FanFiction Friday: Clay Morrow and the Cookie Monster in “Cookies like Crack”

Let’s just get this over with.

Cookies are a little like crack – they’re highly addictive, they lend themselves to cravings, and they can totally lead to death. Still, he can’t bring himself to quit them, not even when his friends – Big Bird, Elmo, Grover, Tellie, and even Oscar the Grouch – conduct an intervention. He needs cookies more than he needs them.

Hmm, I would find fault with this, but the bucket of Oreos I’m eating disagrees.

It’s with a heavy heart that he packs his suitcase with the few belongings that he has, fills a brown paper bag with chocolate chip cookies, and boards an airplane for the west. He’s headed to California, to a land filled with milk and cookies, because a state that rivals Wisconsin for dairy farms has got to have cookies, right?

Flawless logic.

The first thing he notices is that, compared to Sesame Street, there’s a lot of green in California. The second thing he notices is that, for a state that boasts to have so much dairy, there are just way too many health stores for his liking. It isn’t easy for him to find a decent cookie shop, and then the prices are a little out of his reach.

How did Cookie Monster even get to California? Do Muppet’s even understand money? Even if they do, would any of them have any money, let alone Cookie Monster?

He travels some, looks around for a place to call home. He spends some time on the streets – grateful that nights in California are much warmer than they are in New York – before he finds an apartment and a job that doesn’t require him to have a high school degree. Dishwashers don’t get paid a lot, and he ends up picking up a second job working as a bagger at a local grocery store, which makes him a little homesick, because it reminds him of old Mr. Hooper’s place. He doesn’t make much money, but it’s enough to keep him in a small studio, and cookies.

Just try to imagine having this:

Bagging your groceries at Safeway. Or Albertsons, or WalMart. Wherever.

It’s at a little hole-in-the-wall bakery, well outside of L.A., that Cookie Monster first meets Clay Morrow, and the man looks just as down-trodden as he feels. Cookie’s nursing a lukewarm glass of milk, licking the crumbs of a snicker doodle off his fingers, because Mama Rose’s snicker doodles are to die for, and he can’t really afford to waste a single crumb, as the man saunters into the bakery.

Cookie’s lamenting that he’ll have to wait for his next paycheck, an entire week away, before he can get his next cookie fix, when the man takes a seat at the bar next to him. Cookie only notices him because the man looks worse than he feels, like he’s suffering an even greater loss than that of cookies; though Cookie can’t really think of anything worse.


“You want cookie?” the words slip from his mouth, before he fully realizes what he’s said, and his last cookie, for a week, is held out in his trembling hand. He doesn’t really want to give it up, he hopes that the tough-looking man will refuse to take it, and his mouth waters in anticipation of how the cookie will melt on his tongue.

Damn it. I can’t stop laughing. WHY CAN’T I STOP LAUGHING?!

The man turns to stare at him, and Cookie gulps, his eyes going wide as he realizes that this man is no ordinary man, but he’s one of those bad biker types that Maude, who also works at the restaurant he washes dishes for, has warned him about. She’s told him stories about biker gangs that would’ve given Big Bird and Elmo nightmares for months. They always leave Cookie with a need to gorge himself on a package of Chips Ahoy.

Can we please stop with the “cookies are drugs” thing?

Though his heart hammers in his chest, and Cookie’s mouth goes completely dry, his hand resolutely holds his last cookie out to the biker. Why is Cookie doing this? he questions himself. Maybe his friends on Sesame Street were right, and the cookies really are making him sick and messing with his mind.

Or you really want to fuck Ron Perlman. Both are likely scenarios, I suppose. One makes me cry though, and I’m really hoping it’s not that.

But, no, no, cookies not bad, cookies very, very good, Cookie reminds himself, and he glares at his traitorous hand as it shakes, yet continues to betray him.

The big, bad biker looks at him, sighs, and then smiles sadly, plucking the offered cookie from his hand. Cookie just stares at his empty hand, sees black dots dance across his vision and sways a little on his barstool. Me last cookie, he thinks, and he feels shaky.


The man raises the cookie at him in a mock salute, and Cookie watches as the man takes a bite of the cookie. Not a single crumb falls from the man’s lips and Cookie’s a little mesmerized by the way the man’s throat moves when he swallows the bite of chocolate chip goodness.

Cookie watches with rapt attention as his offering slowly disappears. By the time that the man, who has too many tattoos for Cookie to count, finishes swallowing his last bite, Cookie’s mouth is watering, and he’s blinking rapidly.

Cookie’s eyes follow the man’s fingers – thick-skinned and gnarled with age – as he brings them to his mouth, and Cookie doesn’t even realize that he’s leaned forward in his seat until he’s bumping knees with the man, but he stays right where he is and watches. He feels a sudden camaraderie with the man who is so different from himself, when he draws each finger into his mouth, one at a time, to suck off the crumbs which stubbornly cling to them. Though he’s clad in black-leather and denim, Cookie recognizes that the man is no stranger to the fine art of eating cookies.

He shivers when the man reaches across him and grabs Cookie’s forgotten glass of milk, downing it all in one long gulp, wiping the white moustache that it leaves behind with the back of his hand. The smile that the man gives him afterward is a little wider, and Cookie feels like there are gingerbread men dancing in his stomach.

The author is really trying to convince us that Ron Perlman is sexy, aren’t they?

“Thank you,” the man says, offering him a hand, and Cookie takes it, reveling in the rough feel of it.

“Name’s Clay Morrow,” the man says, and he gives Cookie a strange look when Cookie doesn’t release his hand immediately.

“Oh, ah, me Cookie,” he says gruffly, feeling a little embarrassed because he knows that he doesn’t really talk all that well, and then he lets go of the man’s hand and gives him an awkward smile.

“Me going to rape Clay later.”

“Cookie?” the man waggles an eyebrow and chuckles. “You remind me of a friend of mine,” he says, and the gingerbread men settle in Cookie’s stomach.


Cookie works odd shifts which make it almost impossible for him to go to the bakery during the day, and when he is there, though he looks and waits, he doesn’t see Clay. It’s when he’s just about given up hope of ever seeing the other man again, of ever sharing his passion for cookies with someone as passionate as he, that Clay walks into the bakery, looking weary and haggard. And it’s almost like that first time, Cookie offering the man his last savory delight, and the man finishing the remainder of Cookie’s milk.

Unsure of himself, Cookie invites Clay over to his place, to share a plate of cookies and a glass of milk, and, though the biker looks at him strangely, he nods his head and says, “Yeah, that’d be nice.”


The almost nightly cookie binges, though, those don’t start until several months later when Clay’s standing outside his door, barely able to hold himself upright, and Cookie ushers him in, out of the rain. The man’s shivering doesn’t start to ease until Cookie’s gotten him dry and wrapped him up in a blue blanket that Baby Bear had given him before he’d left Sesame Street.

Clay doesn’t say a word, and Cookie doesn’t press. He just offers up a batch of Toll House cookies, straight from the oven, and a glass of milk. And, after the last crumb has been savored, the last drop of milk drank; they both fall asleep – warm, appetites wholly sated – on the couch with Clay’s head resting against the soft, furry expanse of Cookie’s chest, and Cookie’s hand on the man’s shoulder, Baby Bear’s blanket nestled between them.

Why couldn’t this be a rape story? The Romance’s are always worse.

The co-mingling scents of cinnamon and vanilla seep through the crack of the door to Cookie’s apartment and wafted down the hallway. Clay smiles because it means that the monster is baking a fresh batch of cookies. Especially for him. He can’t remember the last time Gemma had done that for him.


He brushes aside the memory of his soon to be ex-wife and raises a hand to knock on the door, recalling at the last minute that he has his own key now and doesn’t need to bother with such formalities any more.

It’s strange, being so at home at Cookie’s place. But, it’s comfortable, and Clay doesn’t have to think about anything. He doesn’t have to pretend, doesn’t have to try to keep ahead of the curb or outsmart anyone. He can be . . . vulnerable, without being afraid that Cookie’s going to use it against him.


They’ve haven’t fucked yet, but Clay thinks he’s ready to take things to the next level as he takes a bite of the snicker doodle that Cookie hands him.

“This is good,” he says, and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the blue furred monster’s cheek.

“Me glad Clay like. New recipe.” Cookie’s speech is simple, but Clay likes that, and his scratchy voice is enough to make Clay hard.

Retiring to the bedroom, with a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk, only seems natural at this point. Clay undresses, hesitantly at first, but Cookie’s soft grunts of excitement, as he watches, are a turn on, and he quickly discards the rest of his clothes and climbs onto the bed.

“Clay want this?” Cookie’s uncertainty goes a long way toward helping push Clay into this; because the fact that the monster asks him if he wants this shows that he cares.

“Yes, Cookie, I want this,” he assures the monster, smiling and raising his ass up in the air.

Cookie shoves a pillow, shaped like a big bird, beneath his hips and Clay sinks down into the pillow and tries to relax. He’s never been on the receiving end of something like this before, and though he’s a little afraid, he trusts the blue fur ball.
When Cookie inserts one of his thick fingers – coated in some kind of cooking oil – into his virgin hole, the stretch burns more than he’d ever imagined it would and he almost begs Cookie to stop. Remembering all the nights he’d awoken to find the sticky evidence of another ‘sweet dream’, Clay simply digs his fingers into the black satin bed sheets a little harder and bites down on the back of his wrist, holding in the bulk of his pained cry.

It should be noted that cooking oil is terrible for anal lube because it can cause the condom to break. But, hey, if you’re going in bare, rock out with your cock out, I suppose.

It hurts like hell at first – truthfully, he feels a little like he’s being impaled by the business end of a baseball bat – but then when Cookie stills, his concerned, albeit gruff voice stiltedly questioning, “Clay okay?” he nods even though it isn’t okay, and he’s grateful when the monster waits until the muscles around his abnormally thick digit relax before he pushes in a little further.

It’s a painstakingly slow process, involving a lot of stop/starts and Clay’s questioning the sanity of his request that Cookie ‘bake’ him. But then the burning, tearing sensation eases and Cookie’s index finger – which is the size of three of a normal person’s fingers – is brushing against his prostate and Clay’s feeling more relaxed, more turned on, than he has in a really long time.

Clay pushes his ass higher into the air, changing the angle just enough so that Cookie has him seeing stars and grunting with the effort of accepting more of the Monster’s slick, furred finger inside of him. Hurt gives way to blinding pleasure as Cookie crooks his finger and palpates Clay’s prostate. Clay’s body finally relaxes, his thighs spreading further apart, giving Cookie greater access and feeling bereft when the finger is withdrawn.
“Clay ready?” Cookie grunts out and Clay nods. He’s a little nervous, uncharacteristically unsure of what to expect when Cookie mounts him and he tenses by instinct when he feels something blunt slipping between his ass cheeks. He has little actual warning from Cookie, just a guttural kind of grunt he thinks must be pleasure, then a sudden thrusting of hips as he’s breached and the sheer size of Cookie surprises him.

Is anyone else Cookie didn’t stick his face in Clays ass and go “Omnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnom!”?

It takes a minute for the sphincter muscles in Clay’s ass to relax and adjust to the considerable size of Cookie’s dick and the Monster’s patient, waiting until he feels the muscles give way before he starts to move inside of Clay. The back of Clay’s wrist bears the brunt of his pain, bruised with his teeth marks.

And it takes more time than it would if he was with Tig or Juice or any ordinary man for the pain to give way to pleasure, but when it does Cookie’s riding him like he’s a fucking bronco, and he’s bucking beneath the monster, uttering shameless begging screams of, “More,” and crying actual tears, biting into his wrist hard enough to draw blood when he comes, his muscles crimping around Cookie’s dick as he stiffens, and spills his seed into the sheets beneath him.
Cookie’s wordless grunts accompany each jerk of his hips, his fingers dig into Clay’s hips, no doubt leaving bruises as evidence of their coupling. By the time he comes with a bone jarring shudder and riding his orgasm out inside of Clay, he’s boneless and utterly incapable of speech – well, what passes as speech for him, anyway. When Cookie pulls out of him with a wet sounding pop, he feels stretched, full and sated in a way that sex with women has never done for him. When Cookie flops down beside him and drapes a soft fuzzy arm over him protectively, Clay sidles closer, savoring the shared heat between them.

And when, instead of the clichéd post-coital cigarette, his unorthodox lover shoves a plate of cinnamony gingersnaps in his direction – the very same plate of cookies which had started all of this in the first place – he doesn’t hesitate to grab a cookie and shove it in his mouth. He turns to face Cookie, his fuzzy secret lover, letting the monster gently lick at the crumbs that linger at the edges of his mouth. And when then they kiss, Cookie tastes of cinnamon and vanilla and Clay can’t get enough of him.
“Clay want more Cookie?” Clay can see the eagerness on his Monster’s furry face.
“No, Cookie, once is enough for tonight.” He sighs, laying his head on his Monster’s soft chest.
His fuzzy brow furrows. “Cookie do something wrong? Cookie hurt Clay?”

“No, Cookie, you did everything right.” He grins up at his fuzzy lover.

“Okay, if Clay say so, me believe you.” Cookie replies with a sigh.

“Hey Cookie?” he asks as he twines his fingers in the soft fur of Cookie’s broad chest.

“Yes, Clay?” His big furry hand glides smoothly up and down Clay’s back drawing random patterns.

“Just…hold me?” The vulnerability rolls off him in waves and Cookie holds him tighter.
“Yeah, me hold you, me hold you long time…maybe forever.”

“And then they both died from a heart attack/diabetes.”

Fuck. My. Life.

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