, you swapped out your pajamas for the outfit Eddie had apparently selected for you. He would navigate to the black clothing. You were unsure of it until you saw yourself in the mirror. Normally, your clothes weren't all that revealing. Form fitting—maybe, but never as attention drawing as this. You just figured you weren’t the type that could pull it off.

You were wrong.

The dress hugged your figure in the most complimentary way. It was short, stopped mid-thigh, but it didn’t look awkward or make you feel like your vagina would be on display if you bent over, thanks to the lace of the bottom hem flaring out.

For once, the girl in the mirror looked stunning. And when you did your makeup, taking your time to smoke a dark blue shadow out along your lash line and eyelids, she looked drop dead gorgeous.

You’d walked onto Campus with your head high, body rocking and a new found confidence that hadn’t quite made it’s way to the surface before. The heads turning in your direction were new and you found you kind of liked it, their gazes weren’t uninterested, scowls or looks of annoyance. They were appreciative, even from the straight girls!

“Okay, am I seeing things or does your sister look drop dead gorgeous?” Tina asked, as Chrissy and her friends stood admiring you from the bench they were occupying.

“You’ve got perfect 20/20 vision. She’d be unstoppable if she kept the confidence. Could probably even win pageants. Do you think she’d join cheer?”

Eddie fiddled with one of your shoes, tugging on a shoestring in boredom. He was sat on the floor of your closet, light from your bedroom windows creeping in through the cracks of the doors.

You’d lectured him before you left for class, told him he had to stay put. Laura wouldn’t be leaving for her nurses’ conference until the afternoon, so she’d be lingering in the house and she’d have a cow if she stumbled upon him.

So you’d pointed and lectured until he was creaking and groaning his compliance.

He’d stayed in the closet while you got dressed and, after you’d made sure Chrissy had already left, watched you do your makeup in the mirror while you chatted about the classes you had to take for the day.

Eddie had listened, to the best of his ability with one ear, and stared at your reflection as the heavy sense of longing settled on his chest, crushing the heart that no longer beat but desperately wished to. For you.

Death was not like he’d ever expected. No heaven, no hell. He was just…dead. Maybe it’d been the way he died. Perhaps, the suddenness of it, his lack of peace in life while living, or the fact that he was murdered, was the reason he saw neither heaven nor hell. He’d just been in a dark place. Literally, no source of light, no out of body experience, just darkness. For a while, it was tolerable, he’d heard Wayne’s voice comforting him. Telling him how much he loved him, how much he missed him. Then, nothing.

Nothing for so long. Quiet. Silence, not at all a peaceful kind. He no longer existed in life and yet the silence was still somehow smothering.

Until one day, he wasn’t alone anymore.

You found him.

Talked to him all the time, laid with him, kept him company and said such wonderful things. Eddie had no idea how much he’d appreciate hearing about current news events as a dead guy.

And while you kept him from feeling lonely, there was always a sadness to your presence. Broke his heart when you told him out of place you felt because he just wanted to claw his way out of his grave and tell you that no, you weren’t odd, you weren’t weird, you weren’t out of place. You were unique. You were the type of person he would have admired if he had been alive, different but not desperate to fit in. Just longed to be accepted.

He understood the sentiment all too well.

Eddie understood you. And you had no idea who he was, had voiced as much to him, couldn’t come up with his identity because some fuckers had defaced his tombstone—of course they would—and yet, you knew exactly who Eddie was. Knew him to his very core.

When you visited him, Eddie felt warm. He had no idea he could even feel things, other than the constant loneliness that had plagued him after Wayne’s presence disappeared, and before you.

With you, it felt like you were right there with him, beside him. A warmth, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him in for some much needed comforting. How ironic that he finally found someone who could finally see him, and he couldn’t do anything about it because he was dead.

And when you had come to Eddie that fateful night, the sadness he always noticed about you was heavier. A new despair attached, one that had him desperate to get to you, comfort you as you’d done for him.

I wish I was with you.

You’d said it. Had said what Eddie had wanted to hear you say for so long, even before he was dead. Before he knew you. It had always been you he was waiting for. He was beginning to understand the universe was bigger than anything he could have imagined (and yeah, maybe universal studios was the first thing that came to mind when he was alive), was positive the heartache he went through was necessary if it led him to you. Eddie could have done without the murder—there was no undoing that. Except, there kind of was. And it happened with a strike of lightning.

Unlike the many times he wanted to before, he’d actually been able to open his eyes, break out of his coffin and dig his way out of his own grave.

Eddie had had a major breakdown, freaking out at just about everything regarding returning from the dead after he’d broken through that final layer of thick terrain, minutely softened by some light rain from the storm. He had first tried to go home, only to find himself face to face with an unfamiliar mobile home set up on Wayne’s lot. A peek into the window revealed a couple.

No sign of his uncle.

It filled him with a sense of panic and he’d needed something—someone to stabilize him, keep him grounded.

Eddie was sure he was tied to you. Not only because of the unique bond you shared, he also felt a pull to you. Just some intense instinct.

He knew where to go after.

Your welcome hadn’t exactly been as warm as the grave hangouts—he didn’t blame you, his vocal chords were useless to him for the time being, meaning he couldn’t explain himself as you shrieked and flung dishes at him (and he was impressed) and fled from him. He could make sounds, so Eddie suspected he had the ability to talk, just lacked the healthy cords due to years of non-use to them, what with him being dead and all.

Eddie’s case was definitely not helped when he’d broken your fall—he was freaking the fuck out about you dangling from the roof like that—and you’d pressed on him stomache when you landed on him.

He hadn’t meant to…y’know…spit all that up on you, it just happened and he immediately wanted to die right after, just roll right back into his grave, he was so fucking embarrassed.

Projectile vomited on the girl you’re tryna romance, Munson. Nice.

Then, you hadn’t been attacking him, tugging him along to your room instead where you immediately told him you were just using dark humor to cope and didn’t actually want to be with him.

Probably something you should have clarified for him before he returned from the dead to be with you, but whatever. He wasn’t mad about it. Just a little bit heartbroken. Definitely didn’t stink up your closet with a little cry sesh while you were at college. Totally didn’t smell like Cherry Bubbles (how is that a scent?) from the bathroom spray he’d had to limp out to grab in an effort to hide the scent of his rotting body tears.

Now, he was just confused. Had no idea what the hell to do. Thinking on it, it had obviously been stupid as fuck to think you’d want him when he was literally a dead body. Couldn’t exactly stroll down the street, holding his one hand without garnering a few odd looks and arrests.

So, what could he do now? Sit in the closet and think about everything. Try to remember everything about his last moments alive—and when it had him wheezing in the closet, cowering in the dark, he’d switched to thinking about his uncle. Concerned. Wondering what had happened to him. When that subject, too, began to promise a panic attack—he switched to thinking about you, and oh how he ached in a different way. You were right there, in reach for him and yet the two of you couldn’t be.

The most frustrating part is how good the two of you could be for each other, and Eddie literally couldn’t talk you into giving it a chance, couldn’t even flirt with you.

He had some mad rizz when given the opportunity, a body that wasn’t stiff as hell and a fucking voice. Eddie knew he’d be able to get you all shy and cute, similar to how you were when you talked about what you thought he was like back at the cemetery.

FUCK. What the hell? Life wasn’t fair to him, death wasn’t fair to him, now life as some zombie wasn’t gonna be fair to him?

What kind of fucked up existance was this?!

All because of some stupid fucking lightning that—

Lightning. Eddie perked up, theories racing through him. If it had brought him back from the dead, maybe it could do more. Before he could think on it further, he heard your door open and froze.

It was too soon for you to be home. You said you’d be back in the afternoon, after Laura had left.

Eddie heard a scoff.

“How has it gotten even worse in here?” Laura mumbled to herself.

Eddie scowled, as he heard her footsteps enter your room, could hear her padding around.

The fuck was she doing in here?

It was a risk, Eddie pushed the closet door open, just enough to give him a crack to peep through.

Your stepmom was in some sort of jazzercise outfit—ugh, of course she did jazzercise. The blonde woman was currently rummaging through your drawers, looking amongst your belongings.

She was invading your privacy.

If Eddie had blood flowing through his veins, it would have been boiling.

He’d heard what she said last night, how she berated you. Accusing you of using your mother’s murder to seek attention.

And the other members of your family weren’t speaking up nearly enough to defend you. He was surprised that Chrissy—small town for Cunningham to be the Chrissy you’d been telling him about—even tried to defend you but she should have been putting her mother in her place. She hadn’t come up to check on you, either.

Eddie had a few things he wished he could say to Laura Cunningham, tell her exactly where she could shove her stupid figurines and verbal abuse.

If she was searching for something, Laura didn’t find it. She slammed one of your drawers shut, eyed your sketches pinned to your wall with disgust before speed walking out of your room. When she passed the closet, Eddie took notice of the headphones over her ears, could hear whatever she was listening to, Walkman probably set to the loudest volume.

Eddie’s mouth chipped up into a smirk that kind of hurt his face. He opened the closet door fully, stumbling out to poked his head out of your bedroom doorway just in time to see your stepmom disappear down the stairs.

Eddie followed, steps loud and uneven. Laura didn’t notice his presence, too engrossed in whatever she was listening to and occupied with her own ego. Looked to be cleaning up the place before her little trip.

Laura disappeared into the kitchen, well out of view of the living room so Eddie stumbled in, eyeing the pristine setting. The place looked impeccable, spotless, antiques everywhere that Eddie just knew the old bat was dying to have people ask about so she could name drop and be as haughty as possible.

Eddie could wreck all of this in no time, and he would if he didn’t know she’d immediately blame you for it. He still felt guilty you’d been chewed out for the mess he made.

Bitch.

Eddie heard her returning, so he hid behind the wall, waiting a few moments before he peered around it and across the foyer, into the dinning room where she was seated after having fixed herself something. Laura still had the headphones on, so Eddie took that as the all clear to continue exploring.

He spotted a family portrait hung over the fireplace, a seemingly picture perfect family was displayed. A man he assumed to be your father loomed over Laura and Chrissy, one hand on each of their shoulders. Eddie barely glanced at them before you pulled all of his attention. You were stunning, light catching the highlights of your face, lips parted just enough to encourage a pout. Your hair was wild in comparison to the other women in the portrait—Eddie loved it. You looked like you belonged on an album cover for some rock band, even with the sorrow swirling around in your eyes. Your unwavering melancholic stare pinned Eddie, and he could feel himself getting protective over you again. You must have been miserable that day.

See, if he had been around, he could have easily cheered you up. Snuck over on the day in question. Laura would have hated his fucking guts—Eddie wouldn’t have minded being the boyfriend your stepmom didn’t approve of. Horsing around behind the little photo shoot set up to get you smiling, get those pretty eyes of yours twinkling before whisking you the hell out of there once they got the money shot.

He rolled his eyes, grumbling to himself as he turned away from the past that never was. Couldn’t have (he’d already been dead), should have (but couldn’t) and would have. In a heartbeat.

His posture worsened under the weight of his own despair, sulking with it until he spotted an acoustic guitar, tucked in the corner and resting on a stand.

“Mm?” Eddie tilted his head in curiosity before making his way over. It was difficult to do, but he managed to settle the neck of it in the crook of the arm lacking a hand, and strummed with his stiff fingers, pleased to find that it was already tuned.

He plucked a couple more chords, stopping once to adjust a peg. Then the doorbell rang and Eddie’s eyes widened. He fumbled to place the guitar back on its stand and plaster himself against the wall as Laura got up to answer it, having apparently been able to hear it ring but not his guitar playing.

“Yes?” Laura asked as she opened the door, impatience soaking through her tone.

“Carpet cleaning.” A man’s voice stated, sounding bored beyond measure.

“Carpet Cleaning? My carpet is so clean you can lick the fibers.” God, was your stepmom ever not insufferable? The carpet cleaner salesman seemed to be thinking the same thing and Eddie figured he had to be annoyed with his work day already to say what he did next.

“I doubt the one downstairs is.” The salesman snorted and Eddie would have snickered if he could as he heard Laura let out an affronted and embarrassed gasp.

“EXCUSE ME?!”

The guy must have turned tail because Laura was stepping out after him, yelling as she closed the front door behind her.

Eddie eyed the bowl she’d been eating from, curiosity getting the better of him as he stumbled over to inspect it. Spaghetti.

He shouldn’t….But what was the point of being a dead corpse if he couldn’t use dead guy powers for good?

It only took a little effort, Eddie successfully gagged and heaved until a warm that had been lurking in his stomach came out, dropping out of his mouth to wiggle around in Laura’s lunch. Eddie watched as it disappeared between the noodles and sauce, satisfaction filling him.

Served the hag right.

With justice served, Eddie made his way back upstairs to your room. He’d just made it to your doorway when he heard Laura return. He waited a few more moments for her to sit down, settle herself, twirl some spaghetti around her fork and put it in her mouth.

Eddie was beginning to think the worm had made its way to the very bottom of the bowl when Laura let out a high pitched scream.

That one was for you.

Eddie smirked and walked back into your room, quietly closing the door behind him.

You had two classes for the day, back to back so as to not have to stay on campus longer than necessary, and both classes were pleasant. There hadn’t been any change in the materials covered or anything, eyes just kept attempting to discreetly take you in, which you caught from your peripheral vision.

While you enjoyed the new attention your attire and the way you carried yourself brought you, you quickly realized it wasn’t something you needed. What you needed was to feel good about yourself and for once in your life, you did.

You were absolutely giddy, and you felt so badass somehow, was this what Chrissy and her friends felt like all the time? Maybe putting effort into your appearance wasn’t just a load of crap dispelled onto ugly people by the conventionally attractive.

Regardless, you were strutting your way to the library, eager to turn in some books, make Steve Harrington’s jaw drop, then run back home to Eddie so you could thank him profusely for not having fugly taste.

Once you made it to the library, you noticed no one was at the front desk. Steve must have been putting some books back on their shelves.

No problem, more time to prepare yourself, maybe run through some possible conversations so you wouldn’t go stupid at the sight of his gorgeous face.

Your bag hit the ground with a thud, thanks to the weight of the hardcovers within it and you bent down at the waist to rummage through it, placing one heavy hardcover book, two heavy hardcover books, three heavy hardco—

“You got the rest of the library in there, Mary Poppins?”

You snapped back up, whipping around just in time to see Steve’s gaze rise from where your ass had been unknowingly on display, to meet your eyes, his honey brown ones swirling with warmth.

Oh, god. Just play it cool.

“Just some tampons and some chips.”

Leave. Walk out. Save face.

“No chocolate for that time of the month?” He asked, leaning up against the desk, rather than going around it to handle your returns. Steve wanted to talk to you. He’d been eyeing your ass and now he was making small talk.

You were going for it.

“Craving a different kind of sweet thing right now.” You leaned in, just as he had at the tailor’s yesterday. You were laying it on thick, sure. It worked though. Steve leaned in, too, and you clocked the tick of his eyebrow. Interest. Holy shit—things were finally looking up for you.

“I’ve got some starbursts in my car,” Chrissy chirped, materializing out of thin air to stand in front of you and Steve.

You almost knocked down the books you’d stacked on the desk, cursing under your breath. “Geez, Chrissy.”

“Hi.” She grinned at you, her darling crooked teeth gleaming before she was fixing Steve with a stern look, “Sorry, I need to talk to my sister. Preferably, alone.”

“I’m not exactly gonna run to the gossip columns about anything.” He mused, exchanging an amused look with you but you couldn’t really hear anything going on around you because Steve Harrington was flashing you smiles around Chrissy, your pretty and practically perfect step-sister, and not her. You’d entered another dimension and you did not want to leave. All you could do was smile back at him, like some infatuated idiot while your fingers reached up to pick at your lower lip.

“That may be so, but I think it’s best if she hangs around a good crowd.” Somehow, Chrissy had wedged herself between you and Steve, standing protectively in front of you with her arms crossed. She was about as intimidating as a pomeranian. Still, it was endearing to have someone act like they cared about you.

“And the library is just full of Neanderthals, is that what you’re implying?” Steve leaned both elbows back on the desk, gesturing out to the few students—most meek in appearance—occupying the area.

“I was thinking more of creepy librarians, high school peakers, and former playboys.” Chrissy shot back and you nudged her, hissing out her name. The protective thing was nice, just not when she was trying to scare away the man you’d be making your boyfriend.

“Golden coming from you, of all people, your royal highness, the Queen of Hawkins High; former head cheerleader and Miss Hawkins of ‘87, but not ‘88 and I’m pretty sure Heather Holloway won again this year, so looks like we both don’t have a lot going on, do we?” Steve was smug, shooting you a wink that made your heart melt and drip down your sternum.

Steam was practically blowing out of Chrissy’s ears, “Shoo fly, don’t bother us.”

Steve rolled his eyes before they fixed on you, past Chrissy’s head, “I’ll see you later okay? Thanks for bringing your books back on time.”

You giggled, still staring at him as Chrissy began to tug you away, “Until the next time, I guess?”

Steve held your stare, smirk softening into a smile, “I’ll be waiting.”

It was easy for Chrissy to guide you out after that. You were floating. Light as a feather and high on life.

“You are the only girl I know who can survive a spiked drink and still want to have anything to do with the guy.” Chrissy sighed in exasperation as the two of you loitered by the drinking fountain, “There’s like at least four other guys here who would date you, sissy! Don’t waste your time on that one.”

Okay. Only four other guys? Ouch. “Steve didn’t spike it. Carol did.”

“And she’s always following him around like some sad little mutt. Better to just stay away.”

You scowled, mood souring. One afternoon. You couldn’t have just one afternoon where you felt good about yourself without someone bringing you down. You knew Chrissy meant well, but in that moment, she was pissing you off.

She seemed to pick up on the shift of your attitude, changing the subject, “After practice, I’m gonna go out tonight. Some of the girls want to go bowling and then have a little kick back. Cover for me?”

How very much like Chrissy to insult you in the name of protectiveness, and then ask you for a favor. She still cared more about you than your own flesh and blood, so, “I thought your mom was gonna be away for a few days in Akron.”

“She is, but daddy’s not. And he’s way too overprotective, I can’t even sneeze without him bursting into my room to ask me what’s wrong. He always wants to know where I’m going, argues with me when I try to go out late—it’s so annoying.”

All you could think about were the many times you’d said goodbye to him as you left the house at whatever hour you wanted while he mumbled a bye and read whatever magazine he was reading or watched TV.

You tried to consider it a good thing that he let you be so independent, yet something in you ached, sure he simply didn't care enough for you. Not like he did Chrissy, and he’d known you longer, all your life.

“Oh. Uhm, I think he works late today, anyway. I’ll cover if he asks, but I’m sure you’re good.”

Chrissy perked up, pulling you into a tight hug, “You are the best! I knew I was gonna love having you as a sister. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Chrissy didn’t wait for your reply, practically bouncing down the hallway and you sighed.

At least you’d have some peace and quiet, maybe you could get Eddie into better shape too, and you’d get to tell him about your day!

With your classes done, you made your way to the parking lot, where Mystery waited for you.

You slid the back door of the Volkswagen open, tossing your bag in before sliding the door shut and climbing into the driver's seat of the bus. Then you started your mantras and manifestations, gripping the key with a sweaty palm before you were sticking it into the ignition and turning it with bated breath.

She roared to life and you sagged back in your seat, bones like jelly knowing you piece of crap bus was still kicking.

It was the biggest lemon of a car you’d ever seen, carried around jugs of coolant in the back because it had to be refilled almost every time you started it.

But it was yours.

When you pulled up to the house to see Laura’s car was gone, you felt yet another weight lifted off your shoulders. You were completely free to be you. Snatching your bag from the back, you made a run for your house, quickly unlocking the door before stampeding up the stairs.

You burst into your bedroom, chest heaving to find it in normal condition and no Eddie around. Frowning, you tossed your bag on the floor, beside your bed, and made your way over to the closet, yanking the doors open.

Eddie peered up at you from his position on the floor, rocking an old feather boa of yours.

“Eddie, I told you you were free to roam once Laura left. You don’t have to stay cramped in there all day when no one is around.” You offered him a hand and helped hoist him when you took it, “You wouldn’t believe the day I had—you’ve got stellar taste, by the way.”

“Uuungh?”

You reached under your bed, snatching an old Easter basket out that you used to hide your snacks. After you settled on the bed, you patted the spot next to you, and Eddie hobbled his way over, grunting as he settled onto the cushy comforter.

“I know I was grumpy this morning. I’m sorry, you were right. The dress was a hit!” You exclaimed, ripping a bag of sour gummy worms open. The pink end was clenched between your teeth as you bit it off, bag of sweet and sour treats held out to Eddie as an offering.

Eddie reached into the bag, attempting to crook his fingers enough to hook one. You watched the leathery skin between his brows pull—if you had blinked, you would have missed it—as he struggled to free his hand from the bag, shaking it a little until you pinched the bottom firmly, allowing him to pull it out.

“Unngh.” He grunted in thanks.

As Eddie moved onto the challenge of getting the gummy worm to his mouth, you went back to telling him about your day, “I mean, god—all I did was put on a little dress and I felt kind of invincible. Not to mention Steve Harrington seemed to like it.”

Eddie froze, gummy worm hanging out of his mouth, “Mm?”

“Steve Harrington, did’ ya know him?” You asked, steamrolling right on as if you hadn’t, “Talk about winning the genetic pool—that man is so fine. We talked a little at that party I told you about, and before I did drugs, he was being so nice to me. And I didn’t look as hot as I do now, so I was hoping for a reaction out of him—BOY did I get it.”

You let out a dreamy sigh, recalling the way Steve had leaned into your straightforward flirting.

“He’s kind, funny, and sometimes he even has good book recommendations. He’s like the total package and I think he might actually like me.”

You paused your ranting to look over at Eddie. If you didn’t already know his face was stuck like that, you would have thought he was scowling.

“You got a little…” Reaching a hand up to cup his jaw, your thumb lifted the gummy worm hanging out of his mouth the rest of the way up. Eddie’s cracked lips parted, just enough for you to press the rest of it in, then he chewed slowly, face not even twitching to clue you in on his emotions.

“There.” Your hand dropped back into your lap as you perked up, “I wanna assume he’s better than the other horndogs who popped woodies just because I wore a dress and flashed some leg.”

You stuck out your leg to demonstrate, the dress slipping even further up your thigh as you held it out, smooth (mostly, she was a little prickly but no one would notice unless they were stroking it) skin on display under some fishnet stockings.

Eddie let out a pained sounding groan, which you figured meant he was agreeing with you about the rest of the male population.

“Yeah. Well, I think everything’s gonna work out perfectly. Even if Chrissy keeps butting into my love life like some fairy chastity-mother. God—I just, I’ve never been close to actually having something I wanted before, you know?”

Eddie whined from behind closed lips, holding up the wrist that lacked his hand.

“What?” You asked, glancing down at the scarf wrapped around it. Eddie reached up with his fucked up fingers to point at where his ear should have been and it clicked for you, “Eddie, I can’t pull an extra hand and ear outta my ass. I wish I could, but I don’t have spare human parts lying around like pieces of a vacuum.”

Eddie whined again and this time you could actually see his lips pulling down, frowning.

“I told you I wish I could, but I can’t! I don't know how to get people parts and I don’t exactly have the black market on speed dial. Besides—you’re fine like this, I mean what are you able to do as walking dead guy anyways?”

“MUUUUNGGGHHHH!” Eddie groaned, loud and obviously upset as he dramatically flung himself back on the bed hard enough to shake it.

“Hey!” You snapped, fearful for your bed frame, “Chill out dude—don’t act all coked out!”

He turned his head, face miserable but before you could continue your scolding, you heard your name called upstairs.

Laura.

“SHIT, hide!” Eddie stumbled up and barely even had the chance to turn around before you shoved him into your closet, shutting the doors.

You’d barely stepped away when Laura burst into your room. She was dressed in her nurse uniform, complete with the stupid hat, yet there was something off with her. Her skin had a grayish tint to it, she looked clammy, eyes and nostrils red with irritation and her mascara was running. Laura Cunningham looked just as terrible on the outside as she was inside.

And for once, she scared you.

“Laura! I thought you were headed out of town for your trip.” Laura’s stare was even colder than you’d ever seen it, unnaturally icy blue eyes both vacant and filled with a deranged sort of rage. You expected her pupils to turn into slits any second, it would be the last physical trait she’d need to resemble a demon.

Stepmother from hell, indeed.

“Mmm, I’m sure you were looking forward to that,” Her voice was soft, almost gentle and nothing about it was kind. It was as if to coax you forward to her, lull you into a sense of ease before striking. You were reminded of the anglerfish, and the glow of their fin ray. They used it to draw unsuspecting prey towards the light before they were devoured.

You took a small step back. She took one forward.

“I suppose I’ll just have to attend next year, I’ll be skipping the conference this year. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to do much learning or networking with my head plastered in a toilet bowl. I seem to have come down with something. Do you know what my symptoms are?” She asked, voice so sugary sweet and thick.

“Uhm. I-I’ve been on my period. Maybe we synced?” You hated how small your voice sounded.

Laura’s lips pressed into a thin, cruel smile, “No. I haven’t been throwing up with a cramping stomach because of my period. I’ve been vomiting non-stop because a little slut under my roof is trying to kill me. And do you know who that psychotic little tramp is?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, mouth parting in shock. Did your stepmother just call you a slut?

“ANSWER ME WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU!” She bellowed, making you jump and gasp. You’d never heard Laura raise her voice like that, it dropped several octaves and she was staring at you with nothing but pure hatred burning in her eyes.

All you could do was shake your head. You were terrified, but you weren’t about to play her game. You were neither a slut nor a tramp and it was clear, regardless of what you’d say or do, she’d be unleashing her wrath upon you.

Laura chuckled without humor, “You really are just a stupid, insignificant bitch, aren’t you? I open up my home to you and you do nothing but cause trouble every time I so much as turn my head. I have been nothing but kind to you, even after you wrecked my home. I’ve been an angel. But putting worms in my food?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, I didn’t touch your food, I just got home from classes. An—And I didn’t ask for any of this, I didn’t ask to move here.” You could see tears beginning to blur your vision, welling up and threatening to cascade over your lower lashes. They didn’t. You refused to cry in front of her. Refused to give her that satisfaction.

“Oh, please.” Laura scoffed, looking at you in bewilderment, “Did you want to stay in the house where your mother was sliced and diced? Was that a comfort for you?”

“You know that’s not what I meant, I didn't want to start my life over in some town full of ignorant people.” You gritted out, hand clenching the bag of gummy worms.

“Ignorant people, and yet—you still don’t fit it in. Telling isn’t it?”

Despite your fear, you felt your own rage starting to build within you and before you could stop yourself, you spat out “What do you care? You never wanted me here. You just wanted my dad here in your clutches and you knew that wouldn’t happen if we hadn’t moved. He would have never chosen you over my mom.”

Laura sneered, “It’s not much of a choice when she’s rotting in some coffin, six feet under, is it? I’m sure she’s relieved to be done with you and all the disgusting things you do for attention.”

“Shut up!” You demanded, seething now as the devil incarnate dared to speak about your mother in such a disrespectful manner. Laura was only able to sleep in a bed alongside your father—wear that tacky ring on her finger because your mother had tragically lost her life.

Laura wouldn’t be but a mosquito in the room if your mother were alive.

You hadn’t been expecting the strike that came next, hadn’t been prepared for Laura to pull her arm back and swing it forward, cracking your cheek so hard you almost spun. You yelped, hand reaching up to press against the skin of your cheek, feeling it throb and sting under your touch.

She fucking hit you. You gaped at her in disbelief and Laura didn’t look remotely apologetic.

“I am beyond tired of you and I am not going to wait until some maniac guts me to be rid of you. Especially when you’re already a threat to my life. No. I won’t stand for it, so I took it upon myself to begin your admittance to Hawkins National Psychiatric Center.

Your blood ran cold as images of the unsettling ‘center’ flooded your mind. You’d heard of it before, horror stories told amongst your peers. A psych ward. And Laura Cunningham was going to have you committed.

“No, please. No.” You whispered, voice laced with fear.

“It’s for the good of everyone,” Laura began, leering over you. “You don’t belong here. Your place is locked up, solitary confinement where no one will have to see you ever aga—

THUNK.

Laura let out the smallest of gasps.

You watched the unsettling blue of her eyes give away to whites and red veins as they rolled to the back of her head, her body going limp as she tipped forward and fell face first to the ground. Your mouth dropped open as you watched her collapse, gurgling and twitching on the ground for just a few seconds before she went still. Then your gaze flitted to Eddie, who stood tall with your old sewing machine clutched in his hand, a corner stained red.

Your eyes flashed back down to Laura, and they widened in size when the pink of your carpet began to turn a bright red, blood seeping out of her skull to pool around her head and soak into the floor.

Eddie made a grunt that sounded more so like a noise of satisfaction and tossed the sewing machine back into the closet.

You heard them before you saw them. Eddie had found the small pair of scissors included with your sewing machine and clipped them in the air before he bent down. You could only watch, stunned silent and with morbid curiosity as Eddie snipped your stepmother’s ear off.

“Oh, god…” You finally found your voice, eyes darting anywhere else to avoid seeing the skin severed. You breathing became labored, chest rising and falling rapidly as you staved off a panic attack while your undead friend cut the ear from Laura’s dead body.

Eddie held it up in triumph, like it was some sort of medal rather than a human ear.

“Wha─? Why─?” You couldn’t even finish a sentence and Eddie must have noticed how distraught you were. He rose from the floor, stepping over Laura’s body to pull you into his arms and despite what had just occurred, you returned the embrace; arm slipping under his to clutch at the back of his shoulder, desperate for the comfort he was offering. His hand rubbed circles over your back and you leaned your cheek against Eddie’s shoulder, stare never once leaving Laura’s body as you whimpered.

When he pulled back—just enough to be able to look at your face—he held the ear up, towards you.

You knew exactly what he was asking you to do.

”Eddie…I—I can’t. I can’t do that…We have to bury the body first.” You placed a hand on his chest, leaning into him again as you both turned your heads to stare at someone who was no longer a problem for you. For the first time, in a very long time, you felt safe.

Eddie had rescued you.

Moving the body was surprisingly easy. You’d expected Eddie’s limbs to be fragile for some reason, a foolish thought considering he’d so easily crashed through your window that first night. Eddie actually possessed a great deal of strength, easily lifting Laura’s body—wrapped in sheets—and carrying her downstairs.

Movement seemed to be getting easier for him, limbs that had been out of use for years returning to life and unstiffening just as he had. If his arms could support Laura’s body with no problem, you wondered what had happened to his missing hand in the first place.

You made sure the coast was clear before you pulled your bus up the driveway and Eddie placed the body in the back. It obviously hadn’t been strapped down, so while you drove to the cemetery, Laura’s body was rolling around, banging against the sides of the Volkswagen. Eddie just turned up the music you’d been playing.

The cemetery was vacant, thanks to the relatively early time of the day. Most people still hadn’t gotten off of work yet, which made this easy for you and Eddie. It wasn’t the most respectful thing to do—you were just out of options. A grave had already been dug out, for some poor recently deceased soul (not Laura, she could go to hell), so, the two of you had quite literally dumped Laura’s body into the empty hole and covered her with a layer of dirt so she’d go unnoticed when they’d lower the coffin, of whoever’s grave this was, into it.

After the deed was done, the two of you stood side-by-side, staring into it.

“Is death comforting?” You asked, breaking the silence. Eddie didn’t answer, didn’t even grunt, so you turned your head to the side to find him already staring at you.

He shook his head.

“Good. C’mon.” You gave the burial plot, now and forever housing Laura, an extremely and aggressively disrespectful finger, and tugged Eddie back to the bus. He went willingly after kicking some more dirt into it.

When the two of you returned home—after you briefly stopped for ice cream while Eddie waited in the bus—you’d gotten straight to work; Eddie’s head in your lap as you sewed the ear into place.

While you threaded the needle through the skin, Eddie waited patiently, thumb playing with your fishnets. Once you knotted the string and used your teeth to nip off the excess, you admired your work.

Good stitching, secure and it wouldn’t fall off. The coloring was a bit odd, skin appearing obviously more lively than Eddie’s dull gray-green tint. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Done.” You announced, hands resting on the mattress at your sides. Slowly, Eddie rose to a sitting position, head shifting around to face you, “What’s the survey say? Ear any good? Hear anything?”

Those big, deep brown, baby cow eyes of his looked despondent as he shook his head.

“Mm-mm.”

You sighed, feeling a bit despondent yourself. He’d saved you from a life of medicated compliance and padded walls, and you couldn’t even get the human ear you’d stitched to the side of his head to work. You felt guilty knowing you couldn’t make him whole again, as he so desperately wanted to be. Couldn’t be his blue fairy.

You reached your fingers up, tips brushing alongside the soft outer edge of his ear. How funny that an appendage that had once belonged to the nastiest person you’d ever encountered, a woman who hated your very existence, was now endearing because it was a part of the guy before you. Your friend. Your protector. What had taken place that afternoon would no doubt lead to trouble, but you knew Eddie hadn’t acted out of malice.

He’d simply wanted to help you. And—okay, yes, he got an ear out of it, but it didn’t work. What mattered is that you weren’t alone anymore. You had someone that actually cared about you. Enough to kill for you, even.

It felt…like you mattered to someone.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled in disappointment, “I really did think it was gonna work, too. Guess Laura’s still useless, even when she’s dead.”

Your hand dropped back into your lap as the two of you simultaneously heaved out sighs.

“At least you have something there, you know?” You tried to see the positive side, keep Eddie happy, “Like nipples with boob jobs. The dial doesn’t work but you can still turn the knob.”

He made a humming sound, contemplating the analogy, weighing it as his head tilted this way and that way.

“Maybe it’ll catch up with you later, like the rest of your body. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you getting better at moving around.” You teased, nudging your shoulder playfully against his.

Eddie stiffened and you thought you might have offended him, “I mean—I’m not paying super duper close attention or anything, I just like to watch you—It’s not like I see a living dead guy every day.”

“Unngh.” Eddie seemed to pay no attention to your word vomiting, pointing at a sharpie on your nightstand.

“What? This?” You reached over and snagged it, offering it to him. He carefully took it from your hands, his hardened fingers brushing over your soft ones, and awkwardly popped the cap off with his thumb.

Your eyebrows shot up as Eddie began doodling on the skin of your hand near your thumb and index finger.

“Why did I think you were illiterate?” You mused aloud and Eddie briefly stopped to glare at you and grunted, unamused, “You can’t blame me, you could have picked up a pen and paper this entire time, hell—I have an Etch A Sketch you could have been using instead of making me decipher your ‘uuunnngghhss’.” You did your best impression of his zombie grunting and he put the sharpie between his thighs so he could flick the cap at you.

Like an expert dodger, you lifted your hand just in time for it to bounce off your palm as you giggled and he went back to finishing up his little doodle.

A lightning bolt.

Your lips pulled into a soft smile as you admired it, something warm pooling in your belly. It was cute and there was something very attractive to you about walking around with Eddie’s little sketch on you.

An Eddie Was Here, if you will.

And then it hit you. Lightning.

“OH.”

Eddie grunted, pleased that you’d picked up on what he was trying to convey.

“But how are we gonna…” You trailed off, brows furrowing as a montage of the two of you played in your head; sticking a metal rod in the ground with Eddie holding onto it as you waited for some approaching storm to electrocute him. The only problem was the weather forecast for the week predicted nothing but sunshine and clear, starry nights. No electrocution for the week. Unless…. “Oh my god.”

You turned to Eddie, grinning almost maniacally, “I’m a genius.”

Forty minutes later, you found yourself staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror Chrissy had set up inside the tan shack. It was softly aglow with pink and warm hued fairy lights, and neon blue coming from the tanning bed. One of her beauty pageant crowns was placed on your head, and you had to admit, it did make you feel pretty. It looked good on you, too. Huh. Maybe you should have done pageants, could have won one, even.

Sparks flew from the tanning bed, some feet away, with Eddie inside of it.

It was the next best thing to actually being struck by lightning. Well, it was either the tanning bed or electrocuting him in the small pool with a plugged in radio, but you didn’t want to get wet.

You grabbed a little fairy wand, no doubt part of one of Chrissy’s pageant costumes—probably Galinda—and posed with it, pleased with your reflection. Your hair was frizzy and it somehow added to your allure.

You could rock with this confidence thing for a while if it made you not hate yourself like usual.

The tanning bed’s buzzing whirled down until it was silent, save for a few random sparks, and the bed opened up, top lifting to reveal Eddie laying in a cloud of smoke, wearing those little goggles you’d insisted on to protect those pretty eyes of his.

You got up to check on him, tapping his chest with the end of the wand, “You baked enough?”

He groaned as he sat up and dinged his head on the top of the tanning bed and you flinched, dropping the wand.

“Ooh, yeah, I’ve been there too.”

Grabbing onto his hand, you helped pull him out of the tanning bed to sit on the edge and sat beside him, pushing the goggles up his large forehead and pinning away his bangs.

Eddie didn’t say anything, just blinked sluggishly. He was baked alright, that voltage was no joke.

“Eddie,” You leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Can you hear me in there?”

No reaction.

“EDDIE MUNSON, CAN YOU HEAR ANYTHING I AM SAYING?!”

To your amazement, Eddie flinched away from your shrieking, and with his face turned to you, you noticed he looked different, skin more…skin like. Not the leather you’d noticed before. He still hadn’t answered you, so you kept going, “IS THAT A YES—YEAH?”

Eddie groaned out, face affronted as you continued to scream at him and your shrieking turned into screams of excitement. Eddie joined you in yelling (well, he tried, it was very loud groaning) when it dawned on him.

It worked. Eddie Munsons had two working ears.

“Oh my god!” You flung yourself at him and immediately jolted away when you got shocked. Eddie reached out for you, resting his hand on your shoulder, “No, it’s okay, that was on me. I got too excited, but oh my god! Eddie! It worked! We got you a working ear!”

You were beaming, felt like you’d cracked the secret of life. And it looked like Eddie was trying to smile at you, corners of his lips pulled up just a tad.

The two of you looked ridiculous, you with your frizzy hair, crown and fairy wand, and Eddie with his electrocuted hairdo, tanning goggles making his bangs look insane and a slightly discolored (actually, it was looking more like his skin tone now, bizarre) ear, with one earring and one hand.

You glanced down at your arm; specifically, at Eddie’s arm resting against it. The one that lacked a hand.

Well, you’d already started.

“I think I know someone who can give you a hand.”

#Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #Freak like me #lisa frankenstein #lisa frankenstein inspo #Zombie!eddie munson #dead!eddie munson #undead!eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson au #Eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson #Steve harrington x reader #eddie munson x black!reader

471 notes · View notes