I CRAVE - Tumblr Posts
Neighborly- Part I
starting a fluffy lil fic inspired by @hereforthepedrofanfic who was kind enough to entrust me with her idea for a story about price and a fat reader. the idea was just so, so delicious i couldn't just do a little drabble or one-shot, so it'll be a multi-part fic of you and your neighbor, john price, slowly getting to know each other over the holidays.
(again, my deepest gratitude for handing me this concept, and having faith that i would do your vision justice.)
A loud crash in your living room wakes you up in the middle of the night, followed by the yowls of your cat, Stuntman Dan. Little shit definitely knocked something over, and it probably needs attended to before you fall asleep and step on broken glass or whatever in the morning. You sigh and force yourself to leave the warm cocoon of your covers, tossing your legs over the edge of the bed, thanking god and your shitass landlords that you have soft carpet to step across and not frigid hardwood. You trudge out of your bedroom and flip on the lights on your path to assess the carnage, squinting into the too bright and too sudden lights as you try to evaluate the damage. Dan is on the couch curled up next to Crab Bucket and Absolutely Not, your other two cats, all acting like nothing is wrong. Liars. Your little potted cactus is on the floor, surrounded by a heap of soil and a broken pot. Could be worse, you suppose, but you still don't appreciate it. Not at this time in the morning, when the sky outside your windows is still black, only slightly illuminated by the light pollution of the city around you reflecting on low clouds.
"I love you guys, but you're all terrible. Just rotten little goblins. Especially you, mister man." You say with love to Stuntman Dan as you gingerly pick up your prickly little plant, scooping up the loose dirt on the floor with your fingers and shoving it all in a coffee mug. It'll just have to do for now, you're not going to wake your neighbors by running a vacuum at ass-o-clock in the morning. You'll just have to hope your trio of small criminals doesn't track dirt all over your apartment before you have the chance to properly clean up.
Gently, you put your displaced little cactus by the kitchen sink, scrubbing a hand over the back of your neck as you debate just making coffee and staying up or going back to bed. Sun'll be up in two, maybe three hours, and your workday will begin not long after that. This might be the only quiet time during your day, what with the holiday rushes coming up at work. You start up the coffee maker, figuring that if you change your mind about sleep you'll just shove the pot in the fridge and drink it iced later. A light from outside turns on and pulls your attention away from sleepily staring at the stain on your kitchen counter.
There's an apartment directly across from yours, located on the other side of a small alley between your two buildings. A man lives there, you've seen him a few times through your kitchen window as you've done dishes. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with a handsome face. Hell of a view, if you're being honest. You'd taken this apartment in desperation, when money was at it's lowest and you needed a place to stay. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine the kinds of perks to living in this place would include hunk sightings. He's turned on his light, moving around sleepily in his kitchen as you observe from your own.
You can't help but watch as your neighbor lumbers around his kitchen in a half-daze, his hair slightly askew as he blinks long and slow to chase away his obvious tiredness while he waits for his kettle to finish boiling water. You can't help but admire the way his plain white shirt stretches across his shoulders, and the way his grey sweatpants seem to strain around thick thighs. The man's a specimen, no two ways about it. You don't know anything about him, really, other than the fact that he drinks tea, lives in your neighborhood, and is extremely attractive. You've never spoken to him, caught his name, or even seen him outside his own kitchen. It's a shame, really, but in an area as rough as yours, it's not the kind of place you go around introducing yourself to the neighbors. Plus he's, y'know, hot, and you're just a fat girl with a dead end job and three cats. Odds are pretty high that you aren't his type anyways. Still, his type or not, it doesn't mean you can't steal a glance or two at him.
In the quiet stillness of early morning, as your kitchen fills with the warm and familiar smell of cheap drip coffee, it almost feels like a holy thing, getting to observe this man in his natural habitat. There's something engaging about watching his shoulder blades move under that tight shirt as he opens and closes cabinets, pulling out a teapot and mug, gently setting them both on the little card table he eats at. His hands are so big, jesus. That mug looks so tiny. It's hard not to stare, really. The combination of watching a handsome man being so painfully domestic as he starts making toast while his tea steeps just outside your window and having fuckall else to look at just makes it too easy to zone out as you idly wonder if his chest is as hairy as his arms. You hope so. Fuck, he looks good. It's hard not to fantasize over having him in your space, moving around each other as your make your preferred versions of hot, liquid caffeine and settling in together to blow at the steam and discuss your day's agenda.
God, you miss being a girlfriend. You're so good at it, too, it's really a shame nobody is taking advantage of your doting and loving nature right now. You'd give anything to have someone to sleep next to, to share your dinners with, to help you cat wrangle. Maybe it's silly to put this kind of pressure on a non-existent partner, but you really do think that having someone around to dote on, and to dote on you in return, would make life a lot more bearable. It's been a couple of years since you've had anything like that, and while you're not at all interested in taking your ex back, you do miss having someone to cuddle with on the couch and split chores with. Maybe you should re-download Tinder. Maybe you should join a singles group. Maybe you should just buy a giant body pillow with a hot celebrity printed on it and save yourself the stress and heartache of Tinder and singles groups.
You wonder what it is that has your neighbor up and about at this time in the morning. It's so damn early, not even the sun is up yet. You wonder if he's got a job with weird hours, or if he's back from a long trip and still dealing with time zones. Maybe he's just a morning person? Or maybe he's got a long drive ahead of him and it trying to get an early start. It's almost fun to sit and hypothesize about this stranger, like a kitchen table Poirot or Columbo, except you don't have the slightest idea what's going on. His apartment seems relatively bare, the only decoration that you can see is a plain analog clock that painfully reminds you that you really ought to be back in bed. Everything else is standard- no photos, no posters, not even refrigerator magnets. Maybe his apartment is just a crash pad? Someplace to sleep in between long business trips or maybe even a place to crash during business trips to the city? You have noticed that sometimes his apartment is dark for weeks on end, maybe he's a pilot or something.
Time passes, enough for your coffee to brew and his tea to steep. You don't even know how long you've been staring out your kitchen window at him, your elbow propped up on your kitchen table with your face resting in your palm. There's a gentle nudge at your leg, which snaps you out of your reverie. Absolutely Not, your beautiful grey tabby hellion queen, is headbutting you, her version of 'pick me up and cuddle me, idiot'. You scoop her up in your arms, and she gives you loud, rumbling purrs as she snuggles against you, rubbing her face against your shoulder as she gets comfortable. What a love sponge. Absolutely Not and her siblings are easily the best and worst thing going in your life right now. Work is a dead-end that barely pays bills and eats up all your time, your friends have mostly all moved away for school and are too busy to text much, and the closest you have to a social life is people watching as you take the bus to and from your job. Every day is monotony, broken up by people getting buckwild on public transportation and your cats doing cute or aggravating things in your small apartment.
"Oh Nottie, what are we gonna do?" You ask the yellow eyed ball of fur in your arms, as if she has the answers to finding a work/life balance that you're not entirely sure is possible. She merely chirps at you in response, an 'I don't know, Mom', if you've ever heard one. You sigh and press her to your cheek, and like the hellion she is, she bats at your nose and squirms to get away like being held was never her idea in the first place. You gently dump her back onto the floor and she trots back off to her siblings, probably to complain about the injustice of being snuggled for half a second longer than she'd wanted.
You scrub at your face as you get to your feet to stare at your coffee pot, deciding whether or not you need the extra few hours of sleep today. You glance back over to your hot neighbor, who's sitting down to sip his toast and drink his tea in the darkness of the early morning. He looks perfectly relaxed, like there's nothing he'd rather be doing before the sun come up than sipping his steaming mug and relaxing in a chair that looks comically small under him.
His head turns, and suddenly he's looking right at you, lifting his mug in greeting with a small smile on his face and a gentle nod. Busted. It's mortifying, really, getting caught like this. Your face heats up, and you bashfully, shamefully raise your hand in greeting before you grab the coffee pot and shove it in the fridge. It wasn't fully done, and you can hear the hiss of dripping coffee evaporate as it hits the hot plate underneath it. He's made up your mind for you, you're going to bury yourself under your covers and try to sleep so you can forget the mortification of a rugged smoke show like him catching you being a bit of a creep. You flip off the lights, pad back to bed, throw the covers over yourself, and yell into the pillow until your nerves settle a bit. Fucking humiliating. You can only hope he chalks it up to early morning sleepy disassociation staring and not the fact that you were definitely, obviously ogling him like a piece of meat. Ugh. You flip onto your side and scrunch up your face, trying to will your embarrassment away enough that you can get a little extra sleep before your day well and truly begins.
NEXT
I'm back in my sally face phase and I'm not finding any sally face fics ☹️ (might as well make some myself 👀✍️)
Ok y’know what
I’m interested in the time Adam got hit by a cannonball
You have a writing request now 👍
:)
——————————————————
The air is warm on the Colony shores, the ocean lapping at the rocks below like reaching hands, ready to claim any blood and flesh that falls into her depths.
The sky is dark, lit with the moon and stars; yet the light is blocked from the grass and sand below, blocked by the smoke of the raging fires that have overtaken the British Outpost.
A young man, a soldier— a redcoat by the name of Arthur— knew this was never expected.
They specifically chose this spot because it was hard to get to without scaling the cliffs facing the ocean at the East, or through the thickets and woods on their West side, and the North and South are barren stretches where they could see any foe for miles.
But, somehow…they were found.
It had been a simple night, a quiet night of joyous songs and beers around the fire. The walls of their outpost are high enough, and the men keeping watch would be able to see anyone who dared approach an outpost of the British Empire.
And then a gunshot.
One of the guardsmen falls over the walls, into the outpost, and Arthur had never seen a man’s blown-through brains before—
Another gunshot, another fallen man, and the General starts yelling. Arthur is a few steps behind getting up, the others already pulling open the doors to their small armory when—
…
Arthur will always remember the screams of his brothers in arms as the armory burst in flame with them inside, crumbling in on itself in a matter of seconds, falling too fast, faster than any other structure should.
He will remember the sound of the nurses screaming, the sounds of bones and skin and flesh ripping, the sound of cries of terror and pain as he finally— finally— moves, snatching up his bayonet—
And he will remember it.
The man.
A man with red-brown hair, tucked into a black tricorne hat with golden edges. He wears black breeches, a black waistcoat with gold buttons, and his black coat has golden trims.
The man is tall, about 6 foot, and while he is not as broad as an ox Arthur can tell the man is built for battle as much as any other soldier.
…
The man’s eyes are green.
Normally, that would not frighten Arthur, but the green is such an eerie shade— a shade that gleams brightly like emeralds in the sun when the blazing fires glitter across his irises.
The man carried a flintlock in one hand, a basket-hilted sword in the other— the hilt glimmering and the blade dripping with the blood that splatters up the side of the man’s face.
The man is smiling.
And Arthur believes that smile is the worst thing he’s ever seen.
Arthur doesn’t know how long he stares into the man’s eerie, gleaming eyes.
It’s like he’s trapped, held still, paralyzed with fear like a mouse before a coiled snake.
And Arthur doesn’t know what gave his fellow soldiers with the idea to load the cannon, but he is just barely able to snap out of it and throw himself to the side to avoid the shot.
It rips through the man’s right side, taking half his chest, the shoulder, and arm with it.
And, to Arthur’s horror, the man does not fall.
He does not waver as his body is ripped through by a solid iron cannonball, and Arthur can’t even hope to look at the injury, his head pounding and eyes glossing away every time he tries to prove to himself that the damage was done and he is not dreaming—
The man’s smiling wider, and Arthur thinks he can see fangs— needle-sharp, too many teeth, the fangs are even longer– and Arthur can feel his mind trying to tear itself apart at the seams when he realizes that is no man.
The things blade, it’s flintlock lost with its arm— its arm that is growing back, it’s body repairing itself as it moves— slices through the bodies of Arthur’s countrymen like an oar through still waters.
It’s graceful, the things body moving in ways no human ever should; fluid and coiling but tense, like a snake ready to strike.
Blood splatters onto Arthur’s face as the thing comes to a stop in front of him.
Arthur can’t move, his eyes locked onto the things face above him as it shifts and warps and—
—————————
Adam Jones stands upon a cliffs-edge, overlooking the sea to the East and a massive forest to the West, with empty terrain to the North and East.
Last night, there had been an outpost here; a British outpost.
There is nothing.
No ash.
No blood.
Nothing.
And no one will ever know there had been.
He smiles.
You know, when I see fictional characters who repress all their emotions, they're usually aloof and very blunt about keeping people at a distance, sometimes to an edgy degree—but what I don't see nearly enough are the emotionally repressed characters who are just…mellow.
Think about it. In real life, the person that's bottling up all their emotions is not the one that's brooding in the corner and snaps at you for trying to befriend them. More often than not, it's that friendly person in your circle who makes easy conversation with you, laughs with you, and listens and gives advice whenever you're upset. But you never see them upset, in fact they seem to have endless patience for you and everything around them—and so you call them their friend, you trust them. And only after months of telling them all your secrets do you realize…
…they've never actually told you anything about themselves.
I wanna do art someone send ideas