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mooncakenight · 2 months ago

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GOD SENT THE STORM.

: ̗̀➛ One storm opened the door, and nothing inside her life, or soul, has been quiet since.

A/n: Reader has a son, F!reader, single mother reader, breeding, spit/drool, mating press (rahh), dark imagery, pathetic!remmick, not beta read, I write because it’s fun, not because I’m smart :3

“Fuck! Get in the house now!” A shout erupts from you suddenly, ringing out through the green-tinted sky.

Wind whips against the creaking house, sending your handmade wind chime clattering against the siding. The air is heavy with finality. Trees bend. Birds silent. Your son’s expression slips into childlike terror at the command, and he sprints towards the porch. Red dirt swirls behind him. A storm is coming; it rumbles in the distance, barely contained.

“Go on in, wash up, and close all the windows.” You instruct. Your dress twirls around you as the wind picks up in sharp bursts. Storms out here in the plains were dangerous.

“Okay, mama!” Your son shouts, his tiny fists curled in determination. As if this were a game, a tired smile brushes your lips as he scampers away. The sound of his tiny feet puttering against the wood floor warms you. A small comfort in the midst of chaos.

The house groans beneath the gusts, swaying like an old man in the wind. It was the dead of summer, and storms like this often dragged twisters behind them. That sunk your soul. You’d have to be a fool to think this house could withstand a twister. It could barely stand tall during the worst weather, and you shook your head. Those thoughts served no purpose now; you’d do what you could.

That meant grabbing every old blanket and nailing them over the windows, towels rolled up under doors that sat just a bit too high, and preparing lanterns. Your son tailed behind you, helping when he could. The last thing was to turn on the wooden radio you kept; static pierced the silence, slowly but surely, the weather reports came rolling in.

“Reports of large thunderstorm off the East, locals confirm it could be the storm of the season…”

“What does that mean, Mama?” Your son tilted his head, round eyes peering up at you.

“Means a big storm is on its way, probably in the next few hours…” You murmured, eyes still glued to the radio. The house was washed in flickering orange light with the candle you both had lit. He shifted on his knees, hands clutching his stuffed rabbit.

“Are we gonna die?” His voice so small and soft. You turn to him, hands cupping his chubby cheeks. The last thing you wanted to do, was frighten him.

“No, my love, not at all, we are safe, including Mr. Carrots.” You tease and rub the rabbit's head lovingly. He giggles and playfully ushers your hand away. It was times like these that you needed to realize your son was still so small. He didn’t understand the haste or dangers of the world yet.

Wind licked up against the house again, growing stronger and stronger. One advantage of living so far from town was that you had an open view for miles. If a twister were to come, you’d need to be able to spot it.

“Grab Mr. Carrots, we are gonna keep watch on the porch.” You stood and lifted him up with ease, limited visibility was a death sentence in these situations.

“Just like the fire watch!” He cheers and bolts towards the door, and you nod and unlock it. The screen door flies wildly, and you drag one of the chairs to secure it down.

“Look at the sky, mama!” He points, and your neck cranes up. Ugly clouds twisted like snakes above, and it looked as if it was dusk. No hint of the sun peaking out. Unnerving rumbling shakes the ground ever so slightly. Powerful. Destructive. Terrifying.

“Stay under the porch.” You command. He shuffles back and plops down. His attention was now fixated on discussing the storm with his toy. The sky beckons, and your boots shuffle down the steps. Unable to tear your eyes from the strange cloud formation. It’s hypnotic and ethereal. One would think God himself had come to strike you down.

In that moment, you feel something shift. Quick and subtle. As if the horizon has eyes. Your gaze snaps towards the dirt pasture, searching. Dust hides almost all visibility. Another step forward. There’s no fencing on the border of your land; it’s open and vast. Another step. Something is wrong. The storm brews in the background, but this is different. That’s when your eyes lock onto a stumbling form, the form of a person. Something deep in your gut shifts, like the wind had turned in his direction before you ever saw him.

A step back. Even from here, you can tell he’s injured; his body buckles with each step, knees knocking together as he staggers like something half-dead. You shoot a glance back towards your son on the porch, and he is still engrossed in his rabbit.

“I’ll be right back love, stay there!” You announced. You didn’t want this stranger to get too close to the house, more so your son. Brow furrowed you stride forward,

“Hello? Sorry, Sir, but this is private property!” You shout over the wind, but he doesn’t slow. His movements almost look animalistic as he attempts to shield himself from something.

“Hello?” You try again. He is getting closer, close enough to see the tattered shirt and bloodstained pants. You balk, stunned. His bloodied face now in view, his eye swollen shut. He smells burnt, charred marks blooming on his skin. The scent makes your stomach slosh.

“Oh my god! Are you alright?” You gasp, hands hovering over your mouth. Never had you seen such carnage on a person. The stranger is no more than a few feet away before he collapses. His breathing sounds like it hurts, each rasp puffs the dirt smushed against his face.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You hiss, another glance back, your son stands by the porch stairs, puzzled. You groan and bend down to haul this man against you. The stench on him makes you gag; his deadweight arms rest against your neck. The storm is building in strength, and fat raindrops start their rapid descent. You’re soaked through your dress once you reach the door, your son bouncing on his heels at the stranger. It’s not often you have someone new around after all.

“Go get the first aid kit.” You nod to him and he darts off. Grunting, you push him off you and onto the sofa. He lands with a pained groan, and you wince. Perhaps you could be a bit more gentle.

“I got it, Mama!” You shush him and crack open the metal box. Gauze and aloe would be all you could offer at the moment; pain medicine was expensive.

“You gotta stay quiet, love, the man is hurtin’.” You rip off a chunk of gauze with your teeth, setting to work on his arms and upper body. Your son nods in understanding, carefully watching as you lift the stranger up.

Another groan. He doesn’t seem conscious, which does make this next part easier. You soak a rag in alcohol and press it to the gash on his face. He jerks, fists curling tight, teeth flashing in a silent snarl.

“I’m sorry…” You murmur, as painful as this was, infection would be much more brutal. Patching him is methodical, and you fall into the easy hum of moving and shifting him. Before long, he looks alive once more, so you leave him to rest and start dinner. The storm has morphed into a heavy downpour and howling winds, and your son shifts closer to your legs.

“Don’t worry, love.” You pat his head, but even you can’t hide the nervous glances towards the windows. Night twisters were something out of a nightmare; you prayed to whoever would listen to spare your home.

Tonight was stew, comforting and warm. A stark contrast to the flood beginning at your doorstep. About two hours had passed since the man lay on your sofa, and he had yet to move. Paranoia had you checking his pulse every twenty minutes to make sure he was even still breathing. You decided on rousing him up for dinner, who knows how long it had been since he ate?

Your son sits at the table, hands clasped in grace, before he practically attacks the stew. You shook your head and headed into the living room. The stew’s steam curls into your face as you carry a bowl toward the stranger, who still hasn’t stirred. He looked so peaceful, handsome too, without all that gore on him.

“Sir?” You whispered. Shaking him might hurt him further, you frowned. Not even a twitch in his face, you checked his pulse once more. Very much alive.

“Sir, wake up. Please.” You nearly pleaded. At last, he stirred, groaning as he threw a bandaged arm over his face. Relief bled into your limbs, your shoulders sagging with a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His lips moved faintly, but no sound came. For a moment, you weren’t sure if he even knew where he was.

“Oh thank God, thought we might’ve lost ya,” you breathe, stepping back as he adjusts to the stiffness in his limbs.

With a grunt of exertion, the man slowly sits upright. Silence settles between you like a weight. He blinks hard, eyes scanning the room in jerky motions, head on a swivel. You shift on your feet, nerves buzzing. You’d be confused too, waking up bandaged in a stranger’s living room.

“You collapsed on my property. Your skin was… sizzling.”

Why does your voice sound so thin? You feel like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Finally, his eyes land on you, really land on you. Like he’s just now realizing you’re there.

“W-why?” He rasps. Voice as rough as dried gravel.

“Why?” you echo, taken aback.

“I couldn’t leave you out there. You’d have died,” you say simply. It comes out matter-of-fact, though your hands are still clenched at your sides. The lack of empathy was rampant in this world, still, his confusion surprised you.

He doesn’t respond, just presses his cracked lips into a hard line, gaze dragging slowly over you. Not like a man taking you in, but like someone still deciding if you’re real.

“That aside,” you say, voice steadier now, “I made you dinner. To get your strength back and all.”

You push the bowl toward him. He doesn’t take it. He just stares.

“You’re not scared of me,” he says, more a statement than a question.

You hesitate.

“Should I be?”

“I don’t know…” he breathes, eyes unfocused, as if the answer could be hiding somewhere inside him.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die on your tongue.

“Mama! Did he wake up yet?”

The elated squeal cuts through the air like a crack of thunder. The man’s eyes go wide; his head snaps toward the kitchen with almost inhuman speed. Your son bursts into the room, eyes alight when he spots the man. He bounds across the floor and wraps himself around your thigh, peeking out with a sudden shyness that warms your chest.

“Yes, love,” you hum, smoothing a hand over his hair, “but he’s still quite tired.”

The man blanches. His already pale skin turns ashen.

“Y-you have a child?” he asks, voice tight.

You frown at the question, but your son answers before you can.

“Yes! And I’m five!” he beams, holding up five fingers and waving them proudly at the man.

The man nods stiffly, his gaze flickering between you and the boy. Instinctively, you curl a protective arm around your son. The man notices. His jaw flexes, and then, slowly, he gives you a subtle nod.

“It’s twister weather out there,” you say evenly, your eyes watching his every twitch. “You can leave once the storm dies down.”

Another nod. Then finally, he looks down at the cooling bowl in his lap.

“Thank you for this, ma’am,” he murmurs.

His voice is gruff, unsteady, like he’s afraid one wrong move might shatter the fragile peace between you. His voice is gruff, unsteady—like one wrong move might shatter the fragile peace between you. You break your trance to usher your son upstairs.

“Go on and wash up. And don’t sit in the bath too long, there’s lightning,” you warn softly.

He giggles and bounds up the stairs, little feet thudding against the wood.

The moment he’s gone, it’s as if the light’s been sucked from the room entirely. Tension stretches thin between you. You shift your weight and finally speak.

“What’s your name?” Arms crossed, you lift a brow. Expecting something.

“Remmick, ma’am,” he drawls.

His voice rasps low, the syllables curling around your ears. You nod to yourself, tasting the name.

“Remmick,” you echo. You swear he stiffens just slightly at the sound of it in your mouth.

“Well, you can just keep callin’ me ma’am, since you’re so polite,” you tease, attempting to lift the heaviness with a touch of humor.

But he gives you nothing. Just stares. Blank, unreadable. You deflate a little. Maybe he’s not the humorous type.

“Is he yours?”

—“Who?” You tilt your head, eyes searching his face.

“The boy.”

As if he can’t quite understand the concept. A short airy laugh escapes you and you nod.

“Yes, he’s mine, through and through.” Amusement obvious in your response. A strange question from a strange man. It was almost as if children were foreign to him.

“And, his father…?” The question is softer now, less sure. Your gaze instantly hardens and your jaw clenches ever so slightly.

“Gone, good riddance.” You mutter quietly. Your son’s father was nothing more than some crime-obsessed lackey. Screwing over anyone and anything to get ahead. He was the reason you had to live so frugally, since it was just you providing now. Remmick watched a thousand emotions dance across your face as memories resurfaced.

“Shame, my apologies for that, honest.” His face is so open all of a sudden, raw sympathy practically painted on it. It’s jarring considering he’d been so unsure of himself moments ago.

“No need for that. We’re fine on our own,” you reply, voice firm. Not unkind, but clipped. You don’t accept pity. Not anymore. He nods briefly before leaning down to lift the shaking spoon to his lips. You take it upon yourself to head towards the kitchen.

“Place your bowl in the sink once you’re done, Remmick.” Your mouth cradles his name once again, and you don’t turn around to see his reaction.

You finish with the last dish as Remmick shuffles into the kitchen. His footfalls sound so strange against your floor. He sheepishly brings it to the counter beside you, unsure of where exactly to set it. Suds cover your arms, and you grab it from his shaking hands.

“You’ll sleep downstairs tonight, alright?” You eye him, and he only nods. You knew you wouldn’t be sleeping much anyway, not with an unknown man in the house. Once you finish up, as if on cue, your son sprints downstairs to greet you both.

Remmick practically jumps out of his skin at the sound, and you snort. Quite scared for such a built man, with that notion your eyes slide over to his defined chest. He look sturdy, hands rough with use, he was definitely capable.

“You feelin’ better sir?” The boy drawls, grin as wide as can be. Remmick nods down at him.

“Much, thanks to you mama…” His reply sends a brief liquid heat through your veins. You cough out a hoarse laugh.

“Was nothing…” You wave him off and reach around to undo your apron. The boy jumps forward, ever so eager.

“So, do you like rabbits? This is Mr. Carrots, and he is-“ You raise a hand, halting his excitement.

“Now, love, it’s well past your bedtime, you best be going upstairs now, I’ll come tuck you in.” You hum, voice now like honey. The boy nods and steps towards Remmick, his small arm reaching out to hand him his prized Mr. Carrots.

“Since you’re new in the house, you can sleep with Mr. Carrots tonight.” He smiles up at Remmick as if the man hung the stars. A pang shoots through you; the lack of a father really does leave a wound, perhaps a wound your son didn’t even understand yet. You shift, eyeing Remmick.

“Ah, well then, I’ll be sure to take good care of him.” He nods to the boy, those large hands gently gripping the stuffed rabbit.

“Goodnight, sir!” With that, he’s gone like the wind, off to his bedroom. An awkward laugh leaves you. Remmick still stares down at the soft toy in his hands. He cradles it as if it’s the most precious thing on Earth.

“He’s just very excited to see a new face.” You say softly, heart still aching. He nods in agreement and finally looks up to you. The rabbit stays in his grip like something holy. You wonder if anyone’s ever handed him anything so soft before.

“Well, I’m gonna go tuck him in, I’ll be back down to make the sofa comfortable for you.” It’s slightly awkward, so much unsaid. With that, you rush upstairs desperate for air. Air that is suffocating with unruffled tension.

By the time you enter his room, he’s fast asleep. Soft snores contrast with the rumbling thunder outside, and you smile. With a kiss on his tiny head, you softly shut the door and leave him to dream. Which leaves you with Remmick, and why does that make your chest hurt? Once you descend the stairs, you find him staring at one of the photos framed on the wall. You inhale, it’s a photo of your ex-husband and both of you, a family.

“You looked so happy.” He murmurs. You almost turn away it fight against it, some wounds never heal right.

“Yeah, he likes me to keep that photo up, waiting for the day his daddy shows back up.” The words feel bitter and heavy. Remmick finally turns back to you, the flicker of candle light dancing across his form.

“You’re a good woman.” It’s a statement, firm and unrelenting and it makes your breath hitch. Never had you ever heard that from another mouth.

“I-“ A crack of thunder interrupts you. He shifts closer, and suddenly you take notice that his various burns are nearly gone. You blink.

“Y-your skin-“

“Is the boy asleep?” His voice is tight, almost sharp. You nod dumbly, unable to voice everything flooding through your mind right now.

“When’s the last time you had someone care for you, the way you do for others?” Your mouth is instantly gravel dry. The change in his demeanor gives you yet another case of whiplash. He steps forward. You step back.

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Your resolve is shaky, voice cracking where it shouldn’t.

“Yeah?” He taunts. Another step forward. He moves like a man, but something about it isn’t right. Too smooth. Too quiet. Like something remembering how to be human. An imitation of what once was.

“Remmick…” You don’t know why, but a whimper escapes your lips, a primal instinct overcoming you as he towers above. When did he get so close?

He hums at the sound of his name, eyes fluttering shut, as if savoring it. His breath is ragged. Loud. He leans in, and the wall behind you seals your escape. You’re trapped. Caged by his presence. Then he scents you. It’s vile, how your thighs clench. A betrayal. It’s almost as if he can smell the heat blooming there, knows what your body is doing without permission. A drop hits your cheek.

You freeze.

Slowly, you tilt your face upward. A thick string of drool dangles from the corner of his mouth. It glistens in the flickering light. You choke on a gasp. The whites of his eyes are nearly swallowed completely, and before you can truly peer into them, he’s on you.

His clawed hand twists in your hair, gripping your head back. A pained gasp leaves your lips, stretching your neck and exposing it. It's too much; it has you trembling. It's not human how he dips down, brushing his nose against the soft hollow of your skin. He heaves next to your ear, tingling bursts along your raised flesh.

"Remmick- please..." A plea for what, you aren't sure. Mercy. He chokes out a moan at the sound, completely hollow. Monstrous. You can't deny the fear that trembles from within you. There is so much more to this quiet man, so much bubbling beneath the surface, it's maddening.

"I-" A wet gargle rips from his throat, torn between monster and man. “I don’t just want to fuck you, I want to consume you. Mind, body, soul. I want your moans, your blood, your breath. All of it inside me.”

Heart thundering against your ribs, you say nothing. Rendered speechless. A clawed finger taps against the curve of your cheek, almost the beat of an unheard song. Your mind flashes to your son sleeping peacefully upstairs. You pray to God he doesn't wander downstairs.

“Say you’ll let me in,” he murmurs, voice shredded by desire. “Your cunt already has.”

You attempt to shake your head, anything to deny the burning truth slipping off his forked tongue. But he knew better; he could feel how you clenched around nothing, fluttering open for him.

“Perverse little thing.” He taunts, you flinch and try to twist away, but it only tightens. The tips of his claws make small punctures in your pressed cheeks.

Something must have possessed you, because before you realize you're nodding. Giving in to the sickness invading your mind, and Remmick couldn't be prouder.

❈────────•✦•────────❈

It all happened so fast, one moment you were standing, then suddenly you were locked into the meanest mating press of your life. Legs flailing uselessly over his bent arms, his hand pressed tightly against your mouth. Anything to silence the raw whines humming in your throat.

"Yes-" Remmick repeats it like a mantra, just barely audible over the squelch of your cunt. Calloused hands gripping your thighs like a vice, as if he couldn't get any deeper.

Oh, he was absolutely ruined, his jaw slack as he stared down at you half-lidded. You sweat, slick back sliding on the wood flooring with each powerful thrust.

"F-fuck-" He breathes shakily.

Push after push. You're nearly choking on your release, mouth still clasped behind his palm. But he never slowed, only faltered slightly with each clench. You wanted to scream, wanted to sob, it was too much. Your brain felt melted, as if it was going to leak out of your ears. He kept you quiet, though; only the sound of rolling thunder filled the house. You hadn't even realized he had moved you deeper into the house, further away from the upstairs.

Your walls flutter, the end creeping up through your toes. Something in him twitches, he gasps- he whines. Desperation was hot on his lolling tongue. He drives into you, chasing that release. He's ravenous, starved for the feeling of touch. Without warning, you arch. Lifting off the floor and into his clothed chest. Ecstasy curling through every vein and you cunt floods, his jagged thrusts growing sloppy. His tip is digging at your cervix as you convulse.

"Tell me no." He spits out, his teeth looking sharper than before. Tears stream down your cheeks, covering his hand in salty wetness. You shake your head, still unable to make a sound. He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Hah—fuck, tell me no, p-please…” he whimpers, stuttering mid-thrust, his control crumbling as he teeters on the edge. You clench your thighs, nodding dumbly. A strike of lightning illuminates the house, and almost as if on cue, he bursts within you. Warmth floods throughout your lower stomach; it's intoxicating. It's rough as he attempts to mindlessly fuck you through it. A thick rope of drool slips past his lips, trailing toward yours. You part them instinctively, letting it coat your tongue, shameful and sacred all at once.

Something outside crashes and you assume the storm has finally come. It takes a miracle for you to keep your eyes open, your head lolling side to side against the floor in exhaustion. Heaviness settles into your bones. You feel him retract himself from you, before leaning down to nudge at your face. Why can’t you stay awake? It’s almost as if he’d sucked the life from you.

“I won’t ruin what you have…” he whispers.

You catch the words, faint and far away, but they slip through your fingers as your mind begins to unravel. A pause settles, and suddenly you feel cold. Empty. The air has snapped back into whatever familiarity you are used to. You succumb to the blackness clouding your mind.

❈────────•✦•────────❈

Dawn is peeking past the nailed up blankets when you wake up, you shoot up like a bullet, still naked as the day you were born. You’re on the sofa, bare, sore, and hollow.

Memories wash over you and you jerk around looking for Remmick.

Remmick.

The house is still, just as it is every morning. Your soul tells you he’s gone. There’s no reason to search. It’s too much to early for your son to be awake, you pull yourself from the sofa to get properly dressed. Your limbs heavy as lead.

Why do you feel so sad?

It wasn’t like you knew that man, he was a stranger. At the same time, he made you feel so wanted it hurt. A small reprieve from the demand of your life, and it was addicting. It had been so long since a man had come and swept you up, bending you to his will.

He fucked like he loved you, and you knew to keep a small part of it tucked in your heart. You soak in the aching echo he left behind, letting it lull you as you slip on a loose nightdress. It flutters at your ankles, ghostly, like the emptiness humming in your chest.

As you step onto the porch, the boards creak beneath your bare feet, damp with the kiss of last night’s storm. The wind has softened, though it still carries the faint scent of scorched wood. Strange. A fire after a storm like this? You shake it off and turn to head back inside, but something catches your eye. Resting on one of the chairs, tucked neatly against the corner, Is Mr. Carrots. The stuffed rabbit your son had given him, the toy he had held like it was something holy. Dry and untouched by rain. You frown and pick it up with apprehension, why did he leave it outside? Your gaze turns towards the empty horizon, something tugging at your gut.

Was this a promise he’d be back? But before you a dwell on the thought, the soft pitter patter of small feet echo through the living room.

“Mama?” A sleepy voice calls out, you turn back and bring the soft toy inside.

“Good morning, my love.” You smile warmly, bringing your lips to the top of his head. The boy rubs his eyes, looking around.

“Where’d he go?” He asks, and you give a tight smile.

“He had to go back home, sweetie.” You say gently, his face falls and he huffs. It hurts you to see him disappointed, so you bend down and lift his chin with your finger.

“Hey, why don’t we go into town tomorrow, I’ll get you any candy you want.” Your words playful in an attempt to lighten his mood. He gasps, attention instantly diverted.

“Yes! Thank you, Mama!” He cheers. Standing back up, you clap your hands, almost as if to dispel the lingering heaviness.

“Now,” you say with a playful firmness, ruffling his hair, “let’s get started on breakfast.”

He squeals in delight, already dashing toward the kitchen, bare feet thumping against the floor. It’s almost as if everything is normal. But deep in your chest, something stirs, like a shadow refusing to be burned away by the sun. Even as you serve pancakes, finish cleaning up the yard, and tackle the laundry, your chest stirs. Unsettled by the longing in your chest, you feel dazed. As if some part of you had been touched from within, claimed and hollow, waiting for someone that may never return.

Night comes upon your house like a damp blanket. It drizzles from the sky wetting the Earth ad you hung laundry. To which you scowl at from the kitchen window. You’d just have to it again tomorrow morning. Dinner had already been served, porridge tonight. You turned on the radio, soft music fills the house, anything to overshadow the ringing silence. Your son had gone up to play in his room, deeming that Mr. Carrots felt lonely without his other toys. So that left you, sitting in a chair, looking lost in your own home.

A sudden knock jolts you upright.

Three slow, deliberate raps against the door.

You freeze. The music continues to hum softly behind you, but it sounds distant now — warped, like it’s underwater. You know, you know it’s him just from the heaviness of his knock. Your hands curl against the fabric of your dress, damp from dishwater and nerves alike. Slowly, you rise from your seat. Another knock — quicker this time, edged with impatience. You step towards the door, each step weighed with dread and yearning. He’s back. Just before your fingers grace the knob, you hear it. That voice. Low. Throaty. Possessive.

“…Open the door angel.”

It sends shock waves through your core, your hand still latched onto the knob, unmoving. The sound tears through you, a shockwave that leaves your breath shallow. Your hand stays frozen on the handle, trembling. He wasn’t entirely human, you knew that much. Yet, his voice calls to you like a siren.

Pressing the knob, you open the door abruptly. There he is. Tall. Brooding. Whole. Not a single mark on him. He looks…untouched by the world, untouched by the night he left you in pieces. You make no move from the door, no space for him to slip in.

He smiles down at you, head tilted, something sly dancing in his eyes. “I’m home,” he breathes, like a joke wrapped in velvet.

And just like that, the heat blooms behind your eyes. Anger flares sharp and electric across your face. You scowl, lips tight, every muscle screaming not to let him see how much you missed him. But you know better, how he can practically taste your emotions.

“Home?” You echo. Voice hollow and tense. “You think you can just run off, tear me open, and then waltz back here like some stray mutt scratchin’ at the door?”

That lands.

He falters.

The confidence in his stance stumbles, like he didn’t anticipate this part. You let out a bitter, humorless laugh. You’re not finished. Not even close.

“I took you in. I stitched you back together. And don’t even get me started on how you look perfectly healed now. Not a damn scar on you.”You’re breathless by the end, rage and heartbreak boiling too close to the surface. It shakes you.

He says nothing at first. Just stands there, the rain beginning to dot his shoulders, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He looks smaller somehow, not physically, but emotionally stripped. His mouth opens once, then closes again, like words have abandoned him.

“I didn’t want to…” He swallows. “Leave.” As if speaking pained him, his voice cracks on the end. Your hands shift to your hips, you watch him struggle for air.

“I didn’t know what I’d do if I stayed.” Low and hoarse. Your anger wobbles, his words striking a chord inside you. He laughs once, a dry, broken sound.

“But somehow I found myself back at your doorstep.” His gaze drags upward, meeting yours, and for a split second, something monstrous flashes behind his eyes, not rage, but desperation.

“And as selfish as it is, I want to come inside.” He breathes.

Everything he has, is laid before you. Your hand slips off the door knob, hands limp by your side. Your resolve had crumbled like paper within his grasp, his words tightening around like a vice. He takes a single step forward. The rain has slicked his hair to his forehead, but he pays it no mind. The tips of his boots toe the threshold of the door.

“I’m not good.” He says, voice wet. “You know that, you’ve seen it.” He leans forward, pressing closer.

“You’ve undone me, wakened something inside me that’s been quiet for life times.” His lip trembles, then stills. “Let me come in. I won’t ask for forgiveness. I just… I want to belong somewhere again. Even if it’s only for tonight.”

What more could you say? His words tasted like honey on your tongue, you were both parched for something. Desperate for partnership, connection, and touch. Opening the door felt right, his heavy boots echoing in the warmth of your home. It all felt right. You didn’t know what he was, you didn’t ask. He was gentle with you, easy in the presence of your son.

Never pushing too much. He would vanish here and there, and the first time had been for three days. Once he dragged himself back home, you sobbed angrily, hitting your fists into his solid chest. Slowly but surely it became a thing of habit, he’d leave, return with gifts, and a few splatters of blood on his clothes.

Tonight was one of those nights, he had left before the sun peeked over the horizon. However, it was late into the darkness now, the bed felt emptier. He should’ve been home by now. Tossing and turning, you couldn’t relax. Outside, the rain tapers to a soft drizzle and you can’t take it anymore. You throw your legs over the side of the bed and quietly creep past your son’s bedroom. Making sure to avoid the stairs that creak the loudest.

Padding through the house, you find him sitting at the kitchen table. Shirtless. Elbows braced against his knees. Blood stains the tips of his fingers, and his eyes are distant, glowing faintly in the dim light. Another thing you don’t ask about. He doesn’t look up as he speaks. Empty and hushed.

“I tried not to be what I am tonight.” A shaky breath. “But something out there was hunting. Something worse than me. And I had to meet it.”He finally glances at you, a smear of red along his jaw.

“It won’t come near this house again.”

You believe him. Silently grabbing a wash rag and cleaning him up, no questions asked.

This, whatever this was, protected you. Cared unconditionally for both you and your son, there’s nothing more you could ask for.

Fic playlist:

#remmick #remmick fanfic #remmick sinners #remmick x reader #x reader #fanfic #remmick smut #vampire #pathetic remmick #f!reader #remmick x y/n #remmick x you #mooncakewrites #Spotify

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starshipsofstarlord · 2 months ago

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like rabbits | young!daryl dixon

summary. merle is humanised by his strict and overwhelming tentativeness of protecting his younger brother daryl and his girlfriend in the outbreak. but they are less helpful around the camp as they have other priorities with what to spend their time on… and others accidentally notice that too (5.3k)

warnings. smut 18+ mdni, daryl and reader are 18/18+ in this fic, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, pull out method, fingering, handjob, a pattern of people walking in on them, oral (male receiving), mentions of death and abuse and drugs, alcohol consumption, arguing, swearing, young!daryl au

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

Merle barked a laugh as he socialised around the singeing yet controlled campfire that Shane had set up, one of his last beers in his hand as he was met with gruntled expressions. “We migh’ as well shack up, ay blondie, it’s the end of the fuckin’ world.” Andrea was not impressed as she wrapped her arm around her younger sister Amy, wanting the drunkard to stop his crudity. The light of the hungry flames licked his face; it was the only positive attention that was being deposited to him. The likeness Shane and Dale had of the old dealer was thinning, the only reason they had allowed him into their survivalist ranks was not for him; it was for the kids that were currently holed up in their aligned tent.

“You’re a pig Merle.” Andrea bit back, only humouring the intoxicated redneck further. Everyone was tired of this same old bullshit that spewed from Merle’s lips, he was rude and foul mouthed, he even slurred curses that most of them had never heard spoken aloud. But as foolish as his addicted actions were, he could be useful in some ways, even as defiantly slim as that list was. He was useful as additional muscle to a team out for a run, he had no problems or qualms when it came to killing the walkers, he would pierce their mindless brains until they fell down and became motionlessly dead, being nothing more than carcasses of the already deceased.

They had the pariah to judge him, they all thought they were better than him due to the fact that none of them chose to voice the indignant truth; the world was prepared to crash and burn, and they would all die in the bitter aftermath. None of them were even slightly special, the playing field was now balanced and there was no social ladder in which they were above him. But he didn’t act tough and protective for himself, no, it was for his little brother Daryl and the girl that had his brother wrapped around her finger. Prior to the turmoil outbreak, they had each been in a terrible situation, and it was all down to the people that had brought them into the world that had already been difficult even in those days.

Mr Dixon and Mr Y/L/N had been old friends, their past throwing back to their high school days, before either of them dropped out of course. Neither one had any adoration for the offspring that they enforced to struggle through their livelihoods, they were selfish and addicted to inflicting harm to the younger generations of their tainted bloodlines. Merle had escaped the physical wrath, leaving Daryl abandoned with the villainous figure of their father, occasionally he would drop by the Y/L/N household to earn himself some quick influx of cash, knowing that the man residing within could never justify rejecting something that made him trigger happy.

But as soon as the unexpected broadcast flooded the television and radio channels of a dwelt illness that reanimated the dead and passed onto those living, Merle returned to the dreaded place where he had grown up. He had been dealt his fair share of misery long before Daryl was birthed into the world, he had scars too, the difference was however was that he was not ashamed of them. He did not care for the quality that his body was in, hence why he had induced himself with the precipitation of illegal drugs, skyrocketing through a high that helped him in forgetting the terrible things that he had bared witness to in his youth.

“Whatever prude," Merle's bite back, fighting off his own shallow insecurities that he swallowed down to hoard in the pit of his drug digesting stomach, knowledgeable that he would be going to rest alone without the sweet touch of a woman to daunt his mind with calmness. He hurled out a glob of saliva from his mouth, the pool of spit and alcohol landing with spite on the ground as he stalked away from the other survivors, relieved to finally be departing from them. They were a bunch of asses anyways, Merle thought, shaking his head at them on their high horses, looking down their noses at him. There were only two souls in the camp that he actually liked, and none of them were bestowed with that rare gift.

Giggles fell from your lips as you relished in the feeling of Daryl’s lips pressing with frantic need against your neck, making your head lull backwards with the rush of pleasure as his hand roamed around beneath the confines of your jeans and underwear. It was nighttime, the others that habited the makeshift camp would either be asleep in their own tents or huddled around the fire that they often set up close to the RV. It had given the two of you a chance to spend some time together alone, and with intimacy. The both of you often hunted together, leaving the rows of salvaged tents to journey into the thick of the woods, mostly catching small prey like squirrels and rabbits if you were lucky.

As much as you would have liked to, there was no chance of you fucking out in the open wild; Daryl would not allow it, knowing that there was a large risk of the undead stumbling upon you fornicating. The last thing he wanted was to allow your life to be at risk, and whilst he didn’t shelter you, he did all he could to protect you, even in spite of your ability to aim his crossbow and shoot a shotgun. It was logical of course, dwindling the chance of getting caught off guard by the leering undead, but the thought still turned you on.

“Ya like tha’?” Daryl preened you for reassurance as he slipped a finger into your slick and welcoming walls, your answer being a gasp that uncontrollably left your mouth. He was so fucking good with his fingers, and he didn’t even know it. After all the times he had made you cum, you would have expected him to be aware, but not only did he require confirmation, he wanted you to admit that he was pleasuring you. It did something to his brain, circuiting it into an arousal pledged satisfaction, simply from hearing his name or a defining ‘yes’ fall benevolently from your lips. And so your mouth murmured his name, stifling the volume that it wished to be spoken at, for the sake of not drawing in the curiosity of walkers or your fellow survivors.

He began to suckle deeper on your flesh, bringing the blood beneath to the surface, ensuring that there would be bruises left after his lips had dislodged. Your head rolled back, eyes closing from the addictive satisfaction that he gifted your body, hips lifting without shame towards the press of his fingers, forcing them bury deeper within your tight walls. If there was no threat to your lives by doing so, you would constantly remain in this tent, with your bodies colliding in a desperate passion that brought an amorously filled ecstasy to both of you. He shushed you, withdrawing his lips and moving them onto your mouth, teasingly biting your lip as he watched you unfold into bliss because of him.

“Fuck me. Ya two practicin’ fer a kid or somethin’? ‘Cause if you are, that ain’t how ya do it.” Daryl and you shot apart, faces warm from embarrassment as Merle stood in the opening of the tent that neither one of you had heard be unzipped, and your boyfriend retracted his hand from beneath your jeans and panties, subtly bringing it to lay down beside him and away from his brother’s gaze. Your breath was laboured, and you knew that it was obvious to anyone that could see you that you had endured the highs of an orgasm. After the shock wore from Daryl he scowled and rolled his blue eyes at Merle, visibly pissed off for the uncalled for interruption.

“Don’ ya know how ta knock?” Daryl barked with evident irritation in his tone, glaring at his only sibling. Whilst he was grateful for all Merle had done to ensure that he and you survived thus far into the outbreak, it was all forgotten in the present, for he had ultimately not been thinking with his mind and instead a far different part of his body. He’d just been getting started in his eyes, Daryl had anticipated to make you cum and cum again until you finally drifted off into a noiseless sleep that did not consist of the nightmares that the walkers had sprung into your mind. It was not only a distraction, but a show of his strong affection, and that opportunity had now been diminished thanks to the unwelcome intrusion.

“One problem there little brother is there ain’t any doors.” Smart ass Merle, you thought, although you could not meet his eyes as he chuckled at the antics of the pair of you. Merle would not admit it, but his decision to find you both had been out of concern, he wanted to check on you and make sure you were within the safest vicinity that you could be for now; the camp. He was relieved that you both were, but he could never miss an opportunity at teasing Daryl, it was far too enjoyable for him to rile up his brother. “Though ya been knockin’ the wind outta that girl, yer fuckin’ like yer gonna die tomorrow. Ya okay there Y/N/N?”

The attention that Merle had drawn towards you made you shuffle nervously atop of the sleeping bag, and from your embarrassment Daryl’s anger only increased. His nostrils flared in rage, his eyebrows lowering in a firm frown that was aimed at none other than Merle. He too felt embarrassed, having evaded his brother walking in for so long, and finally it had happened all on its own. The two of you had presumed that Merle would spend a longer amount of time by the fire where it was warm, whilst you and Daryl shared each other’s body heat, and that afterwards Merle would return to his own tent beside yours. How wrong you had been. “Get the fuck out Merle.”

Daryl was practically seething, causing his brother to laugh harder, clutching his stomach as though his amusement brought him pain. His face was red as he chortled, and he waved his hand towards you both, as though his the blame for his laughter was on you, and it was without intention. “Okay, okay.” Merle steadied himself, reaching for the zipper of the tent as he stepped back onto the grass. “You crazy kids have fun, don’t do nothin’ I wouldn’t.” He sent his brother a wink that made you shiver, and he finally closed the partition to the outdoors, leaving Daryl and you in one another’s presence once more.

“He definitely killed the mood, didn’ he?” You didn’t even need to answer him, it was transparent that the mood was beyond dead, and you shuffled around on the sleeping bag that was somehow large enough for the pair of you to share, slipping into it and reaching for the travel lamp as Daryl slipped in behind you, his hands holding your body as he sighed from the frustration that boiled within him. He closed his eyes, wishing to erase the event from the timeline, but it was impossible. If only his damning brother had not interrupted, then neither of you would be going to bed with a hunger that had been off out by the careless intrusion.

Glenn was not that much older than you and Daryl, a couple of years you supposed, and you liked the young man that had previously attained the job of a pizza boy and got along with him well. He was kind unlike many others seemed in the camp, and he was startled as Shane grabbed his arm, pulling him to the side, looking at him expectedly. He hadn’t long returned from a run, so he supposed the reason for being leered at had something to do with that, though his expectations were befallen when Shane spoke. “You seen Y/N? She’s not with the other women?”

Ah yes, the misogynistic duty that was reserved for the ladies of the camp, washing the dirtied clothes in the nearby lake. If things were not in order the older man did not like it, he had to ensure that things within the band of survivors ran swiftly since he had taken on the role of leader that had entailed no vote to sanction him in such a position. Glenn shook his head, pursing his lips, though he had witnessed you scatter silently across the camp without a word exchanged. You had simply nodded at him in a passing greeting, for some reason excitement affecting your speed. The last thing your friendly acquaintance wanted was to piss him off, and the glare he received for his denial was invoking.

It made him think that if something happened to you amidst escorting yourself into the woods, then the fault would be on him. He didn’t want anything to happen to you and keeping the truth to himself could potentially bring you the consequences of harm or death. You seemed as though you could take care of yourself, but no one truly knew what extent to. The knowledge that you had endured the hardship of living amongst the difficult town alongside Daryl and Merle was common, and you would go out hunting with the two of them, but Glenn had never seen you handle yourself against walkers. No one except the brothers had, and that was what concerned him most, especially considering both of the Dixons refused your company on runs, claiming that it was for your safety.

From Shane’s endless glowering, Glenn gulped, inadvertently gulping and readying his breath to speak. “She went out there.” Glenn’s hand pointed beyond the trees, the lush green leaves motionless for there was no breeze that whisked through the air, and Shane’s eyes followed direction of his index finger, an instantaneous frown contorting his features as he looked back at his fellow survivor with almost disbelief.

“By herself?!” The volume of Shane’s voice was loud, contorted into a mixture of absolute worry and prominent anger. Glenn should have told someone, him, he thought to himself. If you were to die his leadership would no doubt be questioned, and he quite enjoyed holding some kind of power over people, he always had. The world in its current state was dangerous, and he checked his hip to ensure that his weapon was still plastered at his side, and he began walking with a pace towards the bordering woods that you had disappeared into. “Come on Rhee, you’re coming with me to find her.” Fucking Dixons and their plus one, they were more trouble than they were worth. He thought you were lucky to be a young woman, otherwise he wouldn’t have put his life on the line to go out and rescue you.

With no resilience to the orders, Glenn followed after him, guilt ebbing at his chest, dreading the outcome in which a walker had stumbled upon you and pursued you as prey. He should have held more concern when you had meandered off, but he had been tired and distracted from the run into the city. You never went into the woodland in solitary, Daryl was usually with you, and if he had been, he hadn’t seen the youngest Dixon. If something had the unfortunate occurrence of happening to you, then the fault would be on no one else other than him. And he knew that to be the truth.

Finally, you were alone. With Daryl. You had chased after him some minutes later when he had stated that he was going to search for ‘some squirrels or somethin’’, the evening prior was when Merle had stumbled upon a scene that he would forever tease you about, and you knew that Daryl was dwelling in his own frustrations. He dared not speak of it, feeling ridiculed and like a child that his brother had witnessed something he would never live done, opting instead to shoot something than regard you with his overflowing lust. If anyone were to walk in you again, he was certain that he would grab his crossbow and aim in their direction, truly pissed off for yet another interruption to expelling both his attraction and love towards you.

Daryl had never wanted to fuck in the woods, it was too dangerous, but you had mentally plucked at a compromise that satisfied both of you. The twigs and dried leaves were hard and irritating beneath your knees as you pulled at both his pants and boxers, leaving his cock exposed to your desperate gaze. You could never get enough of Daryl, even as he tried to maintain his stature, his back flush against the ascending bark of a tree, crossbow loaded and in one hand in case a walker were to attempt to kill and then feast on you both. It was the compromise, and Daryl released a staggered breath as you wrapped your palm around his length, leading his cock into your awaiting mouth.

He stifled a strewn gasp, forcing his eyes to remain open so he could spy the undead heading towards you if they did, his other hand softly coiling in your hair, playing with the strands around your face and gently pushing them out of your peripheral. “Fuck darlin’, you know how ta drive me crazy.” And that you did, such was proven as you took him deeper into your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat, and his whole body shuddered, becoming frail from pleasure. The sounds of nature danced around you, the birds rustling in the branches above being the only noise other than Daryl’s cock wetly slipping in and out of your mouth as you bobbed your head.

It was utter ecstasy to be some place that Daryl ironically felt safe, and to have you with him, intimately suckling on his most sensitive nerves. Your hands grasped his hips, allowing you to buck your head forwards slightly faster, drool sputtering around your chin as you began to gag on his endowed length. With one last look up at the crumbling man above you, whose eyes scoured the landscape skittishly, you closed your own, lashes fluttering upon your cheeks as you poured all your focus into making him feel good. He deserved a break, and you were more than happy to comply and give that to him,

There was no rush, it was the two of you in a space that it felt like no other soul could interrupt. You gorged yourself on the taste of his flesh, wanting to feel his seed warmly spill down your throat, and make his brain feel elated throughout the turmoil of instinctual survival that it processed on repeat. He stroked over your hair again, playing with the strands as the muscles in his legs tensed from the sensations that were rocketing into his mind. His fist clenched firmer on the grip of his crossbow, knuckles turning white as he bit his lip and slowly moved his hips in accordance to the motion of your head.

A rustle upon the ground caught him off guard, and his defences raised as he pushed you with care away, quickly tucking himself back into his jeans although the fly and button were still open. You stood beside him, sheathing the machete from the ground with urgent administrations, not composing your fucked out appearance that had come from using your mouth on him, expecting a walker to appear in view. Though there were no walkers, only two men that made Daryl outwardly groan and roll his oceanic irises around in the whites of his eyes. Another interruption. Why could no one just leave the two of you alone? Shane and Glenn looked between the both of you, minds piecing together the implications that they had disturbed. “Seriously?! The fuck!”

Daryl exclaimed, wedging his boots into the earth below as he tried to numb the heat that was battling to the surface of his face, glaring indignantly towards the two. You hastily wiped your chin, thinning your lips as you silently tilted your head in question in Glenn’s direction, uncertain as to why their presence had broke through the moment that you and Daryl had been craving. Thinking that the woods would be a private place was a good idea initially, however it proved that you couldn’t get peace anywhere. “I’m thinking the same thing.” Shane’s authority brewed the air with tension, as he narrowed his eyes at you, scoffing lightly. Yes, he had been young once, but the world was not as safe as it used to be, and logically that should have rendered in your thoughts. “The two of you shouldn’t be out here - doing that.”

Glenn didn’t back him up verbally, unsure of what to say, and knowing that if he did open his mouth it could possibly make things worse. Daryl however was not going to take Shane’s shit, he always saw himself as above others, as though he still wore a badge and it meant something on the tarnished lands. “It don’t stop you and Lori from sneakin’ off ta fuck ou’ here.” Shane’s face became swamped with realisation that him and his late friend’s wife hadn’t been as cautious as they had initially perceived. “Ya don’ think I hear ya two scamperin’ off when I get back from huntin’. B’cause I do, and I ain’t the only one.” The pizza boy stepped backwards as to not get involved with the puncturing of Shane’s ego, watching as Shane huffed beneath his breath.

“Keep your mouth shut Dixon, you don’t know anything. And head back to camp - the both of you.” You wanted to punch him; no one spoke to Daryl like that, especially not in front of you, and as you went to step forward Daryl grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers so that you could walk past the prick together without the risk of causing a fight. Your boyfriend spat on the forest floor as he by Shane, glaring daggers at the man that had to ruin everything. Shane just didn’t want to hear the truth, his pride was far too large to be brought into reality by ‘a no good redneck’, but that was what had happened. You knew that Glenn would apologise later, and as you stalked through the woods, you heard no verbal interaction between the two men that walked some ways behind the pair of you.

Daryl was a mess. Merle was missing, having removed his own hand to escape the latches of the handcuffs that Lori’s apparently alive husband has clamped him in on that rooftop. He had wanted to start a fight, more so when they came up empty handed when going to retrieve his brother, but you had stopped him. It would only cause more trouble than what was already prevailing, and you did not want Daryl to get in the thick of it. He had already cursed him out, threatened to propel ammunition from his crossbow into Rick, and none of it had brought Merle’s return. In the comfort of your shared tent he had cried, his tears streaming down his face as you coddled him with comfort, trying with all your might to usher the tears away.

And finally they had come to an end, his tear ducts unable to produce any more moisture, though Daryl’s anger had not dispersed. You ran a hand along his shoulder blade, placing a peck on the sleeveless area as you laid atop of the sleeping bag together. There were no words that would decrease his sadness; you wanted Merle back too, he had always looked out for you when it came to your father, and now both of them were gone. One was dead and you dreaded where Merle was, he had to be somewhere, he’d never given in easily in the old life he had, so you knew that he wouldn’t now, no matter the hurdles he had to cross to survive. “I dunno whatta do.” Daryl mumbled as he pulled you closer, and you stroked his hair with affection, smiling tightly as he looked at your face.

“I dunno either.” You admitted, brushing your nose against his, wanting to be lost in the quiet of the night. The lantern was back on and it illuminated his face, and you could see that he was tired, drained of most of the little hope that he had initially held. “But he’ll come back for us. He always has.” You reminded him, knowing that the first place that Merle had gone when the radio began to divulge the distractions of the outbreak was to the two of you. If it hadn’t been for him, neither of you may have remained alive. It was unexpected in the moment but Daryl kissed you, cupping your face with his rough hands, starting off slow yet with no motives to keep the physical connection short. His mouth glided softly against your lips, and you opened them, allowing him easy entrance.

He breathed through his nose as he pressed his mouth harder against your own, slinking his tongue behind your teeth, rolling atop of you, placing each of his hands above your shoulders. “I love you Y/N Y/L/N.” He states earnestly, pulling away from your face to trail tentative kisses along your fragile throat. He needed this. You needed this. It was exactly what you required to feel something other than the tormenting anguish that chortled within every breath. His hands groped at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt and onto the flesh of your waist, seeking the warmth that pulsed in your veins.

“I love you Daryl Dixon.” It was something he often required to hear, and you never faulted him for the reassurance of your emotions; he had been through so much at such a youthful age, and you understood the stability that the heartfelt confessions of love that it brought within his mind. He engulfed your lips once more, the desperation tightening its grip between you as it became a frenzy of removing one another’s clothes that were kicked to the other side of the tent, leaving your bare bodies rubbing against each other. Daryl wasted minimal time to enter you, brandishing himself and you with the pleasure that you had sought, motioning slow thrusts into your walls as though he was trying to memorise just how you felt.

Hot air left his lips and fanned in a tantalising manner against your jugular, as you inhaled deeply, lulling in the erotic sensations that bespoke through your body. Your hands gripped his shoulders with tight vigour, descending and running gently down his back and upon the scarring that contorted his flesh with prominently visible lashes that you could feel beneath your caring fingertips. It broke you that a man could exert such hatred onto their own child, and whilst your father had been no saint himself, he had never struck you in such a way. But no matter the state in which Daryl’s body was in, you found him to be a beautiful diamond within a hoard of boring rocks, capturing your attention with anything that he proceeded to do.

It was more than love that you felt for him, it was a transcendent connection that you had never witnessed anyone else hold their partner with. His hips rotated, grinding against your own, clashing the bones in their derelict midst of chasing an orgasm of which you had both failed to achieve in recent times. There were always interruptions, and you loathed each and every one of them. To be together again, with the same goal rolled waves of endorsed gratefulness into your bloodstream, as you clung wantonly onto your boyfriend, needing him more than oxygen in the moment. “Daryl.” His name made his head raise, the whisper that had fallen from your lips making his pupils swivel around his irises, the black pebbles enlarging with his own portion of lust.

“Yeah?” He huffed through his staggered breaths, continuing to move, cradling the back of your head with his triceps so that they would cushion the behind of your skull. His tone was tentative whilst simultaneously being strained from the proving pleasure of having his cock stuffed into your cunt, and he looked into your eyes with such focus that it made your heart skip multiple beats. As you held onto him, you opened your mouth after licking your lips, prepared to douse him in verbal love, but before the words could spew from your form, the crunching of footsteps outside of the tent and the clearing of the throat interrupted.

“Daryl, you in there?” Fucking Rick Grimes. Daryl paused his movements, although he did not remove himself from your slick encasement of his length, and you could see his patience begin to boil over. Your lover grunted out as an uninterested stern reply, and you felt relieved that the man held some jurisdiction and did not simply enter the tent, forgetting that privacy still remained in existence. You knew that Rick intended to extend an olive branch, wanting to apologise to Daryl, believing that his outrage had not only be compelled by Merle’s figure being absent, but also because of his age that was far younger than the law enforcer’s. “I just wanted to-“

“Piss off Grimes.” Daryl huffed, not wanting to hear the excuses that the man could disperse with pity upon him. He’d heard enough whispers regarding the situation around the camp, and he was tired of it. “‘M tryna fuck mah girlfrien’ here, so if y’all so fuckin’ kindly excuse us…” His honest confession startled you that he would outright admit what the two of you were doing, but it seemed to do the trick, with Rick muttering an ‘okay’ and shuffling off, presumably back to his family and Shane. Daryl heaved a sigh of relief, pressing his forehead onto your chest, and the flush of his heat warmed your body. His cock twitched inside of you, reminding you more than his admission to the cop had on where you were and what you had been doing. “Sick of these fuckin’ cockblockers.” He muttered, causing you to laugh in wordless agreement.

As you began to chortle out words that supported his opinion, a gasp was pulled from your throat as he began to move again, his thrusts deeper than previously, hitting the benevolent spot inside of you that made you see stars and distorted all thoughts from your brain. He leaned into you, pushing his weight onto your own as he made you feel every inch of him, knowing not to adjust his position as he could feel you tightening around his shaft, the feeling making his eyes roll back in his head. He removed one of his arms from beneath your head, trailing it down your chest and stomach to your clit, toying with the bundle of nerves that brought you over the edge, cumming around him.

He fucked you faster, now focusing on his own high, and before he could get carried away he pulled out of your warmth as your hand reaches to coil around his length, sliding your hand up and down it, bringing him to his orgasm that spilt over your stomach in a pool of white. “Fuck.” He heartily laughed, breathlessly leaning down to trail kisses in various places of your skin before pecking your lips. Daryl knew that soon he would have to stalk out of the tent to listen to Rick and see what he wanted, but for now he drowned in your presence, kissing you over and over, relieved that his frustrations had gotten the better of him and sent those that dared interrupt elsewhere. You pulled him down into your side, watching as he reached for the shirt he had previously been wearing, wiping the mess that he had made from you with tentative strokes.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon fic #daryl dixon angst #daryl x reader #daryl smut #daryl x female reader #daryl imagines #daryl one shot

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eliteradios · 6 months ago

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RADIO DADDY MAN, I LOVE HIM VERY MUCH 👸👸👸

#art #artists on tumblr #incredibox mod #incredibox #incredibox fanart #my art #incredibox express #incredibox express fanart #Mr radio #mr.radio #Brian raden

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agentstarkid · 4 months ago

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IF IT MEANS YOU ✦ AZRIEL

✦ SUMMARY: Love is not afraid of the dark—it reaches for it, soft yet unyielding. Some things are worth breaking for. Some things are worth staying for. Even when the night threatens to consume them whole.

✦ WORD COUNT: 1.0K

✦ WARNINGS: angst is a given, fluff is a bonus; feelings of inadequacy — english is not my first language!

✦ MAY'S RADIO: holiiii, this is my first time writing for mr. azriel mcthottie 😌 i've been dying to write with/for him for a while now, but i was—am—too scared to dive into his world. BUT this is me forcing myself to get a little out of my comfort zone and it wouldn't be me if i didn't bring the angst to the party 🤭

< back to general masterlist

The night was thick with shadows, the velvety darkness wrapping around them like a cloak. The stars above Velaris flickered behind shifting clouds, casting fleeting silver glows over the rooftops. But Azriel’s expression remained unreadable, the golden light from the streetlamps barely reaching the sharp planes of his face.

His scarred hands were clenched into fists at his sides as he took a measured step back.

“You never should’ve trusted me.” His voice was rough, fractured. “I destroy everything I touch.”

The words sliced through the air, through the fragile space between them, but you didn’t flinch. You stood your ground, heart pounding, refusing to let him disappear into his own darkness again.

“Maybe I’m okay with being destroyed if it means staying with you.”

Azriel sucked in a sharp breath, as if your words had physically struck him. His shadows curled around his shoulders, restless, uncertain. But beneath them, his wings trembled. He was unraveling, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice nearly lost to the wind.

“Then make me understand.” You took a step forward, closing the distance. “Show me.”

His throat bobbed, shadows clinging to his skin like ink, but he didn’t move away this time. And when your fingers brushed his, his hand curled around yours—not in destruction, but in something achingly close to surrender.

Azriel’s grip tightened around your hand, calloused fingers rough against your skin. He was holding on, despite everything he had said, despite the war raging inside him.

Azriel exhaled, his forehead still pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cool night air. His shadows curled around you both, hesitant yet unwilling to pull away.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he whispered.

You tilted your head, forcing him to look at you. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

His jaw clenched. “You think you do now, but one day, you’ll see. You’ll wake up and realize I was never meant to be yours. That I was never meant to have this.”

Your heart ached at the quiet devastation in his voice, at the way he said it like he was certain—like he had already accepted losing you before you’d even had the chance to be his.

So you stepped back. Just enough for his hands to slip from your waist, just enough for the night air to stretch between you. His brows furrowed, his hands twitching like they wanted to pull you back, but he forced himself to stay still.

“If that’s what you really believe,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the war raging inside you, “then tell me to leave.”

Azriel’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His wings twitched, shadows curling around his fists.

You waited.

Seconds passed, stretching into eternity.

His throat bobbed, his jaw tight, his hands shaking.

But he never told you to go.

Instead, his voice broke as he whispered, “I can’t.”

And that was all you needed.

So you closed the distance again, pressing your palm over his racing heart. “Then stop trying to push me away.”

Azriel’s breath was ragged, his wings half-spread like he was preparing to bolt—but he didn’t. His hands hovered at his sides, clenched into fists, as if letting himself touch you again might truly make his worst fears come true.

Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to stay steady. “You keep telling me I shouldn’t trust you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “That you destroy everything you touch.”

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

“So destroy me, then.”

Azriel flinched as if you had struck him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” You searched his face, looking for any sign that he would stop running. “I meant what I said, Az. Maybe I’m okay with being destroyed if it means staying with you.”

He let out a ragged breath, his wings trembling. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Don’t I?” His heartbeat thundered beneath your touch. “I know you. I know you’d rather tear yourself apart than hurt me. I know you love me.”

Azriel’s entire body locked up, his breath catching. His hands twitched at his sides, as if he wanted to pull you in, to keep you against him, but still, he hesitated.

So you made the choice for him.

You pushed up on your toes, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Soft. Gentle. A promise.

“I’m not afraid of your darkness,” you murmured against his skin. “But I think you are.”

Azriel let out a shaky breath, something crumbling in his expression. And then, finally—finally—he let go of whatever was holding him back.

His lips crashed against yours, kissing you like he was afraid you would disappear—like he was afraid he would disappear if he let go. His hands, so hesitant before, now gripped your waist with something close to desperation, fingers pressing into your skin as though anchoring himself to you—like he needed to be sure you were real, that you were his.

Your own hands slid up his chest, over the smooth leather of his fighting leathers, feeling the way his heart thundered beneath your palm. He was warm, solid, real.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was uneven, his eyes darker than before. His wings had curled around the two of you, shielding you from the rest of the world, as if this moment was something sacred.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice raw. “How to be this.”

Your fingers traced the scars along his knuckles, grounding him. “Then let’s figure it out together.”

His throat bobbed. “You deserve better.”

“Hmm. Maybe, maybe not,” you teased, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “But I don’t want better. I want you.”

Azriel exhaled sharply, like your words had knocked the air from his lungs. For a long moment, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing every detail, every piece of you that had chosen him despite everything.

Then, something in him shifted. His shadows softened, no longer swirling with unease but settling around you both like a whispered vow.

“I don’t know how to be the person you deserve,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours. “But I’ll try.”

And this time, he didn’t let go.

< back to general masterlist

#azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel x you #azriel spymaster #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #azriel fanfic #azriel fic #azriel drabble #acotar drabble #acotar x reader #acotar x you #x reader #( agentstarkid's works )

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fuctacles · 21 days ago

Text

[start here]

“What do you mean you forgot?!”

Eddie flails his hands wildly.

“I just did!” he yells back.

“What the fuck, Eddie?!”

“Language!” Claudia Henderson pipes up from somewhere in the house. Turns out, she could be just as loud as her son when she wanted, but that’s a given when you have to rise him by yourself.

“Sorry!” Dustin yells back. And then, after a thoughtful frown in his friend’s direction, yells again, not breaking eye contact: “Can Eddie stay the night?!”

“What?!” Eddie hisses through his teeth.

“Sure!” His mom’s answer is immediate. “As long as his uncle knows!”

Ms. Claudia knew he was living with his uncle? How much has their sons shared about him? Has he spilled unknowingly?

“Of course!”

Eddie was for now the only person maintaining a reasonable volume. He turned his whisper-hiss on Dustin again.

“I can’t just impose on your house like that, Henderson!”

“You’re not imposing, mom said it's okay.”

Eddie throws his hands in the air. As always, Dustin was right in the most infuriating way.

“You’ll stay over until you finish the paper.”

“I don’t need babysitting to do my work!”

“You kind of do,” his friend points out, right yet again. “And here you won’t get distracted with your guitar or campaign.”

“Do you think it’s all I do?” Eddie bristles, at which Dustin waves his hand dismissively.

“Or a book, or a nap, or whatever gross shit you ‘almost adults’ get up to.” He makes a face, as apparently talking about jerking off is below him.

“A nap sounds great, to be honest…” he hums thoughtfully, his mind zeroing in on its pick. Dustin huffs.

“Well, write an outline and we can discuss a nap.”

Eddie did not expect being held hostage in Henderson’s house to write a paper, on a weekday night no less, but here he was. He’s been in worse predicaments, that’s for sure, considering this cell had a radio, a soft couch, and snacks. And as much hot tea as he can stomach, though Claudia Henderson might be underestimating his love for a good earl gray blend.

The afternoon goes more or less as usual, he and Dustin do their homework in the boy’s bedroom, and then Eddie gets dragged into a family dinner. But instead of finishing up or going home, he’s being approached by Mrs. Henderson holding a huge bundle of spare bedding.

“Is the couch okay? Steve got the guest bedroom, but if you ask nicely, he’d probably switch with you.”

Eddie is shaking his head before she finishes talking, but Dustin is first actually to speak up.

“Can’t he sleep here?”

His mom frowns.

“This isn’t a sleepover. Your curfew still applies.”

“But!--!”

“No buts! Eddie, sweetie.” She turns to the older boy again. “I’ll leave the bedding on the couch, you can sleep there or talk it out with Steve when he comes back.”

“Thank you.” He smiles at her, knowing he won’t be talking with the guy.

Dustin keeps trying to argue, so she adds:

“Dusty’s curfew is at 10 and don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

“I’ll tuck him in myself, madam.”

“Traitors! Both of you!”

When the outline is done, his belly full of toast and the outside properly dark, Eddie finds himself alone in the living room. Claudia advised him to help himself to the kitchen if he got hungry and not to stay up too late. She also told him Steve had a closing shift that day and always drives his friend home, but should be back soon as well.

Eddie manages to write the beginning of his stupid essay before he hears the keys jingle at the front door. He’s itching to look up and seek out Steve, but only does so when he hears him stop by the doorway. He’s surprised to see him but quickly schools his expression into an easy smile.

“Eddie! Hi!”

“Hi.” Eddie gives him a small wave.

“Staying over?” Steve walks in, eyeing the bedding next to him.

“Yeah.” He nods and points at the notebook in front of him. “Gotta finish an essay for tomorrow.”

“Uh, good luck.” Steve winces. “Want something to eat? Drink?” He points towards the kitchen, where he’s headed. Eddie shakes his head.

“I’m good, thanks.”

He’s written three sentences by the time Steve leaves the kitchen and walks towards the bathroom. The sound of a running shower is incredibly distracting. He can picture a small waterfall, deep in the forest and glistening in the golden green sunbeams. Close by is a clearing, created by countless adventurers stopping by to refresh before continuing their journey. They’d strip naked, men and women alike, fighters and mages, dipping in the chilly water to clean off the dirt of the road, the sweat from fighting off petty criminals. The water would be just deep enough to tease at the curve of his ass, lapping against the skin and mocking any bystanders for their solid form, making them wish they could liquify too and slip over the rippling muscles, trace the dips and—

Bad Eddie!

He blinks so rapidly that he gets dizzy, but the paper in front of him becomes visible again. The shower is still running and he reminds himself he’s not into jocks. He’s not into his friends’ siblings, not into whatever Steve Henderson is, no matter how objectively attractive.

He writes another two sentences by the time the bathroom door opens and he makes a point of not looking up. The smell of coconut walks by and he focuses on the tip of his pen. He hears the fridge door open and the steps reach his spot by the couch again.

“Beer?”

The water still clings to the weary adventurer, dripping from his hair. He has no shame, no place for it in the life he leads, not with a body like that. There’s a towel strewn around his shoulders and he was nice enough to put on underwear. He’s holding two cans of chilled beer, and all Eddie can say is:

“Please.”

He’s not expecting him to sit down next to him, smelling of coconut and damp skin, reddened from hot water and scrubbing it with a towel.

“Cherish it, we’re drinking half of my weekly allowance.”

“You have a beer allowance?” Eddie gapes at him and Steve just nods, like it’s normal.

“I’m not 21 yet but Claudia knows I’ve been drinking already anyway. So as long as I’m doing it safely and out of Dustin’s eyesight, she’s okay with it. We share wine sometimes.”

"That's nice." Eddie smiles, cracking his can open. "Wayne doesn't monitor my alcohol intake, but it's not like I'm partying much. I just drink with him or with my band sometimes." He shrugs and takes a sip. It's a more expensive brand than he's used to but all beer tastes the same to him anyway.

"Wayne is your uncle, right?" Steve asks, lowering his own can.

Eddie suddenly realizes it's nice to be remembered as something more than a freak or a Satanist. He gulps down the bitter liquid.

"Uh, yeah. I live with him. Been since I started middle school."

Steve nods thoughtfully, staring at the wall. For reasons he doesn't dare to name, Eddie wishes his eyes were on him instead.

"Your band is uh, something Coffin? Sorry, I don't remember." He turns towards him and smiles sheepishly and Eddie is taking it all back, take these dark brown eyes away from his face immediately. Steve knows half of his band's name? Be still his traitorous heart!

"Corroded Coffin," he chokes out.

Steve snaps his fingers.

"That's it! You guys were at the talent show a couple of years back, right?"

Be still, be still, be still.

"Yeah," he manages. "I'm surprised you remember."

Steve chuckles, but it's not a pleasant one. Eddie prepares himself to be ripped into shreds. Again. He should be used to that by this point, shouldn't he? But his ego is as easily bruised as it is big.

"How could I not? The biggest disaster Hawkins middle has seen in years."

Eddie winces. It was expected and it still hurt. At least his not-crush could finally go further into the 'not; category.

Bust Steve had to open his stupid mouth again.

"It was stupid, in my opinion. You guys are clearly talented, and the music you play shouldn't matter. Most people don't like metal--hell, I don't like metal." He slaps his hand onto his bare chest, making Eddie nod, because yes, he's listening, he's paying attention, and he is looking at his hairy pecs, thank you. "But it was a talent show, judges should be more objective." He slumps into the back of the couch. "You were great on the guitar, I've never heard anyone play like that. I was surprised you could sing too," he says, rolling his head to the side to look at Eddie, who chuckles nervously.

"Why, do I not look like I have an angelic voice?" he asks, tilting his head.

Steve shakes his head, making a lazy motion against the couch cushion. The closing shift and the beer seem to be getting to him.

"I guess I wasn't expecting you to be so..." He tilts his head to the side and rolls it back, considering his thoughts and how to voice them out. "Multifaceted?" he offers hesitantly like it's not a word he uses often. Eddie can relate. "I had heard the music teacher talk about your ear, how you can pick up any song insanely fast. I know your English essays get praised, and I know you're unafraid to be yourself, against all odds. It's something I couldn't do..." he trails off, suddenly looking sadder than Eddie knew how to deal with. But to his relief, Steve shakes his head to get back on track. "I just wasn't expecting you to have a nice voice like that. In Hellfire, too. It's like you're taking on a completely new persona. It sounds..." He hesitates before his next words." Freeing." He decides, nodding minutely to himself. "Like you can just tap into another dimension, a nice one," he presses for some reason. "And just live it out. Like for a moment, you're becoming a different person."

Eddie considers him. The thoughtful look on his face that he's still not qualified to deal with.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks and he hopes against all hope that it doesn't come off condescending. He's genuinely curious, hell, genuinely worried. What makes someone like Steve--America's poster boy, attractive and athletic--think this way?

Steve rolls his head towards him again and his smile is everything but joyful.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "The adult life is more than I've bargained for, I guess." He shrugs, but Eddie knows it's the easy, dismissive answer. And he feels like he needs to get to the bottom of this, his essay be damned. Happily.

"You live with Ms. Henderson, though. You don't have to be an adult-adult," he points out and waits, hoping he's not prying too much.

"Yeah, but..." Steve seems to be collapsing in on himself. "A lot has happened," he says as much as Eddie knows at this point. "And I've been feeling so small against the world, against the universe..."

Eddie's surprised at the mention of the whole universe, but it's not like he hasn't been thinking about it too, so he nods encouragingly.

"And I'm so grateful that Claudia took me in, I'm so relieved..." He hesitates for a millisecond before his face hardens. "That I don't have to deal with my parents anymore," he finishes with conviction. "But at this point, I don't know who I am. High school doesn't matter, the sports teams don't matter. I didn't get to college, I'm working a shitty job, and not even full-time!" He throws a hand in the air. "Actual high schoolers are taking up all the hours."

Eddie winces.

"You're talking to a super super senior here, I don't think I'm doing much better," he points out.

"But you have the band," Steve counters. "It's fun, you have friends for it and if you do it right, it's a great career path."

"If we do it right."

Steve turns abruptly towards him, eyes wide, before he settles back down with a sigh.

"I believe you can. With your insane guitar skills and all," he offers.

Eddie chuckles.

"Thanks, man. But I'm pretty sure you can figure something out, too. I don't believe your 'sports don't matter' thing, there's a lot of money put into it," he points out, not hiding his disdain but Steve only snorts at his tone. "And you probably could land a role in a hair commercial if you tried. Hell, with your looks you could easily become an actor," he reassures his reluctant night companion.

"So you think all there is to me is my good looks?" Steve asks, rolling his head towards him again, this time pouting.

It kind of is what he said, isn't it?

"Well, no." He straightens up, ready to fix his mistake. Well, maybe not ready, but hoping. "Henderson, uh, Dustin, sings you praises all the time and none of them are about your great hair."

"Good to know a high schooler values me," Steve scoffs, his pout deepening.

"So!" Eddie ignores him. "If you're a good person and a pretty face, that's a whole world opening up for you. Because as sad as it is, people are simple and need pretty things to ogle. It's what sells and you could totally use it."

He looks at Steve again and when the pout doesn't disappear, he realizes he just dug himself a deeper hole, doubling down on relying on looks being Steve's only option. He stares at his bottom lip as if it could somehow pull him out. It moves and he's hoping for some guidance, but all he gets is...

"Should I just become a stripper, then?"

The flash of images is like a bullet to his head. Steve in fishnets and ridiculously high heels, bending on a pole, chest hair sticking to his pecs with sweat and shining with glitter. His lips tinted with lip gloss--

"I mean, um..." Why is Steve's hairy chest right there for him to see? "Who am I to stop you, right?" he offers with a nervous smile. "If it makes you money, it's a job."

"I guess." He shrugs, eyes still on Eddie, but the pout is finally gone, so he can breathe easier. It's been replaced with a thoughtful expression. Steve presses the back of his hand to his arm. "Would you come to watch me?"

"Huh?" Eddie frowns at him, at the hand touching him, a single finger running against the sleeve of his shirt.

"If I was a stripper," Steve clarifies.

Would he?

It's never been something he considered, the environment more fit for sleazy older guys who can't get a girl, or businessmen too busy to bother with one. Or bachelor parties. Would he go to a strip club then, if he was invited? Probably. But would he go for someone specifically? That sounds stalkery. Would he go if it was Gareth?

Gareth would look stupid in fishnets.

But if he asked Eddie, for moral support, would he? Probably. He tries to be a good friend. So he half-nods, half-shrugs.

"If you wanted me to."

"But would you want to?" Steve presses.

"I've never been to a strip club, I don't know." Eddie raises his shoulder in a defensive shrug, kind of lost in the weird turn their conversation has taken.

Even more lost when Steve's hand drops lower, the back of his fingers reaching the hem of his sleeve and touching skin. The light scrape of his fingernails sends a shiver across his bones. He goes lower and lower, tantalizingly slow into the ticklish spot on Eddie's elbow.

"I'd give you a preview before the show, you could judge if it's good enough," he offers instead, hand sliding down to his thigh, resting just above the knee. Squeezing gently.

Eddie doesn't see Steve anymore. Just his big hand wrapped around his leg. There's a tiny mole on his wrist and a light dusting of hair all the way to his fingers.

"Would you want me to strip for you?" Steve presses, snapping his attention back to himself.

His brain is uncharacteristically empty, and It takes him a long while to register, process and understand the heavy gaze Steve's giving him, the fingers digging into the meat of his thigh, the boy next to him leaning in, his eyes dropping to Eddie's lips.

Eddie jumps up.

"What?!"

Steve is up as well, hands out like he's placating a wild animal. Understandably, because Eddie feels like one. He wants to run like a startled gazelle, or drop dead like an opossum. But he's there frozen like a deer caught in car's headlights. Are the doors locked? How much time would he lose looking for the key if it's not in the lock? Maybe he should try the window instead?

"Shhh, please," Steve's hissing in desperation, but Eddie doesn't want to look at him. "I'll leave, I'm sorry. Please forget about it, I'm sorry."

He sounds even worse than Eddie feels, so he risks a glance towards him. His face is pale in the dim-lit living room, eyes widened in panic.

Maybe Eddie has been the car all along.

He knows Steve would flee if he reached out, so he doesn't dare to, slowly shows his open palms again, empty of weapons or judgement.

"Hey, no, it's okay. I don't care about that. You just surprised me." Understatement of the century. Henderson's brother coming onto him? Impossible, abstract, a fever dream. Maybe he did have too much of Ms. Claudia's delicious earl grey. Something must have been in the tea, the school has been trying to tell him not to trust the Brits all along.

"You don't care?" Steve repeats, not looking like he's going to puke at the very least.

Eddie considers his words.

"Not in a 'I'm gonna punch you' way," he offers the best he's got for now. Which even he has to admit, is fucking shit.

Steve finally relaxes, or rather deflates, half turning towards the dark corridor.

"Thanks. Goodnight."

As the stairs creak under his steps, Eddie is still processing. He slumps back down onto the couch and for once is happy to find a distraction from his thoughts in the form of an unfinished essay. The thing gets done in no time but he barely sleeps that night.

tags: @i-have-three-feelings @mblogs @awkwardgravity1 @imacowboy3 @just-a-tiny-void @clumsiluni @shotgunhallelujah @halfadoginatank @carlprocastinator1000 @irregular-child @dreamercec @mightbeasleep @nerdyglassescheeseychick @ellietheasexylibrarian @wheneverfeasible @wormapothacary @estrellami-1 @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @blasvemous

#steddie #the hendersons #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #mine #steddie fanfiction #dustin henderson

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