#reader essentials

[bookstackdreamer]

Stories Build Kingdoms Tote

This navy blue tote bag features a whimsical design of a castle atop an open book, with the phrase Stories Build Kingdoms. Perfect for book lovers, fantasy fans, and anyone who believes in the power of storytelling. Spacious, sturdy, and ready for your next literary adventure.

Shop online for it here.

[gutsby]

Homemade

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: While your dad’s watching a movie downstairs, you and his best friend decide to make one of your own.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky sex tape fun with dbf!Joel ;-) Unprotected p-in-v. Age gap. Daddy kink. Facefucking. Joel being the world’s worst cameraman. Shower sex. Overstimulation via adjustable shower head. Dirty talk. Screaming ‘daddy’ too loud, and your father shows up.

Translations: In Chile, pico is slang for penis. Joel’s is big.

Part of the Waiting Game series

“If this ever ends up on PornHub, I’ll kill you, Miller.”

Joel knew you meant it, too.

The only reason you’d agreed to make this dumb little ‘home video’ at all was because you were headed back to college tomorrow and wouldn’t see him again until May. Doing long distance was tough, but doing long distance while simultaneously trying to keep a risqué, torrid, and totally-not-age-appropriate love affair with your father’s best friend under wraps was infinitely more difficult. This was the safest way to keep desire alive in the meantime.

Immortalized on a Sony CCD-TR70—because neither one of you trusted iCloud to keep a sex tape secret.

It had also been the only video camera you could find in the closet before your dad had plopped down on the couch just outside your room and announced he would be watching Oppenheimer for the third time. You’d had to scurry off fast before he could invite you to join him.

“I’ll be damned—this thing’s gotta be as old as I am,” Joel mused as he stood at the foot of the bed, camcorder pointed at your semi-nude form.

“I didn’t know they had cameras back in the Stone Age.”

Your smirk didn't flinch, even when Joel flipped you off.

You were lying on your side, head propped up on one hand while the other picked at a few loose strings from the comforter. The lacy, pastel pink bustier holding your tits in place was currently making breathing feel like a chore, and your skin was on fire from the warmth of the room, but you tried not to show it. Joel twisted a dial.

“Alright, now...flash ‘em for daddy,” he grinned as soon as the lens focused in where he wanted: your cleavage.

You rolled your eyes.

“A little closer, please,” you said, patting the space in front of you.

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. With one hand still cradling the camera, he clambered over the bed so fast he nearly tripped and took a nosedive in the headboard. You had to cover your mouth to contain a shriek of laughter—and terror—as his frame barreled into yours.

“JOEL!”

Fortunately, your cameraman was quick to recollect himself, planting a knee on either side of your chest once he’d knocked you onto your back. Then, from above, he angled the grey-black hunk of metal just a foot away:

“Anything you’d like to say to the folks watching at home, ma’am?” Joel inquired, suddenly assuming all the poise and matter-of-fact elocution of a news reporter.

You stuck your tongue out at the camera and blew the wettest, fattest raspberry you could muster in response.

Joel hummed, zoomed in on your lips, and nodded.

“Fascinating,” he said, pretending to make sense of the fart noise you’d just made with your mouth, “Have you ever given thought to maybe...sucking cock on camera?”

The swiftness with which he was able to dodge your kick was remarkable. He swayed the camera just out of reach before you could shove it away and say, ‘Joel, quit being GROSS’ and he promptly replied, ‘Ain’t that the whole point of a sex tape, sweet pea? Bein’ a little bit gross?’ And you playfully tried to kick him again, only this time, he caught your foot and yanked you closer to him. He turned the camcorder back to your face and grinned.

“That’s my little pornstar,” he murmured with affection. Then, zooming in again, this time to find your panty line, “Riiiiight there.”

You knew giving Joel Miller recording privileges for an occasion as momentous as this was a bad idea. At the rate you were going now, you’d be seeing the sunrise through the window before you ever got a glimpse of his dick. You needed to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

You crawled on all fours to get to Joel across the bed.

The man, kneeling with the camera pointed in your direction, looked up to cock a brow at you.

“Sweetheart, hey, can ya do that one more—”

“Hush,” you muttered, closing in on his crotch. 

Your head was lowered so you could undo the front of his jeans. Because of this, your back was arched, and your ass was pointed up just the slightest bit. For a second, Joel seemed torn between tilting the lens to your lower half or your face, which was inching ever closer to the bulge in his trousers. In time, he landed on the latter.

He swallowed. That sight never got old—and seeing it displayed on the camcorder’s semi-grainy screen only made it that much hotter. Joel shifted on his knees while you worked him out of his boxers, watching the nimble movements of your fingers as you wrestled the fabric.

“Wanna—” Glancing to the side of the bed, “—maybe—”

“Yup.”

Both of you liked it better on the floor: you on your knees in front of Joel, chin tilted up to see his reactions as you sucked him off. You loved to sink between his legs and then see and feel nothing but him, brain going blank the moment his cock filled your mouth. Joel slid a pillow under your knees before widening his stance some.

“Is it on?” Your hand was wrapped firmly around the base of his cock and your lips were hovering an inch from the tip. You resisted the urge to lick the precum off just yet.

“Darlin’, it’s been on ever since you stepped outta the bathroom in that— that—” Joel seemed to be searching for a word when the head of his cock was enveloped in a kiss. You dragged your tongue across the slit of him and collected the hot, salty beads with a muffled moan.

Then you pulled off.

“Teddy,” you said, reminding him of the name for that pretty little tulle and lace getup you currently had on.

“Teddy,” Joel echoed, his mind a million miles away from any lingerie jargon at the moment. He held the camera tighter as you took him back into your mouth and sank deeper on his cock. He struggled to keep it steady.

It was strange, watching Joel and the rounded glass of the lens as you did this dirty thing that was only meant to be shared between you and him. Knowing it would be recorded, saved for future viewing, displayed on some dimly lit screen in Joel’s bedroom maybe one, twice, or more likely than not, several dozen times over the next three months. You wondered how you might look from this new point of view; though, you weren’t so sure you needed to know what sight Joel was made privy to while you sucked and hollowed your cheeks around his cock.

As it turned out, that uncertainty wasn’t meant to last you very long, because Joel flipped the camera’s screen around two seconds later. Some sepia-tinted, pixelated rendition of your face, framed by the date and time and a bright red flashing dot beside the word ‘REC’ were the first to greet you. You flinched back just a little.

“Joel,” you said, almost bashful, “Flip it back.”

Joel just grinned. Then he laced his fingers through your hair and tugged you closer to him, thumb stroking over your scalp, “C���mon, darlin’, don’t ya wanna see how goddamn pretty ya look on your knees for me?”

You didn’t think you looked pretty at all. In fact, you reckoned your features looked something more like an alien utility funnel than a real, human face as you tilted your chin inward and seemed to be nothing but eyes and a hollowed-out expression, but you let Joel guide you back onto him all the same. You heard a low rumble of pleasure take shape in his chest as your lips slid over his shaft. Your gaze remained glued to the screen as you did.

Wet with saliva and a few faint traces of precum, you continued to bob your head up and down. Joel’s groans grew louder, and your drive to take him further and further surged as well. By the time his hand was tightening into a white-knuckled fist in your hair, you’d nearly taken him all the way to the back of your throat, and your nose was no more than an inch from the soft tufts of hair on his belly. Joel let out a shuttering breath.

“Fuck me,” he heaved. You might’ve smiled if your lips weren’t otherwise occupied. Then he clenched his hand even harder and murmured, “Can you— can I, please—”

Again, you didn’t need him to finish the rest of the question to know what he wanted. You moved your head back just slightly to nod, a low, ‘Mhmm’ reverberating down the length of his dick as you gave him permission. Joel swallowed and set the camera aside immediately.

He placed it on the nightstand, perfectly level with your head, to the side. Then he rotated the device just a bit, took one glance at the screen, and shortly returned to where you were watching him with wide, glossy eyes.

“Ready?” he asked. His right hand now joined the left at the back of your head, but not before thumbing a quick touch over your cheek to get a feel for your approval.

You hummed once more. You watched Joel’s hips move forward, hands secure around your scalp all the while, and you felt a gentle nudge at the back of your throat. Then another. You couldn’t help the impulse to gag, but thankfully, it was short-lived. Joel peered down at you, eyes searching yours for any plea to stop or slow down, but he found nothing. He sheathed himself deeper until your lips were brushing the base of his dick. He groaned.

“That’s a good…fuckin’ girl,” he managed, voice strained, “Takin’ my cock so deep.”

He shifted his hips to move an inch or two out, then slid his cock forward again, bumping that spot at the top of your throat. This time, you were better adjusted to take him and felt your muscles expand and contract around him without activating your gag reflex. Your eyes stayed trained on his face while he dragged his cock back again.

“My pretty girl and her—” Joel stabbed back into you, somehow tender in the way he did it, “—pretty fuckin’ mouth…Sweet thing likes gettin’ facefucked, does she?”

With the increased pace of his thrusts and the grip he had on the sides of your head, you couldn’t quite answer, but Joel could tell from the glint in your eye that you loved when he manhandled and fucked your throat like this. Watched the light sear gently behind those irises as you swallowed every inch of his cock, back and forth, and let your brain break down to little more than a happy, mindless mush. Joel was always keen to oblige you on that front—aroused to no end at the sight of all your thoughts being fucked straight out of your head—and within the next few thrusts, his gut was giving a familiar clench. He pulled halfway out of your mouth, paused, felt the pinch again, then withdrew from your lips fully.

“Get on the bed.”

You straightened back up and made it over to the mattress, quickly. Before you could assume the position you’d been hoping to take on all fours, you felt yourself flipped on your back. Joel yanked your hips to the edge of the bed and kneeled down between your legs. Hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and had them shuffled down your thighs and past your ankles in no time at all. Then, when he lowered his lips to your wet, aching core, you pressed a touch to the crown of his head.

“Joel, wait,” you said. All of a sudden your chest felt tight.

In spite of the fact that your airways were open and completely free from any obstruction—namely, Joel’s big ol��� pico—you still found it difficult to inhale. Some murky, amorphous sense of anxiety weighed over your chest.

When your hand didn’t move from his head and instead pushed him further, Joel furrowed his brows, perplexed.

“What’s’a matter, darlin’?”

You shook your head, more to yourself than to him.

“I haven’t…just— haven’t washed down there today…o-or shaved,” you stammered, “Don’t want you to taste it.”

That was largely a lie. You’d bathed, shaved, and prepared for this just fine, but really were more concerned about the novel optics that loomed overhead. Being filmed in such a singularly vulnerable state without knowing how to act. You were fine when the attention was focused on Joel and his pleasure, but something about having your every whimper and moan laid bare before you on film felt daunting. Unnerving, in a way.

Joel frowned while rubbing your thigh. His brow pinched inward again, as if he were considering something.

Then he moved across your body, and your muscles eased with relief at the thought that he’d just let it go and get to fucking you exactly how you wanted. You reached for him, ready to wrap your legs around his waist, when a yelp clawed out of your throat. You found that you didn’t get to touch his chest, or his cheeks, or his big, broad, beefy shoulders, as you were promptly thrown over the latter of the three body parts and lifted when Joel stood up from the bed. He started carrying you across the room, heedless of the startled, ‘What the FUCK, Miller?’ you’d cried the second he took one step.

Hardwood floors transformed to tile before your eyes, and shortly, you realized you were being brought into your bathroom.

You heard the squeak of some metal knob being turned, then a brief sputter, then a spray of water raining down on your shower floor. You were still being held hostage over Joel’s shoulder, try as you might to bite at his lower back or smack his ass in an attempt to break loose.

He set you down a second later, seemingly unfazed.

“Get in.” He nodded toward the shower.

Before you had a chance to respond, he left. You stood back in disbelief—refusing to go into the shower and let Joel have his win—but just as you opened your mouth to call out and tell him as much, his form slipped back in through the door. Naked, now, and wielding that stupid, goddamned camcorder with a devious glint in his eye.

“Will you—” You held out a defensive hand in front of you, cheeks already heating, “—stop with that?!”

Secretly, the corners of your lips were fighting a smile as Joel drew closer with the camera held up to your face.

“There she is, folks,” he announced, as though speaking to a crowd, or else reading off of a script from the world’s most cheesy porno, “My dirty, dirty girl says she needs a shower—don’t ya, sweet pea?”

It sounded so ridiculous and dumb that neither one of you could keep from laughing. Even as you lifted your middle finger in response, Joel grinned and smacked your ass. Steadied the camera out in front, nudged you closer to the shower, and watched you somewhat begrudgingly obey his orders. Once you’d stripped what little remained on your body, you stepped into the tub.

Add to ‘ridiculous and dumb’ just wildly unsexy as well—who the hell needed a soapy interlude to a sex tape?

Joel Miller, apparently. He constricted his grip on the camera and followed you in, tongue already skimming the backs of his teeth in anticipation. You turned away to step under the shower’s stream, and he wasted no time getting a shot of your derrière. You leaned forward and sighed.

The water worked wonders to get your muscles to loosen some, but still, you were nervous. You could clean up now, stall a little longer, maybe even offer to give Joel head again—but what if he really wanted to eat you out on camera? You couldn’t put off the conversation forever.

Or another minute, it seemed.

You let out a shriek when you felt Joel’s fingers sneak up between your thighs. You hardly knew what he was doing, just folding limply when he spun you around to press your back against the shower wall. Your eyes widened to see him descending your body once more.

“I lied,” Joel said, smirk painted clear across his features, “You’re not dirty—I just wanted to eat your pussy in the shower ‘s’all.”

Chivalry was evidently alive and well in Austin, Texas.

No truer words could have been spoken, and yet, you felt wildly uncomfortable the second Joel’s head dipped between your legs and that big, dumb, handsome face started licking stripes up your sensitive core. You cast a glance to the side and saw the camcorder perched on the sink—just through the open slit in the shower curtain, you could see it pointed directly at you.

You shivered and started to push Joel away.

“Can we maybe just—”

“Sweetie?!”

Joel’s lips tore out of your cunt quicker than a sneeze through a screen door. His eyes were wide.

“Y-Yeah, dad?” you squeaked, tone almost fearful.

“Everything okay in here? I heard ya scream,” your dad returned shortly.

You could only imagine the expression of confusion and distress painting his every lineament in that moment. Probably just barely sticking his head through the crack in the door and blinking anxiously through the steam.

Your dad was caring like that.

He just never knew the right times to show up.

No, there were very few times where you would’ve liked to see him less—apart from that one time you’d sucked Joel’s dick under the table at your dad’s birthday dinner. Your heart was thudding a wild, erratic beat in your chest, and you could only imagine how Joel was feeling. Probably seeing visions of a Size 11 boot being shoved up his ass if his friend happened to slide the shower curtain to the side and see him nose-deep in his daughter’s box.

That would be bad. So very, very bad and probably ten times worse than when Tommy had caught you blowing his brother at the aforementioned birthday party. You just couldn’t seem to catch a break these days.

You sucked in a breath and answered anyway.

“I thought I saw a spider.”

“Really?” You could already sense the embittered tinge to your dad’s voice, harking back to the war he’d once declared on all wolf spiders in the home, “Want me to kill it?”

The next thing you heard was two boots thud on the bathroom floor outside the shower, and you could’ve sworn you saw Joel’s whole soul leap from his body. He shot a frantic look around him, spotted a window above, and seemed to wonder for half a second if he might be able to shimmy his 188-pound frame through a space that probably wasn’t big enough to fit a fat raccoon. He slumped his weight against the shower wall and winced.

“No! I— It wasn’t even a spider. Just a…roach.”

Shortly, Joel’s eyes widened even more and met yours, as if to ask, ‘Why the FUCK would you say that?’

“A roach?!” your dad cried simultaneously.

Apparently, you’d forgotten that any derivative of the word ‘cockroach’ was like a sleeper agent activation phrase for middle-aged fathers who wanted to keep their homes free of all household pests. The look on Joel’s haggard, world-weary face communicated as much to you, and for a second, you remembered that he, too, was built the same way as any other semi-old dude you knew.

Just bigger and beefier and…harder below the belt than you would’ve expected most men around his age to be.

You quickly chided yourself for ogling Joel’s dick at a time like this and replied to your father, shrill, “No!”

Then, slightly more composed, “No, no— I already took it out with some hairspray and told it to fuck off to hell.”

An attempt at humor was the last leg you had to stand on. Fortunately, it worked.

Outside the shower, your dad chuckled, and his footsteps started to shuffle off toward the door.

“Ah. Atta girl,” he beamed, ever the advocate for brutal cockroach killings, “If you see another, just holler, okay?”

“Okay.”

You heard the sound of the bathroom door closing, and you almost fell to the floor. Joel probably would’ve been facedown just as well—fear seeping out of his body along with every last ounce of willpower to stand—had he not made a dive for you as soon as your dad had left.

The force of his push sent you straight into the wall, legs forced to wrap around his waist as he buried his face in your neck.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed.

“You’re welcome,” you murmured, swiping the water out of your eyes with a grimace.

Then, just as you were about to request that Joel lower you back down to the floor and out of the shower’s spray, you felt a nudge between your legs. Luckily not a tongue this time—just Joel, or the tip of his leaking cock. The man below you grinned, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a wash of relief. Could it be?

“I’ll still eat you out if y’want,” he started, though speaking with a little less conviction this time around, “But after all that I, uh—kinda jus’ wanna fuck ya stupid.”

Well thank fuck for fake spiders and cockroaches, too; you’d just averted a dreaded tonguefuck, thanks to that detour.

You’d worry about your pornstar moans and on-camera charisma another time—now you could just sit back and let Joel do all the work while he took you against the wall.

Really, there was no need to concern yourself with anything at all from that point forward. Once you’d given Joel the green light, he was sinking you onto his cock with a grunt and making sure you felt nothing but him. His hands found your hips and held you firmly in place as he rutted into you from below, your own fingers latching onto his shoulders for some much-needed support. Both of you knew that you needed to be extra quiet now—seeing how sound seemed to carry in that tight, tiled space—so Joel snagged your lips in his for a kiss.

He was practically panting in your mouth by the time you started meeting his thrusts. His fingertips slid some and must’ve seared ten perfect crescents into the flesh of your ass as he fucked you into the wall.

“Look so pretty like this,” he whispered in between kisses and short, shallow breaths. His cock parted your insides with an excruciating welt of pleasure, and he hardly even seemed to realize it, “Look so damn pretty takin’ cock.”

Then, lips kicking up in a smile when it seemed he’d remembered something, he added, “Can’t wait to play this tape back home and watch us fuck all over again.”

Again. Again. And again. Shit, you could just see it now.

Your eyes traversed the compact shower space once more to find the video camera—still perched, still live, still perfectly implacable and silent atop the sink as it recorded your every grunt, groan, and shuddering moan. You were nearly as curious to know what Joel’s bare ass looked like rutting into you like this as you were to hear yourself getting railed against the shower wall. Maybe you’d beat this fear of secondhand embarrassment after all.

Maybe.

Joel’s teeth snagged your bottom lip and bit it, lightly.

“Every chance I get, you can bet I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout this…sweet pussy while you’re away,” he said, voice low and occasionally punctured by a groan, “Say one more thing f’me and I’ll…cum every time I watch this part.”

The kinks at the corners of his lips were endearing. You would’ve liked to supply them with just about anything they could’ve wanted, so when they leaned into your ear and murmured just what it was they needed to hear, you only hesitated a second.

Or maybe two or three, because, well…it was risky.

Moaning ‘daddy’ out loud at a time like this? It might get Joel off quick, but it might send your real dad running even faster. You weren’t crazy about the thought of anything that might draw the man’s attention again.

Joel seemed a little less risk-averse than you, notwithstanding the window-leaping fear he’d felt when your dad had rushed in before. Leave it to a criminally horny man to have the memory of a goldfish, though.

At present, Joel was blinking and gawking a bit like one, too, waiting for you to enunciate that one magic word.

You couldn’t deny he made a damn cute desperate sex fiend when he wanted to be. And you needed to cum.

You figured you could cut a deal with him just this once.

“Alright,” you mumbled against the top of his stubbled lip, “Make me cum and I’ll say anything you want, Miller.”

You weren’t sure if it was a chuckle or a strangled moan that jumped up in his throat when Joel squeezed your sides tighter. All you knew was that he was lowering you to the floor in the next instant, spinning you around, and walking you forward, swiftly and with purpose, toward the opposite end of the shower. Right where the crack in the curtain made you most visible to the camcorder.

Joel’s hand snaked around your front and gently eased between your legs. Then, pressing his chest to your back and nudging you to bend just slightly at the waist, he tipped your bodies closer to the camera’s line of vision and stilled. From the LED screen, you could see the ghost of a smile crossing his lips as he shifted his head beside your own. Next, they were kissing across your shoulder, your neck, that sensitive spot behind your ear, and finally the shell of it, brown eyes trained on the camera lens as he murmured to you, “Stay real still.”

You didn’t know if you could. But you tried. And you damn near cried when his fingers started working circles over your clit. Your body was raised on tip-toes, and your hand was bracing the wall as Joel fucked you from behind and made a mess of your wet, writhing body. In no more than three or four strokes, your fears of looking or sounding stupid on camera trickled away with all the rest of the silent, sizzling liquids circling the drain below. Your cheek pressed against Joel’s rougher one, and with the push of each new thrust, you came more unraveled.

When Joel’s hand closed over the front of your throat, you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move—couldn’t move, as the man was holding you still in such a taut, rigid grip.

“What do we say when we get fucked this nice, baby?” Joel whispered in your ear, words almost entirely masked by the sounds from the shower. You still heard it, though.

“T-Thank you,” you stuttered, cockdrunk and faint.

“Thank you, what?”

Your eyes were fluttering closed, but you could feel the smug expression just over your shoulder. You clenched around him and felt him snap his hips ahead even harder.

“Thank you, daddy,” you whimpered.

“Say it again.”

“Thank you, daddy!” you whined, still scared to be too loud.

Joel wasn’t scared. His hand ascended the column of your neck to pinch your chin between his fingers, jerking your head to the right.

To the crack in the curtain. To the camera.

You could’ve cried with how fast he was fucking you now. You opened your eyes and cast a pathetic look to the recorder. Joel made sure you maintained that gaze, too.

“Who’s makin’ ya feel this good?” he seethed, shaking your whole frame with the breakneck pace of his hips.

“You, daddy.”

“Who’s fuckin’ this sweet cunt like no one ever has?”

“You, daddy.”

Joel seemed sated and somehow not fully satisfied at all. Like he was pleased to see you falling apart for him like this, but needed to hear more. Feel more.

He withdrew from you, and you nearly collapsed with the absence of his arms holding you straight.

You pressed a shaky palm to the wall and almost moaned for him to get his ass back over here, you weren’t done, when Joel returned in a second. To your relief, his muscly arms found their way around your front once more, and his clock plunged back inside you, too—only this time, you sensed you were missing something else.

Water.

It wasn’t on your back anymore.

It was fanning between your legs.

Blasting the full force of its stream toward your most sensitive parts as Joel held the shower head up between your thighs. You would’ve jumped back and screamed were it not for his hand clamping tight over your mouth before you could, his lips grazing over your ear again.

“Try it one more time.”

You released a hoarse, muffled squeal into his palm when he lifted the stainless steel to your clit and started rolling his hips. The strokes themselves were relatively gentle, but paired with the ruthless spate of the water, your eyes were nearly rolling to the back of your head at the pulse.

You couldn’t breathe, much less speak. Joel hummed almost apologetically into your hair but didn’t seem sorry at all as he lowered his hand back down to your throat and squeezed. He continued rocking his hips into yours.

“You’ve said it dozens of times before—what’s’a matter?”

Joel Miller knew what the fuck was the matter. He just liked to see you desperate, fucked-out, and teetering on the brink of going feral before he let you reach your peak.

“D-D-D—”

Damn, you sounded stupid.

“D-D-Do you wanna cum? Is that it?” Joel said, mocking your struggle to articulate words as he fucked you.

In spite of your normal no-bullshit attitude toward him, you weren’t in quite the right frame of mind to be talking back to him. You just nodded and moaned, movements constricted by the grip of his fingers on your neck.

“Use those big girl words for me, honey. I know ya can.”

Again, you parted your lips and started to speak, but the oscillation of the water, the brush of his cock, the patently deprecating lilt in Joel’s string of praises, made it nearly impossible. You ended up sputtering again,

“D-D-ah-fuuuckfuckfuck.”

“That ain’t the word I’m looking for.”

But, just as you ventured to say it once more, he cut in,

“Here. Lemme help ya find it.”

Before you could blink, Joel was pistoning his hips against your ass like he had before, only this time, he held the shower head stationary between your legs as you seized and nearly fell to the floor with the force of all the pleasure coursing through you. Your body seemed to act of its own accord, head dropping to Joel’s shoulder and stomach giving an alarmingly fitful pinch as an orgasm tore through you. You couldn’t control how it came or where it went—or how your tongue jumped up and cried,

“Daddy!”

Joel nodded, fucking you through each violent spasm with all the composure and aplomb of a seasoned pro. While your eyes cycled back in the throes of delirium, he held firm and didn’t slow his hips—or the shower head.

You probably could’ve torn a hole through a cinder block if you’d happened to have one between your teeth just then. That was how fervid and merciless the aftershocks of your climax were pulsing through you, exacerbated to the nth degree by the continuity of Joel’s movements. You managed to grab the forearm that was holding the metal nozzle and plead a wild, slightly stifled, “JOEL!”

In truth, you didn’t really want him to stop. It felt too good. You could tell that Joel sensed this, too, because in the instant after that, his lips were sponging kisses to your shoulder, cock working steadily between your walls.

“One more, sweet pea.”

“Joel—”

“And say it louder this time.”

Were you in your right mind, you probably would’ve chided him for being so reckless and stupid about it all. How the fuck could he expect you to scream out loud when your dad was lounging right outside of your room? Did he really think the drone of Cillian Murphy’s smooth, American-ized tone would mask your unbridled moans? Honestly, you couldn’t be sure—and more importantly, you couldn’t be stopped to consider for much longer. With one last trembling vibration from the shower head and a thrust from Joel, you were cumming all over again.

Squeezing his arm, sinking into his sturdy frame, clenching over his cock in what felt like a hundred convulsions, and casting caution aside, you screamed:

“DADDY!”

You might’ve blacked out for a second or two.

Even a minute, as it was, because the next intelligible thing that reached your ears was the thunder of footfalls. And the thrum of Joel’s own hammering heart as he yanked you into his chest and stilled frozen inside you.

The door swung open on its hinges so hard it hit the wall.

“What is it, sweetie?!” your dad yelped.

“I—”

“Are you hurt?”

Just fucked raw by your best friend and shaking, Pops.

You sucked in a breath when Joel nudged your head with his nose and slowly pulled the shower curtain closed to move you out of view of the camera. But it was still there.

Your dad was still there.

The shower walls seemed to be closing in on you, but somehow, you managed, “No, dad, I’m fine! Just…coulda sworn I saw another spider in here, but it was nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Your dad sounded unconvinced, pacing closer. You could’ve screamed, but Joel was likely holding you too tight to make any such sounds possible in that moment. The two of you recoiled, still stuck chest-to-back, away from the edge of the plastic shower liner when a boot thudded just outside the crack between curtain and wall.

You swallowed. Joel squeezed. Neither of you breathed.

“If it’s another roach, I gotta call the extermin—”

“No! No, it wasn’t a roach. I’m just seein’ things, I think.”

That didn’t seem to make your father feel any better, because he didn’t retreat like he had before. A tense moment fell over the compact, fog-infested room, like the man was chewing away at some thought in his head.

Then he sighed.

“Alright.”

Blissful footsteps away from the shower. You smiled.

Unfortunately, the grin was destined to be short-lived, because in the next instant, you heard boots screech to a halt on the tile. Pivoted, then paused where they stood.

Another gut-wrenching dozen seconds passed, and for one short, chilling moment, you could’ve sworn you felt your father’s gaze sear through the curtain and see you.

But he didn’t see you. Or Joel. Or anyone.

Instead, his gaze was fixed someplace else.

Suddenly, his voice rose above all the awful noises of clamor and panic in your brain, and broke out, loudly,

“What’s my camera doin’ in here?”

[humanjarvis]

pop star!reader x manager!caleb 🔞

you and caleb grew up together. with his shrewd mindset, natural charm, and uncanny business acumen, he always looked out for you. so when you finally made it big, of course you’d asked him to be your manager. and of course he’d agreed. it never would have been anyone else.

you've kissed a couple times before. touched some. but it always ended the same: he’d pull away and shut you out. he’d used more excuses than you could count: “it’d be irresponsible,” “i’d be crossing a line,” “i’d never forgive myself if i ruined our friendship”

but funnily enough, caleb’s never had a girlfriend. and he’s scared off every A-list suitor who’s dared to look your way. 

caleb hates when you provoke him. also hates when you wear revealing costumes.

so when he helps plan your setlist for an upcoming show, you sneak behind his back and recruit your bravest dancers to switch out your song cover segment for a special surprise performance 

the lyrics are raunchy and rebellious and loaded with references to him—a challenge for him to act on his forbidden desires 

your “outfit” is basically strips of fabric, and the way you’re practically flashing the audience nearly gives him a heart attack

he wants to pull you down from the stage. wants to stop the show entirely. but even in his outrage, he puts your reputation first

when you flounce backstage for your outfit change between songs, he hunts you down. steals your clothes from the girls who were supposed to help you change, grits out that he’ll do it himself, and pulls you into your dressing room

the argument starts as soon as he locks the door. you’re asking what he thinks he’s doing, he’s asking what that stunt was. all the while, he hurriedly yanks and tugs and unzips, leaving you half-dressed and breathing hard

the moment you’re almost bare in front of him, his anger begins to fizzle. he can’t waste his focus on anything more than the shape of your body

but you can’t have that. so you set him back off.

taunting him about how the song was for all the cowards in the audience, and maybe you should go find one and ask if he liked what he saw. he’d show you a better time than your manager ever had, that’s for sure

narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. that’s all you see before he’s ripping off your tights and underwear, pushing you against the wall and surging into your waiting core

it’s fast and messy and unrestrained. it’s not what either of you would’ve chosen for your first time together, but something had to give. it was either this, or he followed you onstage and gave the audience a real show

the room fills with a mix of groans and sighs and traded barbs about how annoying the other is. and when you smugly tell him the kicker—the song you’d performed was an original, and you’d written it about him—the thick, sticky jets of his cum warm your insides, and you clench around him with a breathy, dazed laugh

and in record time, snapping immediately back into the overbearing manager role, he shoves your new outfit over your still-trembling body and walks you back to the curtain

“this discussion isn’t over. i’ll see you when you’re done” he promises lowly before nudging you onstage

and for the next half hour, you’re forced to finish the show with your mixed release dripping down your legs

i watched a clip of garden of eden by lady gaga & it inspired this quick outline of how i would write this full thing if i were going to. which i’m not bc i’ve already written a similar pop star au

[starsofang]

everybody had forgotten your birthday. well — everybody except for one person. that person remained a mystery, leaving you a wrapped gift on top of your desk.

the wrapping was pretty, decked in your favorite color with a neat bow slapped on top. it was a stereotypical gift, but it was the only one you’d received for your birthday, and to you, the execution was as beautiful as ever.

one thing was missing, and it was a name. on the tag, rather than saying who it was from, it was a scribbled out heart replaced with a simple smiley face. you didn’t have a clue who the gift could be from, but whoever delivered it was clearly on the fence about revealing their identity.

upon unwrapping the box, you discovered a jewelry box. black, velvet, simple. opening it was an entirely different story.

a lovely bracelet, shiny and new, riddled with little charms of your favorite things. a neat touch of your birthstone was in the mix, as well as a small initial for your name. it was gorgeous, the most perfect gift you could ever ask for, and you desperately wanted to thank the person who retrieved it for you.

you had your suspicions. there was johnny, who could be quite the brat but also a thoughtful friend. or gaz, who was always considerate of your interests and gave you open ears no matter the time of day. ghost didn’t seem the sentimental type, nor did price.

it wasn’t until the next morning, as you walked into the rec room to make yourself a cup of tea, did you know. you adorned the bracelet with pride, the little charms jingling as you poured hot water into your mug.

price stepped in, greeting you with his signature kind smile. you mirrored him, offering a good morning. he joined you in making a tea for himself, the air filled with a comfortable silence. he seemed hyper focused on dipping his tea bag rather than look at you, and if you squinted, you could sense a brief awkwardness looming out of him.

“i see you liked your gift,” he murmured quietly, sparing a quick glance to the bracelet before returning to his tea.

you startled in surprise, eyes wide as you peered up at him while he continued to avoid looking back. “that was you?” you asked.

he hummed in response, finally turning to you to lean his hip on the counter. he lifted his mug, taking a long sip of his fresh tea. “wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world, bug. i was just worried about gettin’ you the right thing.”

“i didn’t know you remembered,” you confessed shyly. you lifted your arm to inspect the bracelet once more, the little initial dangling prettily. “it’s beautiful. i love it. thank you, john.”

price cleared his throat, looking almost flustered. he darted his eyes to your bracelet before looking away again, hiding in his mug. “it’s nothin’, bug.”

“and the crossed out heart on the gift tag was also nothing, i assume?” you grinned knowingly. “the smiley face was a nice touch, though the heart would’ve been cute to keep, too.”

price grumbled into his mug, side eyeing you. “thought the heart might be too much. don’t want you gettin’ the wrong idea.”

“what idea would that be, sir?” you asked teasingly, taking an innocent sip of your tea.

price attempted to hide his smile, but you could see the small quirks on the corners of his mouth, begging to turn up. “minx,” he muttered in feigned annoyance, giving an affectionate pinch to your cheek before stalking off to the exit of the room.

you smiled bashfully, holding the bracelet dear to your chest as you watched him go, the telltale of a smile on his lips leaving with him.

maybe if you prodded him some more, his initial would join yours on the bracelet one day.

[amourrs]

give me confident loser ellie x shy cheerleader reader… give me confident loser ellie who openly advertises her dungeons and dragons campaign to anyone that will listen and shy cheerleader reader who sits in the corner secretly playing the mobile version of a video game and wishing she had the courage to go up and ask the hot girl with the mullet to teach her how to play d&d… give me confident loser ellie who catches sight of shy cheerleader reader in class and thinks she’s the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen so throws a crumpled up paper ball at the back of her head with the words “meet me in the woods after school?” underscored by a drawing of an elf with heart eyes… give me shy cheerleader reader who’s terrified that she’s going to get murdered but goes anyway on the off chance that ellie williams really is there and give me confident loser ellie who almost loses her shit when reader sneaks into the clearing like a timid little mouse… give me loser ellie who’s suddenly not so confident after all, stuttering over her words as she offers reader a joint and reader who suddenly gains confidence in the face of ellie’s awkwardness, giggling as she accepts it and takes the deepest hit ellie’s ever witnessed like it’s nothing… give me loser ellie who leans in to kiss cheerleader reader and accidentally bumps noses with her on the way, leaving them both cursing and rubbing at the sore spots left behind before reader leans in (tilting her head this time) and captures ellie’s lips with hers as ellie tries desperately not to cum in her boxers like a pervert at the feeling of reader’s plush lips on hers

[cherry-pop-elf]

New Chapter

Anya x Reader

Can be read as platonic because we all want the best for her

SUM: Anya gets an abortion so you and the rest of the crew wait for her. You were the first one, however, to see her after surgery. Also because fuck you, abortion rights

Warnings: Abortion, sexual assault, jimmy, medical situations, abortion rights, domestic happy family

“How long is it gonna take?” Daisuke asked, as he was worried but also excited. Excited for Anya to feel better. Worried for well….Not like he’s had the best reactions to medical situations. Example A being Curly in the wheelchair next to him.

Curly was doing so much better now that he was actually on the planet again. The doctors were still jaw dropped that Anya was able to keep him alive with so little. Was not only a testimony to how she refused for him to die, but him refusing to leave his crew behind as well. It’s still a long journey ahead, but he was in clean bandages and clothes at least. Was even able to talk again. Sorta. Rather raspy but he will get there.

Jeez where to start on how you all got here to begin with.

“She’s going to be fine. Abortion is way less invasive than you think. It really depends on how far along, but luckily she isn’t too far for it to be to extreme. Not sure what type she went for, but whatever she chose she chooses. Just grateful we were able to return home before she reached to far along.” You would admit, as you would check up on Curly’s IV bag for him. Taking over Anya’s roll until she could return.

“Ya know….My wife had an abortion.” Swansea said, and it made all of you look over to him in pure surprise.

“What’s the funny look for? Ya think I’m a freak that would refuse my wife that? She needed it! The kid just….It ain’t my place, but the kid just wasn’t gonna survive. Either she carried it to term and die with em, or she just skips the heart ache. Not like it was her fault. We got two healthy girls at the end of the day. We got em because she got rid of that fucked up one.” He explained, as Daisuke seemed wide eyed in respect.

Explains why he snapped more clearly.

Anya had explained to Swansea what had happened, and before you pre Daisuke knew it Jimmy’s head was sliced off and rolling across the kitchen floor. Poor Suke threw up all over you from the sight, and shock. Then threw up again when he learned why he did such a thing. Lots of puking and crying. Fitting.

“Glad that damn company is dead. Whose wise idea was it to have a single woman surrounded by men. No offense you two-“ Curly would wheeze, before you would help him take his medication. Sure is easier to take pills when you actually give him water and take it slow. No choking or crying.

“Thats a can of worms I don’t want us to talk about.” Swansea would scoff. As a father to two girls he had a lot of things to say. Daisuke would be willing to listen, sure, but honestly you all had enough emotional fatigue to last multiple life times.

Thank god Curly was so high up on the food chain at the company. They knew they would get into more hot water if their, once, top captain suddenly vanished. Wouldn’t make their bankruptcy any smoother. For once they did the right thing and sent Simeon to save them.

Funny. A capitalist corporate organization took responsibility for their actions. For the right reasons? No. But they still took it. Strange. Isn’t it?

“Is she done yet?” Daisuke would whine, as you laughed at his childish nature. As if waiting on a sister to get out of the dentists office. You found it rather endearing honestly. That despite it all he was still having a heart full of love and excitement.

“Go play on your toy.” Swansea would grumble, as Suke whined. Regardless he would pull out his game boy. A nice excuse to play video games with out any guilt on wasting his time. Enjoying life shouldn’t be a burden.

“Need anything, Curly?” You would ask him, since you planned on going to the bathroom. Yeah Swansea and Daisuke could handle him, but you still wanted to be polite. Maybe you could grab him something from the vending machines. Maybe a soda. Some sugar in his system would do him good. Anya said that sugary bubble water of some kind, like sprite, can help quite a lot with indigestion.

“I should be fine. Thank you for asking though. Sorry you have to…” He would admit, as he looked himself over. His missing limbs now properly covered up with fabric to keep them clean, and allow him some kind of independence. The fabric on the stumps were padded. With enough practice and effort he would certainly be able to roll himself around.

Then again this was a world of space travel. He was going to get cyborged eventually, but you need to be healed first before such an intense operation. Can’t rush something like this.

“Hey. I do it because I can. Not because I have to. You are our captain. Let me be a good solider.” You teased him, and even in his broken face you could see a smile.

Swansea have you a head nod to indicate he would ‘take care of the boys’ and you were off to use the restroom.

Once done with that you would grab a soda from the vending machine for Curly, a bag of candy for Daisuke, and some pretzels for Swansea. As you were making your way back a nurse would motion you over.

“Miss Anya was asking for you. She has finished her operation, and wanted you to see her.”

You were surprised at that. You expected Curly to be her first guest. Did something go wrong? Oh you couldn’t help but freak out.

You followed after the nurse quickly, and all you were shown was Anya resting in her hospital bed. Tired, but relieved. Mostly. You saw that familiar stress in her eyes. That same stress she had when asking you if she made the right choice in asking Jimmy for help with medicating Curly.

That worry of if I did the right thing.

The nurse would leave you to alone, and you would quickly set the snacks aside. Now you were sitting next to her, in a chair, and holding her hand. Ready to be the shoulder she needed.

“Hey there Doc. How you doing?” You asked her, as you carefully stroked the back of her hand. Made sure to be mindful of all the tubes and wires.

“Well….It went far smoother than I expected. It was just so quick. They didn’t even need to put me under. The IV is more so for the issues I already had because of being stranded on the ship for so long. It was just so quick. So painless. Was just like pulling a thorn out of an arm. It was….Simple.” She would try and explain to you. Needing to make sure to stop herself before using doctor jargon.

“Too easy?” You puzzled.

“Yes. It was just….I expected pain. Pain and anxiety and horror. Suppose even a nurse can come to learn a thing or two…..”

She was hiding something, and you had an educated guess on what.

“You expected Jimmy to break down the door. Weren’t you?”

There was silence, but it told you everything.

“Scoot over. Move it sister-“ You were now crawling into the medical bed with her, moving the wires around, and soon snuggled into her side. Hugging her close, and especially with your arm over her stomach.

“You did the right thing. It’s your body at the end of it all. You took responsibility of taking care of yourself. You wouldn’t have been able to live a proper life. You went to med school. You don’t need me to tell you the horrors of pregnancy and birth. That alone is terrifying. But also you simply not wanting to be pregnant is enough. Ain’t no Jimmy’s gonna storm in and say otherwise.” You huffed, as she smiled. Her head leaning into yours.

“Yeah….No more Jimmy’s. Pretty sure Swansea will make sure of that.” She did her best to joke, and you were proud of her for it. This whole ordeal was hell. Hell none of you will ever truly walk away from. But that’s ok. You all had each other to lean on.

“I think I’m ready for everyone now.” Anya would whisper, as you gave her hand a squeeze. You were so proud of her. This was all such a nightmare, but she’s taking it in stride.

“Hell yeah.” You agreed, before climbing out of the bed. You made sure to grab the snacks, and exited the hospital room.

“Come on guys-! Anya is waiting on you-!” You shameless shouted outside of the room. She couldn’t help her face palm. Daisuke sure was an influence on you.

“I wanna push Curly!”

“Like hell you are-!”

They would bicker away, before Curly said ‘fuck it’ and did his best to roll himself over. He sure was a stubborn one. Made it half way before you figured that was enough work out for one person.

“Pretty far! Getting better at it-!” You encouraged, as the two men realized how far Curly rolled off on before finally following you two into Anya’s room.

“HAPPY NO BIRTH-DAY!” Daisuke would cheer, as Anya shook her head at such a joke.

“God dammit kid-“ Swansea side, before he came over to Anya. Giving her head a kiss. Just comforting her much like a father would.

“How many of us need to be in medical beds?” Curly would give a raspy snort, as Anya reached her hand out. He would lean his head over, and she would give it a stroke. As if all his hair never burned off. A means of holding his hand, in a way, compared to just grasping a limb.

She didn’t need children.

She had all of you.

What else could a woman want?

Since you were willing to read through this story to the end, and get a nice in depth look on the importance of such why not donate to some organizations? : D

Planned Parenthood

Nation Network For Abortion Funds

National Abortion Federation

The Bridge Alliance

The Satanic Temple

ActBlue

No worry on donating. Spreading awareness and signing petitions still help! The more people learn and understand the better! Could also like reblog with other organizations or petitions!

Abortion is healthcare!

[ghost-proofbaby]

IT WILL COME BACK (E.M.)

"honey, don't feed me - i will come back."

summary: when eddie came back from the upside down, he was different. and you finally come to realize just how different the man you saved truly is one night, when push comes to shove.

pairings: kas!eddie munson x reader

warnings: mentions of BLOOD (in sexual manner), mentions of BITING (in sexual manner), allusions to possible coercion (consent is still explicitly stated - trust me), mentions of death and trauma, mentions of eddie's canon death, taking a lot of creative liberty with expansive vampire lore across all media, mentions of murderous dreams? (eddie dreamt about killing reader idk), oral (f receiving), smut. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - 18+ ONLY.

wc: 7.7k+

a/n: i told y'all i'd write a serious biting/blood kink fic one day - today is the day. very lazily edited so beware.

When Eddie came back from the Upside Down, he was different.

There were subtle changes at first. Small, minute details that were easy to ignore. Everyone could turn a blind eye to them — everyone figured they would fade once the boy healed. His healing was first priority, and whatever lingered after could be dealt with.

Get Eddie better. Then question all that lingers.

A simple plan. A genius plan. A torturous plan.

The two of you had been friends, if you could even call it that, prior to it all. Teasing in the hallways, working on school projects here and there when in shared classes, he was your favorite (and only) dealer when you craved something to make sleep come just a little bit easier. He had been familiar — an old ghost you'd grown comfortable with, long before you’d seen those large and wet eyes looking back up at you in the boathouse. 

Long before he’d pieced together the puzzle pieces as to why you’d needed the weed to cancel out the nightmares. Long before he’d processed exactly what those nightmares entailed.

But then, you’d fought for him. You’d fought with him. And most importantly, you’d bled with him.

God, you had bled for him. 

Something admirable had blossomed in that short time. Eddie’s entire life had fallen apart, thread by frayed thread, and that new planted emotion had been the only solid thing to emerge for him to absolutely cling to. You were more than a fellow classmate to pass by in the hallways. You were more than his favorite customer, always weaponizing fluttering lashes and puckered lips for a discount he’d have given you regardless. 

You were a force to be reckoned with, and had ignited a hunger in him like no other.

That’s all he had thought it was when he’d awoken in his living room — not the distorted version but the real one — to you screaming for the others to help you as you’d sealed his wounds. That’s all he had thought it was when you’d come to visit him as wounds turned to scars, and stabbing pains turned to hungering pangs. So he had tried to bury it, listen to Harrington and Wheeler and Buckley when they told him to take time to readjust. He’d locked away that hunger and focused on his healing, just as everyone else had, and told himself it was just residual feelings. 

Residual feelings had been bound to happen after seeing someone bloody their hands, with your own blood, for your survival. 

And in his burial, he’d never considered a similar hunger igniting somewhere deep within you.

You visited far more often than you should have. Returning time and time again to change his bandages, taking on one too many shifts at the hospital during his unconscious spells and baring your teeth for anyone who got too close. The sweet blood on your hands hadn’t washed away in that first shower; you swore, if you looked closer, you could still see the stain of nearly losing him across your knuckles. 

Physical wounds were easier to heal than the internal ones. It was easier to lather on antibiotic lotion than it was to sleep soundly at night. Both of you came to realize that quickly in the weeks that followed Eddie’s return from the dead.

His nights were plagued with bad dreams, with thirst and cravings he couldn’t quite name. He’d wake up, burning up from the inside out with a fever that never existed. Tearing skin. Puncture wounds. Blood spilling across floors and his lips alike. He could never tell if the shivers that traced his spine had been from the cruel visions that had become his nightly visitors or if it was due to his perpetual drop in temperature that had worried Nancy since the very first night home from the hospital, that had concerned the nurses who piled blankets atop him during his week long sleep of recovery. 

Your nights were even less kind. Horrific memories were the demons that haunted you — remembering the way you had watched Eddie cut that sheet rope, remembering finding him bloodied on the ground, remembering the warmth of his blood seeping across your palms and how when your ear had turned just as heated with it as you pressed it to his chest. Only to hear nothing. Emptiness.

His heart had stopped for minutes. Plural.

It had been your steady rhythm, your desperate hands and your gasping breaths breathing into his lungs. You’d sunk your claws into him, caught them right between his ribs and had decided he couldn’t leave you.

Some nights, when you wake up screaming, you can still taste his blood on your lips. You sometimes still swore that when you’d checked for a pulse after that, you hadn’t heard anything. Still worried that Eddie Munson’s heart never really restarted and resumed beating. 

The worst was when you’d stare through the faded grey of  mornings plastering across your room’s walls, and could still remember that initial look in his blown out pupils, once honey brown swallowed in pure black as he’d taken his first breath on his own. 

Hunger.

You’d felt it, too. Shame riddled you on the nights you’d come down from the nightmares and remember it; it was as though the Universe had snapped back into place the moment you’d watched his chest first rise. A need so ardent to remain at his side. A chain clicking into place, binding both yourself and Eddie to one another, unaware of just what price had been paid to keep the boy that had laid under you in this world. Unaware of the hunger you had struck the match too that would become both your downfalls.

And so it had been buried. Something alive, even with your doubts of Eddie’s liveliness, and choking on dirt while six feet under. You and Eddie, two sides of the same coin, had decided to not speak of it. He never told you how he had come to be able to pinpoint your heartbeat in every shared room he entered, throat burning as his gaze always settled on you, and you never told him of the matching aches that had shamefully sparked within your chest and between your hips for him. 

A hunger to be near one another. A hunger to devour. Neither of you really understood the heaviness.

“How are you feeling today, Eddie?” Steve asks as he sits on the edge of the new bed in the new apartment in the new part of town the Munson men now occupy. 

Government money could go a Hell of a long way. Especially after your home had been devastated by the aftermath of alternate dimensions and unheard of evil being defeated.

“Fine,” is the only response Eddie can muster.

In reality, every time anyone came near him now, he burned. His throat tightened till it was surely raw, he swore his teeth sharpened until a mere slip of his tongue against his canines could bring the taste of metallic blood to his mouth. His entire body would tense with every person that walked through his door.

Control. Whatever was happening to him, Eddie needed to exercise control.

“Just fine?” Steve continues on, not catching the drift as he puts down the bag of things he’d bought at Eddie’s request. Basic things — painkillers, packs of cigarettes, a 6-pack. Some habits die harder and can’t be controlled, “You look like shit, Munson.” 

“Gee, thanks, Stevie.” 

Everyone had assumed the dark shadows beneath Eddie’s eyes would fade. They assumed his cheeks would eventually fill back out. They assumed he could wash away the ashen shade his hair now flatly flowed in. It was as if the life had been drained from Eddie since that day, and they had all assumed it would eventually flow back into him. 

It never did. Just as his new hunger lingered, so did the look of Death.

“Sorry, man,” Steve throws his hands up, shrugging a bit before he stands, “Just being honest. It’s the best policy.”

“Is it? Is it really?” 

If honesty was the best policy, Eddie could have filled the room with it. He could admit about the nightmarish wants, needs, he’d been keeping at bay. He could admit the way his irritation had been growing this last week every time another body, another friend, walked through his doorway and it wasn’t you. You, who had begun to plague the night terrors. You, who Eddie was beginning to crave far more than he had before he’d stared the afterlife down the barrel of the gun. 

Steve just looks at Hawkins’ newest zombie boy, sighing, “Look, I don’t know what’s got you pissed off-“

“The whole dying thing, for starters.”

“-or why you’ve insisted on being an asshole to all of us these last few weeks-“

“Again, I died.” 

“-but you’ve got everyone but me scared to visit you. We’re all scared of you biting our heads off, dude,” Steve finally finishes with a scowl. 

Everyone. It’s unspoken that you’re included in the generalization. 

It occurs to Eddie that maybe, just maybe, he should be kinder if he ever wants the ache of yearning to see you again to fade. If that’s what he could call this ache.

By the time Steve has left, Eddie’s still thinking about his warning. About the way he had been unusually cruel since coming back to life, since waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed. It made sense initially. But he wasn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed anymore — he was home, or as close to home as he could get, and he was technically safe.

The issue was that he’d accepted his safety. Everyone who had wanted Eddie Munson dead was now six feet under themselves. No, the bigger issue at hand was everyone else’s safety.

Your safety.

Once he’d realized you were the staring lead in his violent fantasies, he had stopped calling. Half of your absence last week had been his fault. 

No one really bothered to look deeper into it. Steve didn’t press as to why Eddie’s fridge had remained empty, Nancy didn’t take second glances at the odd books on vampire tales that were now littering all the free real estate of Eddie’s room, and you hadn’t questioned the coldness of his tone whenever he spoke to you. The chill of his words had grown icier than his own palms, desperate to keep you at arm’s length until he figured out what had changed in him that day he came back to life. 

He wanted you near. He wanted to rip your throat out. He wanted your blood to stain his mouth and neck just as his had stained your hands. That was an issue. That wasn’t normal. 

Something had changed in Eddie Munson, and it had terrified him to his twisted core, and no one had cared enough to notice. Not yet.

–

It took you two weeks to be fed up with the radio silence. 

Eddie stopped calling even Jonathan (the only one of the group he found he didn’t want to devour whole, as it turns out). When everyone had mentioned it in passing, it had only reminded you of the sleepless nights you’d be enduring. That small voice in the back of your head that had called out to you in the dead of night, the whisper of come to me that echoed all the way across a broken town. 

Come to me. 

Sometimes you swore it was Eddie’s voice calling to you. Sometimes, you nearly left your own new apartment in the dead of night, and let your legs guide you to the undead boy you had single-handedly revived.

Tonight was one of those nights. Your stomach was twisting, your head was pounding, your bones were aching. Every single inch of you hurt as it listened to that soft calling, and at some point, you gave in.

Hunger. You were insatiable with the need and drive to be at Eddie’s side. Warnings from the others be damned.

One thing leads to another. You find your coat, you find your car keys. You find yourself driving the deserted streets of Hawkins in the middle of the night. You find yourself on the Munson doorstep, knuckles shaking and aching with the knowledge that just beyond the wood of the door, he was there. You don’t have to see him to feel him; his thrumming presence, his anchoring existence. 

Come to me. 

The door swings open before you get the chance to knock. This string tying your two souls together is not a one-way channel, it seems. 

“Why are you here?” 

You watch him wince as the harsh words leave him. Immediately, you know that the abrasiveness is on instinct. Just as something claws inside of you to be near him, there is something within him howling to keep you far from him. 

The polarity of two magnets. Some nights, surely, his twists in a way that would draw him to you, just as yours will twirl with the sensibility that whatever has changed within him should give you cause to run as far away from him as possible. 

But tonight, your magnetism only yanks you closer to him. He doesn’t even invite you in, and yet, you find yourself stepping over the threshold of the new apartment. 

“You’ve gone quiet,” you whisper as an answer. It’s not what he wants to hear, grimace deepening, nearly a scowl now, “I just… It’s been weeks. I…” 

I missed you. I needed you. I heard you in my dreams and I’ve never had much self-control when it comes to you. 

Magnets are a useless metaphor for whatever is happening here between you. A better comparison would be the cliche image of a moth to a flame; he’s dangerous, threatening to burn you alive, and you still find your heart fluttering after him hopelessly. You’re going to get scorned, and you’ll still never learn. You’ve fallen victim to a tired narrative that you’d rolled your eyes at in a plethora of books. How many times had you sworn that wouldn’t be you? Just how many eye rolls had you exhausted at the mere idea?

And now, here you were, on his doorstep. Grasping for something you’re not sure either of you can give. 

“I’ve been dealing with a few things,” he mutters as he shuts the door behind you, shielding you both from the chill of the night. The room is still cold, especially in his radius, “Didn’t think it would make much of a difference.” 

“You didn’t think I’d care if you just stopped calling?” you turn slowly, taking in the state of the living room. Wayne was clearly gone for the night, work most probably, and several books littered the coffee table. Eddie had been the one reading them, lounging on the couch. 

The last time you had seen him, he couldn’t even sit up in bed on his own. 

He’s keeping an unusual distance, nearly leaning back out of your vicinity, “Figured you were busy.”

He’s never been this short with you. His words are choked up, his body tense with pain. You assume it’s just his injuries bothering him.

You couldn’t be more wrong, but you’re completely unaware.

“I brought you back from the dead, and you think I’d still be too busy for you,” you laugh humorlessly, fully in disbelief at his pitiful excuse, “Eddie, we could find out Vecna didn’t really die, those damn cracks in the Earth could open right back up, and the first person I’d care about finding is you.”

The animal inside that had been yearning for his presence is satiated for now, but you can still feel it lurking in the darkest depths of your mind, ready to call out a new request at any moment. It’s the distraction that has you spilling pathetic truths. 

The only response he offers you is a dead stare. With eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowed up by darkness. 

“You could have called,” your voice cracks, body shaking with the effort not to take a step closer to him, “You could have just let me know you were still alive.”

“I-” 

He cuts himself off when he’s the one taking a step closer. His entire face twists with pain, and you give up keeping your distance. In an instant, you’re at his side as your hand reaches out for his bicep. 

He flinches away. Something inside of you burns. 

Your hand is hovering in the air between the two of you, and in this lighting, you swear the skin is still stained with the blood that won’t wash away. 

“Please don’t,” he begs, “I’m fine, but… please.”

You don’t know what he’s begging for. Distance, for you to pull your hand away, time – you don’t know what he needs. 

“We should sit down,” you insist, finally pulling your hand as far from him as possible but making no move to put the space back between you two, “Has anyone helped you with your bandages? If your wounds got infected-”

“They didn’t.”

“If you didn’t change the bandages, they definitely could have-”

“They’re not infected,” he grits out, but he’s still walking over to the couch regardless, “They’re healed.” 

Healed.

Mere weeks ago, those wounds were still deep enough to keep you from ever achieving a full night's rest. Deep enough to worry you to the core that you would wake up to them finally having consumed him. Deep enough that you all assumed it would take him months, not weeks, to recover.

“What do you mean they healed, Eddie?” you whisper, almost reaching out for him as he sits down. 

Your hand twitches, but the echoes of his begging and his flinching keep it at bay as you stand before him. 

“I mean, they healed,” he huffs, nostrils flaring as he takes deep breaths. He’s looking anywhere in the room but at you, his gaze subverting you with purpose. As though the mere sight of you, the mere proximity, is painful to him, “Don’t know how, don’t know why – they just did.” 

“So why are you still in pain?” 

A sharper intake of breath. A hush of silence falling over the apartment. Even the buzz of the building’s AC unit has faded from all your senses. It’s just you and him, and a heavy quietude like no other. 

Until he finally breaks the surface tension, breathing out, “You.” 

Your heart drops. That tug inside your chest, the one taut as you look at him right within your reach yet still so far away, almost snaps. 

“Me?”

He nods with a harsh swallow, “I- Look, I can’t explain it, but when I came back, I came back…” 

“Different?” 

He doesn’t have to explain it. You’d felt it.

The moment his eyes had opened, just moments after what should have been blissful victory. The taste of his blood heavy on your tongue, a terrible sweetness that had choked you rather than its initial metallic twang. The whispers of his voice in your mind. 

He wasn’t the only one changed from whatever had occurred that night. 

“Different is a good way of putting it,” he nods, looking up with apologetic eyes, “It’s not you. It’s cliche as fuck, but it really isn’t – it’s me. I died, and you brought me back, but I don’t think either of us knew the cost.” 

The yearning. The nightmares. The unmanageable needs. The hunger. 

“What was the cost?” 

He almost doesn’t hear you. Your voice is a whisper, tone weighed down with the curse of knowing. 

You might not have known the cost when you were pressing your palms into his chest through your wretched sobs, functioning as his heart and lungs for nearly a minute, but you think you might have a clue now. 

All that had been tethering you to him since he’d come back to you, all those webs and strings that had formed their knots around both of your necks. He’d changed, and you had plummeted right into the chasm of the unknown with him.

His blood on your tongue, sweet as honey. 

Blood shouldn’t be sweet. 

He grabs one of the books off the coffee table, motioning for you to join him on the couch. Under the weight of your realization, you’re nearly under a trance. All he has to do is wave a hand, and you follow. 

You’re at his beck and call. Just like you had been when he’d been calling out for you, yearning for you. 

“Don’t make me say it,” he mutters under his breath, tossing the book into your lap the moment you’ve sat down. This time, you’re mindful to keep your distance. 

This time, you’re painfully aware of the compromising situation the two of you have found yourselves in. 

The book is older, leather-bound and worn from years of readers’ careless hands breaking the spine. The corners of every page are weather, close to disintegration. The entire thing could easily pass for a Halloween decoration. 

It’s not. You flip open to the title page, and if Eddie didn’t appear so deathly serious at your side, you would have scoffed. 

“Dracula?” you question carefully, running a finger over the delicate script of the title, “Eddie, I don’t-”

“I’m not insane,” he interrupts you, “I’m not fucking- I swear to you. I’ve gathered up every goddamn book about it that I can. Fictional, nonfictional. Just- there’s obviously a Hell of a lot more fictional material to work with, okay?” 

A vampire. He’s convinced he’s a vampire.

And even worse – you’re convinced right along with him. 

You turn your head to look at him, trying to find the right words, but all you find is Eddie burying his face in his hands, head nearly hung between his knees. 

“I can’t eat normal food anymore,” his voice is muffled, “That was the first sign. Couldn’t stomach it, made me throw up for hours when I tried. And then all those nurses kept talking about how I was healing faster than they expected. Most of my smaller cuts – those healed in under a day,” he finally lifts his face just enough to turn and peer at you through all the stray curls that fall into his vision, “My vision and hearing were the next things I noticed. Remember how I had a nonstop migraine those first few days?” 

He doesn’t need to convince you, but the argument is compelling, “It… wasn’t a migraine.” 

He shakes his head. “Not even close. Just turns out that it’s a killer to get used to fucking superhuman night vision and impeccable hearing. I still can’t handle being out in the sun very long. I don’t… burn up or any of that shit, but… it just…” he trails off, shoulders falling in defeat before he throws himself back against the couch. When he continues, his tone is flat, devoid of all emotion, “I keep having these dreams about you, too. Bad dreams. Terrible dreams.” 

You shut the book, toss it back onto the coffee table, and decide to Hell with keeping your distance. 

You need it. Even if he’ll only allow you to get an inch closer to him, you need it. 

“What do you mean by terrible dreams?” you ask, breath catching at the end of your question as you scoot yourself closer on the couch. Even with such a small movement, Eddie is quick to notice, eyes flicking to you quickly with a sense of urgency flashing behind them. 

“Don’t,” he lowly warns. 

“What’s happening in your dreams, Eddie?” 

Another inch closer. His jaw clenches. 

“Sweetheart, do not-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Your knee bumps into his thigh, and you watch him go rigid. Hands turning to fists, eyes pinching shut and face twisting with the same pain he’d worn the ghost of when you first arrived at the apartment. 

The moment you touch him, you see it. The flashes of his nightmares, all those terrible actions haunting him every time he closed his eyes. You. Your blood. That hunger. 

Like a blackhole in the center of your stomach, it burns viciously as it sucks the air out of your lungs. It threatens to cave your entire being into itself until there’s nothing left. Not even a crumb of who you once were. 

But it's not yours. It’s Eddie’s. 

That pain on his face is only exhibiting a fraction of what he was feeling. That dizzying craving that he’d miraculously been keeping at bay since you’d simply entered the building, not even yet knocking on his door. You hadn’t even been in the same room as him yet, and he had still known. Had smelt you, had felt you. 

He could almost taste you. 

“You…” you have to shift your knee away from him, break the touch, break the connection, “You haven’t fed since you woke up.”

“I haven’t fed, period.” 

With the connection severed, he somehow finds it in himself to open his eyes once more. You don’t know how – if he’s feeling what you’d just been privy to, you’d be an incoherent mess on the floor. Something feral and unrecognizable. 

Although, maybe he was nearly there. You couldn’t see his pupils. That same look when he’d first woken up – a man swallowed whole by hunger. 

“You’ve been dreaming about ripping my throat out,” you say it as a matter of fact, not a lick of judgment in your tone. 

It wasn’t you scrutinizing him. It was what you had seen, with one simple touch. 

His voice is hoarse as he echoes in confirmation, “I’ve been dreaming about ripping your throat out.” 

You should probably be afraid. All your survival instincts should be kicking in, your feet should be carrying you towards the door, you shouldn’t be leaning in closer. 

“You know what really sealed the whole vampire ordeal though, sweetheart?” he breathes out, your eyes fluttering shut at the lull in his hushed tone. 

Just as you’ve been leaning in, he’s been slowly turning his body to face yours, hands twitching at his sides. He’s no longer retreating from your presence, sucking down breaths in harsh gulps the closer you grow to him. 

He’s losing control. You’re losing control. 

That thread, vibrant red as it draws you near him, is clear as day now. A noose around your neck. A road to your damnation. 

A road to your hunger. 

You hardly hum in response, completely entranced now. Had he ever been capable of this before? Of holding you beneath such an inescapable spell with such ease? 

Probably. 

He doesn’t use his words to answer. Instead, he finally takes the plunge. 

His head ducks down towards your neck just as his hands lose the war, grabbing onto your hips, dragging you dangerously close to him until his lips hovered just over your pulse point. And by some strength that you certainly don’t possess, he stops there. Letting his lips barely brush against your soft skin, breath coming out in pants for you to feel, to relish, to get lost in. And just as soon as those pants, those waves, become a comfortable pattern to succumb to, you feel them.

His fangs. 

Grazing over your sensitive skin. Sharp tips nipping at a surface they could so easily break, pierce with one wrong move. Your pulse is thrumming beneath the surface, heart racing painfully as Eddie’s grip turns bruising. 

Come to me. 

“Please.” 

You’re the one begging now. It goes against every rule you’ve ever seen applied in fiction. If a vampire is baring their fangs against your neck, you should be reaching for a stake. The only noise escaping you should be a scream for help, not the pathetic whimpers beginning to slip out. 

“I can’t,” you feel his gasp more than you can hear it. Your blood is too loud, roaring in your ears as you feel the fangs slip with his words, “I can’t.” 

That hunger you felt, the one that had called out to you through the night and led you right to his doorstep, is unavoidable now. You need him closer, you need him to do this. For the first time since you had saved his life and tasted his blood after the Upside Down, everything seems to click into place. All he needs to do is let them sink into you, take that final leap of faith and reprieve that ache you’ve battled for weeks now. 

You’re so close. So close. 

“Eddie, please,” you’re nearly sobbing, hands gripping onto his shoulders, trying to pull him in closer. 

But you’re no match for his strength. You don’t know if it’s a new addition with his vampire business or if there was always more to him than met the eye, but he easily stays stoic against your attempts, not moving a centimeter. Still hovering, still just barely making contact with your heartbeat. 

“I-” his head drops slightly, tip of his nose beginning to trail down the side of your neck, mouth no longer dangerously close, “You saw my dreams-”

“I trust you.” 

You do. You trust him even more now than you had when you first stumbled upon him in the boathouse. More than when he had pleaded his case, promised he hadn’t been the one to kill Chrissy Cunningham. The trust comes easier than breathing as his nose nuzzles into the junction of your neck and shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t,” he mutters, fangs now brushing your collar bone, “You really, really shouldn’t.” 

He doesn’t stop you when you move to straddle his hips. Your weight settles onto his lap, and he only fights to keep his face burrowed there in your shoulder, arms now moving around your waist to hold you tightly to him. 

His self-control is impeccable. You’d admire him and all this impressiveness another time, when something inside of you wasn’t lamenting his resistance. 

All at once, it occurs to you how to give him the final push. 

“Did I ever tell you how sweet your blood was on my tongue after I brought you back?” you start, sighing, rolling your shoulders to expose more of your neck, grip on his shoulders tightening, “All that blood, all those tears, and I still can’t forget how welcome that warmth of you was in my mouth. How I needed more. How I pictured it every night, after every nightmare-” 

He breaks. 

One moment, his nose is buried in your skin. And the next, his fangs are. 

You weren’t sure what to expect, but relief would have been low on your list. You gasp out in initial shock, but as you feel his teeth dig in, it’s as though something has snapped. The ache has been satiated, preening as you feel the warmth of your blood contrast the chill of his chin pressing into you. 

If there’s any pain, you don’t feel it through the haze of pleasure. 

Ice shards spread through your bloodstream, but the point in which Eddie’s mouth is connected to you radiates heat. He’s pulling you into him, letting go completely and relinquishing all that control as he nearly purrs against your skin in satisfaction. That connection is back, two minds linking with a heavy click, and you can feel all his pleasure mingling with your own. Satiation, desperation, adoration – the plethora of emotions all swarm your head and block out any better judgment. 

You’d let him drain you dry, if that’s what he needed. If nothing more than to hear those soft moans as his fangs sink even deeper. 

He pulls back too soon, though, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as quickly as he had given in to both your desires, he’s putting an end to them. He hadn’t taken much blood, but your head is swimming from the loss all the same. Your grip has gone slack on him, hands slipping down to just barely cradle his biceps while his own touch stays unyielding around you. 

You can hear his thoughts. Or rather, maybe more aptly put, you can feel them. 

He wants to devour you. Wholly, ruthlessly. 

He looks up at you with pupils still blown wide, chest heaving and a small scarlet drip trailing from the corner of his mouth. For the first time since he’d come back to you, he looks alive. Hair fluffed in a halo around his head, skin tinted with a healthy glow and unmistakable blush, bags beneath his eyes faded for the time being. 

You were never quite sure if Eddie Munson’s heart had ever restarted, knew for certain that it hadn’t now, but you swear you can feel its pulse finally thrumming for you. 

I need more. 

It’s his voice in your head, echoing in the empty space as you look down with wild eyes to match his. 

But it’s your voice in his head when you respond instantaneously. 

Then take it. 

Something unspoken lies there in the need. He doesn’t move back to your neck, doesn’t bite down and drink his fill of your blood. He only stares for a few seconds, watching the welt of blood that pools from each puncture wound of his making. His eyes follow when it runs down your skin, as though he might lose it should he so much as blink. Down, down, down. Following the trail that his nose had followed minutes before, across your collarbone until it stains the neck of your loose shirt. 

My pleasure. 

His hold proves helpful when he quickly changes positions, roughly throwing you down onto the couch before he’s settled between your thighs, crawling his way up your body. He pays close attention to the maroon trail on your throat, his tongue cleaning up after his mess, savoring the taste of you on his tongue. 

Sweet as honey. 

His tongue only pauses for a moment over the bite wound, pressing into it, making your back arch as you press yourself fully into him. Your head digs painfully into the cushion behind you as you expose your neck, wanting and begging and pleading all without words. 

“I think we should take this off,” he plucks at the hem of your shirt, tugging hard before he begins to carefully lift. His freezing knuckles brush against your burning skin, eliciting a whimper from you, “Before we make an ever bigger mess. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?” 

A sultry tone you’ve never heard from him before. Honeyed words, familiar to how he once spoke, but entirely new in the way they curl around you. There’s a confidence there, a baiting that he’s luring you with. 

“Yes, please.” 

He could ask anything of you in this moment, and you’d be eager to comply. Fueled by your desire for him before the events of spring break, worsened by his new condition. A bright, red, vibrating thread. You couldn’t severe the tie if you wanted to. 

And you most certainly did not want to. 

Your shirt is removed, his hands careful despite the way they shake. His words may be smooth, but each move is jagged, the only sign you had that he’s still exercising control. 

“And these?” he whispers, lowering his lips to your sternum as he toys with the band of your pants. His fangs scratch down the center of your stomach as it quivers with each breath, careful to not break skin as they make their presence known. You nearly lose all capability to speak until he says, “Use your words, baby. Tell me I can take them off.” 

Yes. 

His eyes flare, looking up to you, “Use your words. Not your mind. I want to hear how badly you need me – I want everyone to hear you beg.” 

The words strike straight to your core. Lashing out in your lower stomach, burning deliciously. 

It’s more than putting on a show. He needs to know you want this. 

“Take them off,” you gasp out, hands wandering to tangle in his hair, “Take- Take it all off. I’m yours, Eddie.” 

Shaking hands perform a dance you had long since fantasized about. In easier days, when Eddie had been uninvolved in the episode down, heart still beating along as he would bounce his knees in front of you and his fingers would idly fiddle with his pencils and pens. A yearning, a wanting, you’d always held for the boy. 

He used to be an escape from it all. A pretty thing to daydream about when you weren’t worried about monsters. And now – he was one of the monsters. 

Your monster. Tied to you inexplicably, brought back by your hands and your stubborn efforts. 

His lips and fangs are one in the same, trailing along your body as he finds a home at the apex between your thighs. Even in undeath, he’s the most beautiful thing your mind could conjure. 

You’d forgotten how he was privy to your every thought until he reacts.

“You’re too sweet,” he murmurs, smirking salaciously as he mouths innocently at that sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tongue darting out to lick a cool stride before he breathes out against it. It has you writhing beneath his hold, “You’ve wanted this all this time, sweetheart? Wanted to see me, between these pretty thighs, making you scream my name?” His mouth falls open a bit wider, the sharp canines pressing but not sinking against where he had just licked. He holds there, eyes locking with yours, until he pulls back to cockily say, “Could’ve just said something, y’know. Didn’t have to bring me back from the dead to have me devoted to you.” 

Finally, finally, he lets his fangs sink back into you. The soft meat of your thigh is more pliant in his mouth, and he doesn’t linger as long as he had on your neck. One nick, just enough to start the blood flow, before he’s pulling back and licking hungrily at the scarlet liquid. Less for feeding, more for marking.

Marking you as his, just as you have with him. His methods just appeared a bit more physical. 

He’s quick to avert his focus on your cunt, no warning before the tongue still covered in your blood is taking long strides over your entrance and clit. Devotion. That was the only word to describe the way he was unraveling you, alternating between indulging in your sweet cunt and returning back to that bite, going as far to even sink his teeth in a second time to take a proper drink of you. His chin and lips grow slick with it all – with the blood, with your wetness, with his own saliva. A starved man with a feast before him. 

The way he’s rutting his hips into the couch as he slings your legs over his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed. 

It’s a mess. A wonderful, satisfying, enchanting mess.

Beautiful. So beautiful, all mine. 

His voice has you teetering on an edge of new carnal pleasure. Completely consumed by him, your hands tugging viciously at his curls. His face is round once more, eyes and cheeks no longer sunken in, vitality being breathed into him with each taste of your blood. 

Let me touch you. Please.

You beg over that connection, trying your best to not buck your hips mercilessly against his tongue. You feel his wicked grin. 

“You’re already touching me, sweetheart,” he reaches up, untangling your fingers from his hair for emphasis before he’s pinning them to your sides, “And what did I say about using our words? Hm?” 

“Need more,” your voice is wrecked as you tilt your head back, wrists straining against his hold, “I need more.” 

You’re fully light-headed now, the blood loss finally catching up. Maybe you were about to let him drain you dry. 

And what a beautiful way to die. At the hand, at the fangs, of the one you had fought so urgently to bring back to you. 

One last timid lick to the wound on your thigh, and he’s crawling his way back up to you. The mess doesn't phase you as he kisses you hungrily – the blood remains sweet rather than metallic, the remnants of your juices still on his tongue – and you meet him with an unbridled fervent. Nipping at his lips with your own dull canines as if you were the one looking for a bite of vivacity. 

You don’t know when he lets go of your wrists, or when your hands find their way up beneath his shirt. The specifics don’t matter once he’s naked before you, clothes discarded messily to the ground with your own. The only thing that matters is the weight of him, the reminder that he was still here as his hips roll into yours and the head of him catches on your entrance. 

He had been dead. For minutes. And you had brought him back to you. 

The process had taken longer than the mere CPR administered, had taken weeks of whatever waiting game you two had tortured yourselves with, but you had him now. He was yours. You were his. There wasn’t a deity, a monster, an omniscient being in this world that could take that away from you. Not even Death herself. 

“Last chance, baby,” he whispers against your lips, holding himself up so that not a single inch of his skin pressed to yours. You nearly cried out, missing that connection, missing him. Your hunger, the hunger for him entirely, rattles your bones once more, “Say the word, and I’ll-”

“No,” your hands pause their exploration of skin jagged with scars. Reminders of those few dreadful moments in which the world existed without Eddie Munson in it, that would fade in time but never fully disappear. Always there, just like the stain of his blood on your palms. Always there, just like your desperation to have him at your side. “I meant it when I said I’m yours. I’m not changing my mind. I want this.” 

His skin is back on yours, body laid fully along your own road map, and it all comes flooding back. The pain of seeing his lifeless body, the nights spent in an eerie hospital room, baring your own teeth at any one who came too close to the man you had pulled back from the ledge of Death. The anxiety, the fear, the relief, the yearning – it all accumulates as he’s pressing into you, brimming you so full that there’s no room for memories of nightmares. 

He’s here. He’s yours. You’re his. 

His heart didn’t need to beat for you to accept that truth. 

You can’t decipher which chants of your name fall from his lips for others to hear, and which ones whisper in the depths of your mind for only you to bear witness to. Each curse, each grunt, each moan – there for you and only you anyways. You’re entirely unsure if your lips even separate once as he thrusts, cock brushing somewhere deep in you that has you clenching around him. 

And if his fangs wander, it only adds to the pleasure. 

Blood, sweat, and tears all mingle between your bodies. He’s holding you tighter than water, as though you’re at risk of disappearing from him at any given moment. But that link between your two minds, your two souls, is unwavering. It’s the only thing grounding you to the moment as your half curls around his waist and your heel digs into his lower back. Urging him, pressing him, taking him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says it out loud, this time. You feel his lips brushing against your ear as he does, “Gripping me so tightly. This pussy was fucking made for me.” 

Every movement only unlocks something more feral inside the two of you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red lines to trace over once it’s all said and done. There’s enough shallow bite marks across your neck that you’ll be wearing scarves for weeks, months. The others might question it, strangers might stare, but the pride you feel as he marks you is unmatched for any anxiety about it. 

That black hole of hunger is no longer swallowing either of you whole. That debilitating pain, that animal inside, has been tamed. 

When his hips begin to stutter, mouth no longer capable of the strength to properly bite you as his lips only smear the soft spattering of blood pooling at the base of your throat, you’re already there. Squeezing him tightly, sucking him in, voice raw as you let everyone know who’s ravishing you. 

Eddie. 

Hawkins’ newest zombie boy – Hawkins’ newest vampire. 

The climax is just as pleasurable as the lead up. The haze lingers long after his spent has dripped out of you, long after he’s collapsed into your body with exhaustion and contentment. The blood dries, the wounds clot – but that haze doesn’t falter. 

As long as his skin presses to yours, you feel that caress of his mind against yours. 

“Did…” you’re breathless as his face nuzzles into your nude chest, a few mindless hums of gratification still slipping from him as you bring a hand to toy with the curls at the crown of his head, “Did any of your vampire books say anything about… that?”

The connection. The bloodlust. The spell you swear he still has you under, even as it’s all said and done. 

He snorts against your skin, “Not that I, uh, recall.” 

“What? You mean to tell me in all your research, you never dived into any vampire smut?” you tsk jokingly, a calm smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He lifts his head, and you swear, those honey-brown irises have threads of a deep maroon now, “You’re slacking, Munson.” 

“Why read about it when I can just experience it?” he coos, letting his nose and lips drag across your still hot skin before he rests his chin on your sternum, “Besides, I mean – we’ll need to do this again, won’t we, baby? For research.” 

Your head still spins. Your body aches in a welcome manner. There will be a need for explanations to others, for actually researching his condition, later on. But for now, it’s enough. 

The pounding behind your ribcage, the one you know Eddie feels for the both of you when his ear presses to your chest, is enough. 

Of course, lover. 

That thought stays between the two of you. The world doesn’t need to know what can’t hurt them. 

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[kikis-writing-service]

Katsuki x Reader.

Inspired by @peachsukii's post.

🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤

The words came out without thinking. You'd been watching him clean his gauntlets for the past twenty minutes, methodical and focused. Some cooking show played in the background, but neither of you were really watching. Your feet were tucked against his thigh, stealing some of his warmth while he worked.

"I love watching you do that. You're so meticulous with everything,” you said.

His hands went still. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, before he caught himself and went back to polishing with more force than necessary.

"Tch. You think I'm hot, we get it." The words came too quick, too sharp, his eyes dropping to avoid yours. "Don't need to dress it up."

There was something off about his tone, a brittleness that made you look at him more carefully.

"Katsuki." You sat up, your palm finding the space between his shoulder blades. "That's not what I meant."

"Whatever." He turned away as much as he could, angling his shoulder toward you. "Look, you don't have to—"

"No." Your other hand found his knee. He went rigid under your touch. "You don't get to tell me what I meant."

His hands stopped moving entirely. You could feel the tension radiating through him, the way his breathing had gone careful and controlled. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

"People don't..." He stopped, jaw working. Started again. "Nobody looks at me and thinks about my fucking personality as a selling point."

The admission hung between you. His entire body had gone rigid with the vulnerability of it, shoulders hunched as if he could physically contain the words he'd let slip. But you'd heard it—that crack in his carefully constructed armor.

"Most people are idiots then," you said quietly.

You traced gentle circles between his shoulder blades, trying to coax him back from wherever he was retreating to.

"Don't." His voice cracked slightly. "Don't say shit you don't mean just to make me feel better."

The certainty in those words—that people only said nice things about who he was to spare his feelings—made something twist in your chest.

You moved the hand from his knee to cup his cheek, gently turning his face. Your other hand dropped to rest beside you on the couch as he shifted to face you. He had no choice but to look at you now. You were close enough to see the way his pupils had blown wide with something that looked dangerously close to panic, but also hope—desperate, terrifying hope.

"Katsuki." Your voice was gentler now, but no less firm. "When have I ever acted like your personality is something I have to put up with?"

His throat worked under your watchful gaze, but instead of answering, he tried to turn away again. Your hand kept him anchored, cupping his face.

"You will." The words were barely audible. "Everyone does eventually. I'm not exactly easy."

The confession carried the weight of every disappointment he'd ever swallowed. This was someone who'd been hurt so deeply he'd stopped believing in the possibility of being genuinely wanted.

He leaned into your touch without seeming to realize.

"What if I don't?" The words came out softer than you'd intended.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. His hand came up to cover yours, not pulling it away but holding it there. "Come on. You really want me to believe you fell for my sparkling fucking personality? That you wake up thinking about how much you love my attitude?"

There was a challenge in his voice, but underneath it was something else—a desperate kind of hope that he was trying to smother before it could hurt him. Like he wanted to be wrong but couldn't afford to believe it. His thumb moved against your knuckles where your hand still rested on his cheek.

"Yeah." The word came out stronger than you'd intended. "I do."

He stared at you and the look on his face was something you'd never seen before—naked disbelief warring with want, suspicion battling against the part of him that was starving for exactly what you were offering. His free hand found your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like you might disappear if he didn't anchor himself to you.

"Bullshit." But his voice broke on the word, and you could see his hands shaking where they held you.

"Ask me." The challenge rose in your throat. You leaned closer, breath ghosting against his lips. "Ask me what I think about when I think about you."

His breath caught. For a moment you thought he might actually do it. Then his jaw set in that familiar stubborn line.

"Katsuki." You caught his face in both hands before he could look away. "Ask me."

His grip tightened over your hand on his cheek. He wasn't pulling away—he was holding on.

"I—" The word caught in his throat like glass. His eyes searched yours with the intensity of someone who'd been starving for genuine affection so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to be nourished by it. "What do you think about?" The question came out fractured, his voice was barely above a whisper—rough and uncertain in a way that made your heart crack open with the sheer vulnerability of it. "When you think about me, what do you actually see?" The words emerged like a confession, like something he'd been carrying alone for so long it had worn grooves in his soul, carved out spaces where self-doubt lived and thrived. "Because everyone else just... they see the power, or they see what they want to fuck, but they don't want me."

The admission was devastating in its honesty–that his personality was something to be endured rather than cherished, that he was destined to be wanted but never truly loved.

"So what do you see? Really?"

"I think about how you notice everything," you began, your voice soft but unwavering as your thumbs moved gently across his cheekbones, your faces still close enough that you could feel his breath. "How you remember that Kirishima mentioned those spicy ramen packets once, and now you always have them when he comes over. How you pretend it's coincidence."

Confusion flickered across his face, like he couldn't believe you'd noticed something so carefully hidden.

"I think about how hard you work. The way you push yourself every single day to earn what you have. How you never expect anything to be handed to you—you take it, piece by piece, through sheer determination."

Something else shifted in his expression, as if he'd never considered his relentless work ethic as something worthy of admiration rather than simple expectation.

"I think about your courage. Not the hero stuff—though that's impressive too—but the way you tell people hard truths when everyone else is too polite. How you're not afraid to be seen as the bad guy if it means being honest."

His breathing had gone shallow.

"I think about how you care. How you show up with solutions without being asked. Like when Mina was panicking about her parents visiting her new apartment, worried they'd think she couldn't take care of herself living alone, and you showed up at her door with an armload of cleaning supplies and barged in, barking orders while you scrubbed every surface until it sparkled."

"Stop," he said quietly, but there was no real protest in it.

"I think about your integrity. How you never take credit you haven't earned. How you'd rather claw your way to the top than accept anything that feels like charity."

His forehead dropped to rest against yours.

"Nobody..." his voice came out rough. "Nobody's ever made it sound like something good. Like I'm not just being a perfectionist asshole."

"You're not a perfectionist asshole," you said firmly. "You just have standards. There's a difference between caring about quality and being impossible to please."

"You really think that?" The question was barely a whisper.

"Of course," you whispered. "That's what I fell in love with. Not your power, not your face—though I love that too—but you. The person you are when you think no one's looking."

Instead of answering, he kissed you. Hard and desperate, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn't say into the press of his lips against yours. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones as he kissed you with something that felt dangerously close to worship.

[noirsdoll]

fuuuck dad!Curly who keeps his precious little girl safe from everyone.. well, everyone but him

dad!curly headcanons if you can would be so good man…. theres a criminally low amount of him ugughgh and ddlg im melting

ikr!? there’s a criminally low amount of ddlg on this site in general like that is my bread and butter 🤕🤕 thank you for the ask nonnie!! cw for father/daughter incest, dubcon, and ddlg!!

his wife left him and you have no clue why, considering what a sweetheart he is. you never find out that the reason they divorced is cuz curly is a fucking weirdo and a full blown pervert.

curly tells nobody on the tulpar that you exist. you being his little secret is half the turn on. even though you’re an adult, he keeps you pure. the only one who gets to corrupt you is him.

curly does most of the stuff around the house. he’d just want you to cook because you’re too dumb to do anything else. he mostly just likes the way you look in an apron.

you’re none the wiser to everything he’s doing. you don’t have any friends, you just live in your shared house and wait for him to return from his freighting, this is all normal to you. all daddies treat their daughters like their wives.

yeah, he makes you call him daddy at your big age. well, he doesn’t actually make you, you think it’s normal, of course, but curly knows it’s not. he has to pretend he’s not stupidly hard every time you say it with your cute little giggles.

he keeps you in the shortest of skirts and the sluttiest of clothes too. he loves the view, obsessed with how your shirt stretches over your tits and how he gets little peeks at your panties when you bend over.

his nightly routine almost always includes fucking himself to you. especially on the tulpar. he’s just showing that he misses you. he’s done it so many times he can’t go back, the only thing that gets him hard now is you.

curly spends the longest time working up the courage to finally fuck you. he can make out with you no problem, but he draws the line at putting his dick in you, though he knows you want it just as bad as him. even if you don’t know what sex is cuz he’s kept you that dumb. you’re just innately a whore.

he plays around with you a lot, puts you over his knee for the dumbest reasons, kisses you stupid on random occasions. he keeps you in constant whiplash so that when he finally bends you over his desk and slides his cock against your slit, you’re ready for it.

this is completely novel to you, you didn’t know this was an option. and like a kid in a candy store, you get addicted to it. curly doesn’t mind, obviously. he’s happy to fuck your brains out any hour of the day, cooing abt how tiny you are and how well you’re taking it, because of course he’d praise his good girl.

[dindjarindiaries]

Eyes Off

character: Hunter (The Bad Batch)

prompts: “Are you jealous?” “No, I’m not!” “Oh, you really are jealous! Wait, why would you be jealous?” / “Look at me.” / A kiss of jealousy

main masterlist • hunter masterlist

"Of course that's what you're wearing."

Crosshair's unimpressed drawl drew your attention from where you were fastening and concealing your weapons. Considering everyone else had already changed into their civvies, it had to be Hunter that Crosshair was addressing, and one look at the sergeant proved why.

Whereas the rest of the team opted to keep themselves covered in a way that wasn't too unlike their Republic-issued blacks, Hunter didn't shy away from letting his skin breathe. His hands and arms were wrapped up to his elbows, but there was a sizable stretch of skin and muscle leading up to the light-colored sleeveless tunic he wore.

Tech had always ensured that the temperature of the Marauder's interior was regulated, but something had to have been off, because you could've sworn it had just gotten at least ten times hotter.

You were still staring, and Force willing not ogling, as Hunter raised his hands defensively at Crosshair. "What?"

Crosshair scoffed as he shouldered on his pack. He lifted a single eyebrow and flicked his toothpick at his brother. It bounced unceremoniously off one of Hunter's tensed biceps.

The sergeant just smirked in response and shrugged. "I earned 'em." His tone was playful as he lifted his own pack and secured it over his shoulders. "I think I'm entitled to showing 'em off for once."

And thank the Force you did, you would have said if you didn't already have a durasteel lock on your own jaw.

"Ha-ha, yeah!" Wrecker clapped his brother on the shoulder. Hunter rolled it back in response, but nevertheless widened his sly smile as he looked up at Wrecker. "I think ya' look great, Sarge." Wrecker then turned his attention on you, giving your shoulder a nudge with his own. "Right, Sunny?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, but only for a quick moment. Subtlety had never been Wrecker's specialty, and you should have remembered that when you had stayed at 79's until last call with him and spilled out all your secrets. That's what you got for indulging in truth serum for once.

You schooled your expression into nonchalance the best you could and nodded. "Yeah." You lifted your blaster and gave it one last unnecessary check. "It definitely suits you."

Hunter huffed. "I don't even want to know what you mean by that." You snorted in amusement before Hunter refocused and addressed the gathered squad. "We shouldn't be here long, especially since we're dividing and conquering. Tech, Wrecker, you're clear on your objective?"

Tech looked up from his datapad and nodded as he adjusted his goggles. "That is correct."

Wrecker gestured over to Tech with his thumb. "What he said."

Hunter nodded at them both. "Great." He turned to his youngest brother. "Crosshair?"

Crosshair's brow rose once again. "Do you really have to ask?"

Hunter participated in their typical impromptu staring contest for a few heartbeats before he let out a sigh. "I'm taking that as a yes." His attention then shifted to you, and you fought a hard-won battle to not take a visible breath as his dark eyes found yours. "Sunny, you're with me." Hunter motioned for the squad to follow as he stepped towards the open hatch. "Let's move out."

You kept your attention on the way ahead as the squad walked out of the hangar together and through the throngs of sentients that crowded the planet's streets. Eventually, as you and Hunter got closer to your own destination, Tech, Wrecker, and Crosshair peeled off to attend to their own objectives. You tried not to tense as you kept yourself close to Hunter's side.

"Hmm." Hunter's hum got your attention, and you looked over to see his brow creased the way it often did when he was reaching out with his senses. "It's gonna be crowded in there." He gave you a glance and nodded. "Stay close. We might have to push our way through."

You nodded and obeyed, getting close enough for one of his arms to brush against yours. It was hard to focus with the warmth of his skin meeting yours in endless succession, but you threw your mindset into the mission as the two of you stepped inside the cantina.

As soon as you crossed the threshold, you could feel the eyes on you—only they weren't on you specifically. They were on him.

You could have accredited the lingering stares to the fact that Hunter presented much more like a regular clone than the others, and he may have been getting some undue attention for that, but you could identify the kind of looks he was getting all too well. Gazes flickered up and down, heads did double takes, and some people even giggled with their peers.

You should have found it amusing. The others certainly would have if they were there. Instead, it filled you with a pool of a sickly feeling almost like dread, coiling in your stomach and twisting into an uncomfortable knot.

It was an unmistakable wave of intense jealousy, and you weren't strong enough to fight it.

You were drawing yourself even closer to Hunter's side before you could stop it, your eyes cautiously scanning your surroundings as you did so. Another strong flare of jealousy's angry green haze saw you taking his arm and wrapping your hands around it, securing you to his side as you smiled in satisfaction at the way many of the hungry scares awkwardly flickered away from the two of you.

But your actions didn't go unnoticed by him. Hunter stopped pushing through the crowd long enough to turn his head and look at you with his full attention. "You okay?"

You looked up at him with innocent eyes, and his gaze gestured to the grasp you still had on his arm. You offered him a quick nod. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just..." You glanced around the room again. "A little overwhelmed."

Hunter's warm eyes studied yours as he softened. "I get it. We won't be here long, though, like I said before." He nodded towards the bar. "C'mon. We're almost there."

You went forward with him, selfishly indulging in the feeling of his warmth—and the arm you still had a tight grasp on. You were pleased to note it was just as strong and solid as it had looked.

Once Hunter had successfully maneuvered your way to the bar and had made enough room for the two of you there, you reluctantly let go of his arm and simply stood at his side. Your arms were still brushing at the close proximity, your focus was still going to any wandering eyes that caught sight of him.

You should have been focused on the objective and helping Hunter get information out of the bartender, but you had other priorities. Like Hunter had insinuated before, he had worn what he was wearing for a reason. Did that mean he wanted one of these people to approach him?

The thought alone made you sick. It shouldn't have, because you weren't his and he wasn't yours, but that didn't matter.

"You sure you're okay?"

Hunter's low voice of concern brought your attention back to him. You glanced over to see him furrowing his brow at you.

"You seem on edge."

You shrugged and looked past the sergeant, seeing someone just behind him staring holes through his back. You fought back a growl and forced yourself to answer normally. "I'm just seeing a lot of eyes on you." You blinked and quickly rushed to correct yourself. "Us."

But the damage had already been done. One of Hunter's eyebrows shot up in suspicion as he continued to look at you. "That's nothing new, especially not for me."

You circled your jaw. "Yeah, but..." Your gaze flickered over him before you could stop it. "It's different this time."

Hunter looked ahead, his expression taut as he pondered something, and then you saw his dark eyes light up with realization. You winced quietly before he even had the chance to speak.

"Wait." He looked over at you again, the small pieces of hair that escaped his bandana bouncing on his forehead as the corners of his lips rose in a small smile. "Are you jealous?"

You forced out a scoff and began to flounder. "No, I’m not!" You looked down, your gaze searching. "I-I'm just..."

It was too late. You were too flustered to think of a viable excuse, and your ears and face were burning so hot that you were half-convinced Hunter's senses had already picked up on the temperature change.

"Oh, you really are jealous." Hunter said the words with a chuckle, and his bare shoulder playfully nudged yours.

You fought off the sudden waves of embarrassment valiantly and looked anywhere but at him. He was clearly still joking, and you were stuck between playing it off again or at least wanting him to put the pieces together. This one-sided thing you had going on was getting too exhausting.

That made his next words even less of a surprise than they probably should have been. "Wait... why would you be jealous?"

Your gaze flickered over to meet Hunter's, but you looked away from him just as quickly. Your stare focused on your fingers as they picked at the skin around your nails. This was not a conversation you wanted to have here, especially not when he was looking like that.

"Hey." Hunter's voice was achingly soft now as he set a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Look at me."

You relented, your guilty gaze finding his—which was full of comfort and, surprisingly, understanding. Your brow knit together, though the knot in your stomach began to loosen when Hunter's hand suddenly moved from your shoulder to the one you had closest to him on the bar. His stare lowered and watched as his wrapped hand wove his fingers through yours and gave your own hand a soft squeeze.

Hunter looked at you again, and he gave you a reassuring nod. "You have nothing to worry about."

All you could do was blink at him, any words you could have possibly wanted to say dying on your tongue. You were trying to read him and make sure you weren't misinterpreting the signals he was sending you. Was he saying that because he had requited feelings, or just to assure you that he wasn't looking for anything from anyone?

Hunter huffed and gave his head a fond shake. "You've been noticing the eyes on me, and I..." He paused, his jaw tightened as he narrowed his eyes at something behind you. "Have been tracking the eyes on you."

Your eyes widened in surprise. You must have been so wrapped up in your jealousy towards Hunter that you failed to notice how people had been looking at you, too. Your civvies did hug your body in a way your typical tactical gear didn't...

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" You had no choice but to ask. You couldn't live with the anticipation anymore.

Hunter nodded and looked at your entwined hands again. He gave yours another squeeze. "The feeling's mutual."

You couldn't keep the smile from growing on your lips. Honestly, you should have known better, but reason and feelings never paired well together, anyway. All you could do was let out a soft laugh as you also looked down at your hands.

"What do you think?"

When Hunter spoke again, you looked up, suddenly realizing how much closer the two of you had gotten. Hunter clocked the minimized distance, too, his warm gaze flickering to your lips before he went on.

"Should we give them something else to stare at?"

You hummed, pretending to have to consider the offer even as your traitorous body already started to lean closer. "I think that's a good plan, Sarge."

Hunter chuckled, though the warmth that sound brought you was nothing compared to the feeling of his lips on yours.

You inhaled one another like it was your first full breath of oxygen, with Hunter's free hand catching the side of your face and jaw to keep you locked in place. Meanwhile, your free hand rose to his bicep, anchoring yourself to him as each breath passed between you and each tease of his tongue threatened to make your knees buckle underneath you. It was utterly dizzying, and it made you completely forget about everything and everyone else around you, for better or for worse.

When you parted, Hunter was quick to clock the sight of your hand on his arm. His lips gave way to a sly smile, and your brow shot up as you mused upon his words from earlier.

"This is what you wanted all along, isn't it?" You shook your head at him in fondness. "I was the person you were 'showing 'em off' for."

Hunter shrugged, playing innocent for now. "Maybe, maybe not."

You scoffed. "Do we even have a real objective here?"

"Well, we did." He gave your hand another squeeze. "But we just completed it."

You gave your eyes a roll. "Force, Hunter..."

"The others' objectives are real, though."

You couldn't help laughing at that. Leave it to the sergeant of the Bad Batch to use an actual mission as a way to somehow get you both to finally break the ice. "And the bartender?" You nodded towards the nearest one. "You just made that up?"

"Not really." Hunter's smirk remained as he caught the bartender's eye. "I do need to talk to them... to get us some drinks."

You blinked at him before you laughed even harder. You shifted your hand onto the arm closest to you and rested your head against his bare shoulder the best you could manage, relishing in the wave of content that rolled over you.

It was an unconventional way for your mutual feelings to surface, but that was just who Hunter was, and you couldn't hide the way you loved it.

[xxfandom-writesxx]

JERRY X READER headcannon..hit me with them, Fan

Oh hello person I actually know and live with!! I might eat you for this! But because you're Jerry's number one defender and fan I GUESS I will give you headcannons...your greed sickens me / j.

General and Relationship headcannons for Jerome T. Stokes >:3

General Headcannons:

Jerry has mad dandruff. Genuine problem, and he only manages to get rid of it near the epilogue because he locks in and stops using 3 in 1.

OK SO CLEARLY JERRY LIKES MAGIC BUT…what deck type does he play? I will explain in my essay! He likes playing white decks the most, both mono white and green/blue/white mix, because I project. White decks usually rely on politics/”be my friend, I help you, you help me”. Jerry tries to dial up his niceties when he plays magic so his deck can work the way its intended, he is not above it for the win. Especially near the epilogue, when he stops being gross, he actually works really well with this type of deck because he plays up the chill guy aesthetic. Proceeds to whoop ass with his deck and it feels brutal. You got to draw one card, yay, and now his foot is halfway up your ass. 

Needs glasses, but his eyesight isn’t that bad, like Josh or Bill so he never got them as a teen. Later in life he settles for reading glasses because he literally can’t read the MGT cards because of the tiny ass text, but doesn’t wear them anywhere else.

During highschool he was an average student. He wasn’t overly smart, but he wasn’t failing, either. He got B’s, sometimes an A if he actually tried, but he rarely did. 

Jerry canonically likes Studio Ghibli but I feel like he did NOT talk abt it with the club because they called it stupid. He fucks crazy with Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away, My Neighbor Totoro, and he brought it up once and Bill proceeded to call him a pussy so he never talked abt it again.

The only one of the club who could likely hold a normal conversation during their teen years. As soon as he got comfortable, though, it was over. He isn’t as bad as the rest, but he will let out an insane take that will make a group of people who thought he was just some regular nerdy guy immediately switch up and go WOAAAH. 

Relationship Headcannons: 

He has insanely sweaty hands. Normally he is a little clammy, but as soon as he gets around you he is literally a wet napkin. Like he has to wipe his hands off on his pants sweaty, and it leaves wet spots. If you hold his hand it feels uncomfortable, but if you say anything he will literally never try again. This is especially true before the epilogue, and even during the epilogue he is still clammy. He just calms down a little, especially if you have been with him since highschool, or have known him since then, as he is much more comfortable with you.

Makes you learn magic, and he definitely doesn’t go easy. It feels nearly like bullying, because you are not winning those matches. He is a decent teacher, though, even if he is beating your ass. After each round he will tell you what you did wrong, and it might come across as rude, but he actually wants you to get better so you can have more fun. 

Speaking of Magic, he will build you a deck. He will give you a deck made from all of his extra cards that is tailored towards you, especially if he likes you. Cards that are good that don’t fit into his deck type that he had collected overtime immediately go into yours. He makes you sleeve and take care of them, though, because if you bend them or get them gross his soul leaves his body. This does not change from highschool to the epilogue. Grown or not, those cards are EXPENSIVE.

When he was still in the club, he kept you at a twelve foot distance away from them. It wasn’t jealousy, because, despite being more than anxious at that age, considering you would definitely be his first relationship, it was practically about safety. None of the club would be normal, and he wasn’t as proud of a man as the others would think of themselves to be. He had no reason to show you off and have you be harassed and bullied out of the group or his life. Jerry knows better.

He doesn’t ever get a chance to play DND with you because he already has a group (the club) but he does run his plans by you. Jerry will show you his notes, his sketches of villains or NPCs, and plot lines he wants to implement. On occasion, he will ask for input. If he really likes you, he may or may not make you a character that is way too overpowered so the club can’t kill you or do anything insane with their first interaction (they are all murder hobos in game ik they are). Later in the epilogue he definitely forms a group with you and he plays just a little bit of favorites. Just a little.

When you eventually have your first kiss he gets so scared. Literally horrified. He knows its about to happen because he can see you lean in and he literally freezes. Just sits there. You think he might be a brick wall, but he is happy. Jerry is just horrified because somebody is kissing HIM and he doesn’t know what to do. Eventually he gets more comfortable, but you can always feel him stiffen up a little initially each time before he relaxes, because he literally can’t believe it keeps happening every time it happens.

Dates depend on the time. Before the epilogue he likes to play magic with you, or go movie hopping. He will convince you to sneak into different trashy movies, and eventually get kicked out because you get caught. Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, he invites you back to his house to watch something. He really values quality time, so he doesn’t care if he is just sat in a room with you doing nothing. Epilogue he likes going out to lowkey places, nothing fancy but something a little quiet and nice for dinner on special occasions because he actually has money to take you out. He still values quality time, and he will invite you over to just watch a movie, or play a new game he got (he still likes table top and he finds ones that can have 2 players only). Other than that, he likes going for a walk, or a drive to talk about anything. 

[somerandomdudelmao]

as a writer i gotta say I think you're pretty brave for reading and encouraging people to analyze your character! I personally would be reading all these submissions and be going 'oh no oh no they all have such high expectations and think its so deep but its not going to live up to what they're hoping for'

Well, even if the cake doesn't turn out to be as big as they expect, they'll still enjoy the taste of it ',:)

[starsjulia]

shattered dreams // leah williamson

a/n : i long angsty one i wrote a while ago, enjoy!!!

warnings : angst, pregnancy, essential tremor.

Essential tremor, also called benign tremor, familial tremor, and idiopathic tremor, is a medical condition characterized by involuntary rhythmic contractions and relaxations of certain muscle groups in one or more body parts of unknown cause.

---

The early summer sun streamed through the open window of their cozy London flat, casting warm rays across the room. Y/N sat at the piano, her fingers dancing over the keys as she played a melody she’d been working on for weeks. The notes filled the room, rich and vibrant, each one flowing seamlessly into the next. It was a song she had written for Leah, capturing the love and joy they had found together.

As she sang the chorus, Y/N’s voice soared, filling the space with a sound that was uniquely hers—strong, emotive, and full of life. She could hear Leah moving around in the kitchen, humming along to the tune, and the familiar rhythm of their daily life brought a smile to her face. This was her happy place, where everything felt right with the world.

But as she reached the final verse, something strange happened. Her voice wavered, the note faltering as if it had lost its strength. She frowned, adjusting her posture and taking a deep breath before trying again. But the same thing happened—her voice quivered, not with emotion, but with something she couldn’t quite place. Frustration bubbled up inside her, but she pushed it down, chalking it up to a rare off day.

Shaking her head, Y/N moved her focus back to the piano, her fingers gliding over the keys. But now, the familiar movements didn’t feel as smooth as they usually did. Her hands seemed to tremble slightly, causing her to hit the wrong notes. She stopped playing, staring down at her hands as if they belonged to someone else.

“What’s wrong with me?” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as if to clear away the strange sensation. She flexed her fingers, trying to rid them of the slight tremor that seemed to have taken up residence there. But after a few moments, it faded, and she convinced herself that it had just been her imagination.

Later that night, as they lay in bed, Leah noticed the frown on Y/N’s face and the way she kept flexing her hands as if they were bothering her. “Everything alright?” Leah asked, her voice full of concern.

Y/N hesitated, unsure if she should mention the odd experience from earlier. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said finally, forcing a smile. “Just a little tired, I guess.”

Leah gave her a look that said she wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached over and took Y/N’s hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “If something’s bothering you, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Y/N nodded, feeling a rush of guilt for not being completely honest. “I know,” she murmured, squeezing Leah’s hand back. “It’s nothing, really.”

But as the days went on, the symptoms didn’t go away. The tremor in her hands became more frequent, and her voice seemed to waver more often when she sang. There were times when she couldn’t hit the high notes that had always come so naturally to her, and it felt like her voice was slipping through her fingers like sand. She started to avoid singing certain songs, fearful of hearing the cracks and wobbles that had begun to plague her.

Y/N tried to hide her growing anxiety from Leah, not wanting to worry her. But Leah noticed the way Y/N would stare at her hands in frustration, the way she hesitated before picking up her guitar or sitting down at the piano. Y/N’s passion for music, which had always been the most vibrant part of her, seemed to dim slightly, and Leah’s concern grew with each passing day.

One afternoon, Y/N was in the studio, recording a new song she had written. As she strummed her guitar, she felt the now-familiar tremor in her fingers. She tried to ignore it, focusing on the music, but when she went to sing the chorus, her voice cracked and wavered so badly that she had to stop.

“Damn it!” she cursed, yanking off her headphones and tossing them onto the console in frustration. She sat there, breathing heavily, her mind racing. This wasn’t just nerves or tiredness—something was wrong, and she couldn’t deny it any longer.

Leah had been listening from the control room, watching through the glass as Y/N’s frustration boiled over. She pushed open the door, walking over to where Y/N sat, her face pale and her hands trembling.

“Y/N,” Leah said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We need to talk.”

Y/N looked up at Leah, her eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. “Leah… I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t control it… my hands, my voice… it’s like they’re not mine anymore.”

Leah knelt beside her, taking Y/N’s hands in hers. “We’re going to figure this out,” she said firmly, her voice steady even as worry gnawed at her heart. “But first, we need to see a doctor.”

Y/N nodded, too overwhelmed to argue. Deep down, she had known for a while that something was wrong, but hearing Leah say it out loud made it real in a way she hadn’t wanted to face.

---

The visit to the doctor was tense, both Y/N and Leah filled with a mix of dread and hope. The doctor ran a series of tests, his calm demeanor doing little to ease their anxiety. Y/N sat on the exam table, Leah’s hand firmly in hers, as they waited for the results.

When the doctor finally returned, his expression was serious, and Y/N felt her heart drop. “Y/N, the tests show that you have what’s known as essential tremor,” he said, his voice gentle but direct. “It’s a progressive neurological disorder that primarily affects your hands and voice. Unfortunately, it’s likely to worsen over time.”

Y/N stared at the doctor, her mind reeling. “My hands… my voice… what does that mean for my music?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor sighed, clearly aware of how devastating this news would be for her. “It will become increasingly difficult to perform fine motor tasks, like playing instruments or writing. As for your voice, the tremor can affect your ability to speak and sing clearly. We can explore treatments that may help manage the symptoms, but there’s no cure.”

The room seemed to close in around Y/N as she struggled to process the information. Her music—her life’s passion, the thing that had always been her solace and her joy—was being stolen from her, piece by piece. She felt Leah’s grip on her hand tighten, but it couldn’t chase away the growing despair in her chest.

“And the pregnancy?” Y/N asked, her voice breaking as she placed a hand on her stomach. “Will it… will it affect the baby?”

The doctor shook his head. “The condition shouldn’t have a direct impact on your pregnancy or the baby’s health. But as the tremor progresses, it may affect your ability to perform certain tasks, like holding the baby or caring for them in the way you’re used to. It’s something you’ll need to consider as you prepare for motherhood.”

Y/N felt tears welling up in her eyes, the weight of the diagnosis crashing down on her all at once. “But I… I won’t be able to hold my baby? Or sing to them?” she whispered, her voice filled with anguish.

Leah’s own tears finally broke free as she wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her close. “We’ll find a way,” Leah said, her voice shaking but determined. “We’ll figure it out, I promise. You’re not alone in this.”

But Y/N couldn’t hold back the sobs that tore through her. The future she had envisioned—of playing lullabies for her child, singing them to sleep, holding them close—was slipping through her fingers, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

---

In the weeks that followed, Y/N and Leah tried to adjust to their new reality. Y/N began working with a therapist to manage the tremors and explored different medications to help control the symptoms. But it was an uphill battle. Every day brought new challenges, new reminders of what Y/N was losing.

The joy of their pregnancy announcement, which should have been one of the happiest times of their lives, was overshadowed by the relentless progression of Y/N’s condition. As her hands grew more unsteady and her voice more fragile, Y/N found herself retreating from the things she had once loved. She avoided the piano, left her guitar untouched in its case, and stopped singing around the house.

Leah watched Y/N’s light dim, her heart breaking for the woman she loved more than anything in the world. She did everything she could to support Y/N—attending every doctor’s appointment, helping her with daily tasks that had become increasingly difficult, and constantly reassuring her that they would find a way to make it through this.

But no matter how hard Leah tried to be strong, there were moments when the weight of it all became too much. Late at night, when Y/N was asleep, Leah would slip out of bed and sit alone in the living room, her head in her hands as she silently cried, overwhelmed by the fear and uncertainty of what lay ahead.

---

One evening, as Y/N sat on the couch, absently rubbing her belly, Leah joined her, sitting down and taking her hand. “How are you feeling?” Leah asked softly, her thumb brushing gently over Y/N’s knuckles.

Y/N sighed, leaning her head against Leah’s shoulder. “I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared that I won’t be able to be the mother I want to be… that I won’t be able to hold our baby, or sing to them, or… or be there for them the way they need me.”

Leah’s heart ached at the vulnerability in Y/N’s voice, and she wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. “You’re going to be an amazing mother,” Leah said, her voice filled with conviction. “You’re so full of love, Y/N, and that’s what our baby is going to need more than anything. We’ll figure out the rest together, I promise.”

“But what if I get worse?” Y/N whispered, her fear breaking through. “What if I can’t… what if I lose my ability to even hold them?”

Leah’s grip tightened, her own tears spilling over. “Then I’ll hold them for both of us,” she said fiercely. “We’ll adapt, we’ll find ways to make it work. You’re not alone in this, Y/N. We’ll do this together, just like we’ve done everything else.”

Y/N nodded against Leah’s shoulder, though the fear still lingered, a dark shadow that refused to be banished. But Leah’s words, her unwavering support, were a lifeline Y/N desperately needed. She wasn’t alone in this, and maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to help her find a way forward.

---

As the weeks passed, Y/N and Leah began to find a new rhythm, though it was far from easy. Every day brought new challenges, new reminders of what Y/N was losing, but they faced it together, holding on to each other through the darkest moments. Y/N started working with a therapist, learning how to manage the tremors as best she could, and finding new ways to express herself through music, even if it wasn’t the same as before.

One day, after a particularly difficult session with her therapist, Y/N came home to find Leah sitting at the piano, softly playing one of Y/N’s old compositions. It was a song Y/N had written early in their relationship, filled with the joy and hope of new love. Leah’s fingers moved clumsily over the keys, and Y/N could see the concentration on her face as she tried to play the familiar melody.

Y/N stood in the doorway, watching Leah’s awkward attempts to recreate the music she loved. And despite everything, she felt a small, fragile smile tugging at her lips. Leah looked up, catching sight of Y/N, and immediately stopped, blushing slightly.

“I was just… trying to learn,” Leah said, looking a bit sheepish. “I know I’m not as good as you, but I thought maybe… if you couldn’t play, I could learn and play for you and the baby.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion, and she crossed the room, sitting beside Leah on the piano bench. “You’re amazing,” Y/N whispered, her voice thick with gratitude. “Thank you for this. For everything.”

Leah smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple. “We’re a team, remember?” she said softly. “We’ll find our way through this, no matter what.”

And as they sat there, side by side, Leah’s clumsy notes filling the air, Y/N felt a glimmer of hope return. Their future might be uncertain, and there were still so many fears to face, but they had each other. And for now, that was enough.

---

As Y/N’s pregnancy progressed, the reality of her condition became more and more apparent. Her voice grew increasingly unreliable, and the tremors in her hands worsened. Simple tasks, like cooking or writing, became difficult, and Y/N often found herself needing Leah’s help. It was frustrating and heartbreaking, but Leah never once wavered in her support.

One evening, as they lay in bed, Y/N felt the baby kick for the first time. She gasped, grabbing Leah’s hand and placing it on her belly. “Leah, did you feel that?” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

Leah’s eyes widened as she felt the tiny movement beneath her palm. “I did,” she whispered back, her voice full of wonder. “That’s our little one.”

The baby kicked again, and Y/N laughed through her tears, the sound filled with a mixture of joy and sadness. “I just… I want to be able to hold them, Leah,” she said, her voice breaking. “I want to be able to take care of them, to sing to them… but I’m so scared I won’t be able to.”

Leah wrapped her arms around Y/N, holding her close. “You will hold them,” she said fiercely. “You will take care of them, and you will sing to them, even if it’s not the way you imagined. We’ll find a way, Y/N. We’ll do this together.”

Y/N buried her face in Leah’s shoulder, clinging to her as the reality of their situation threatened to overwhelm her. But Leah’s words, her unwavering support, were like a beacon in the darkness, guiding Y/N through the fear and uncertainty.

---

As the months passed, Y/N and Leah prepared for the arrival of their baby. They attended birthing classes together, decorated the nursery, and talked about their hopes and dreams for their child. But beneath the surface, the fear of the unknown lingered, a constant companion that they could never quite shake.

Y/N’s condition continued to progress, and there were days when the tremors were so bad that she couldn’t even hold a cup of tea without spilling it. Her voice, once so strong and beautiful, had become shaky and unreliable, and she struggled with the loss of something that had always been such a fundamental part of her identity.

But through it all, Leah remained steadfast. She learned how to care for Y/N in ways she had never imagined, adapting to their new reality with a determination that only made Y/N love her more. And in those quiet moments, when it was just the two of them, Leah would remind Y/N that they were in this together—that no matter what happened, they would find a way to make it work.

---

The day finally came when Y/N went into labor. It was a difficult and exhausting process, but Leah was by her side every step of the way, holding her hand and whispering words of encouragement. When their baby was finally born, the sound of their tiny cry filled the room, and Y/N felt a wave of emotion crash over her.

The nurse carefully placed the baby in Y/N’s arms, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Y/N stared down at the tiny, perfect face of their child, her heart overflowing with love and awe. She had been so afraid that she wouldn’t be able to do this, but in that moment, all she could think about was how much she loved this little person in her arms.

Leah sat beside her, tears streaming down her face as she looked at their baby. “You did it,” Leah whispered, her voice filled with pride and love. “You’re incredible.”

Y/N smiled through her tears, looking up at Leah. “We did it,” she corrected softly. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Leah reached out and gently stroked the baby’s cheek, her heart swelling with love for her family. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re going to be an amazing mother, Y/N. I know it.”

As Y/N held their baby close, she felt the weight of her fears start to lift. Yes, her condition would be a challenge—there was no denying that. But in that moment, she knew that she could do this. They could do this, together.

And as she looked into the eyes of their child, Y/N made a silent promise. No matter what the future held, no matter how hard things got, she would be there for them. She would love them with everything she had, and she would find a way to be the mother they needed.

Because at the end of the day, that was all that mattered. And with Leah by her side, Y/N knew they could face anything.

---

Time passed, and life with their new baby became a mix of joy and challenges. Y/N’s condition continued to progress, and there were days when it was incredibly difficult. But they found ways to adapt, to make it work. Leah learned how to support Y/N in ways that allowed her to be the mother she wanted to be, even if it wasn’t exactly how they had imagined.

And through it all, Y/N never stopped singing. Her voice wasn’t as strong as it used to be, and there were times when it would shake or falter, but she sang anyway. She sang lullabies to their baby, softly and gently, her love for them pouring out with every note.

Leah would often join in, her voice blending with Y/N’s in a harmony that was imperfect but beautiful in its own way. And in those moments, as they sang together for their child, Y/N knew that they had found a new kind of music—one that was born out of love and resilience, one that would carry them through whatever challenges lay ahead.

They faced their future with hope and determination, knowing that no matter what came their way, they had each other. And that, in the end, was enough to keep them moving forward.

Together.

[duskier]

Price with an eccentric, artistic older wife who spends all of her time while he's away making these fabulously dark and strange paintings. He left her entirely in charge of decorating and remodeling their home, it becoming a blend of modern art and sensible nostalgia. She sends him letters she's cut into funny shapes (he only complains because they tear more easily). They always smell like her and her strange perfume. Gaz thinks it smells rank but privately Price always holds it to his nose tenderly and drinks in the scent- this belongs to her and only her which means it smells like home to Price. Him looking at her art portfolio online while he's far away and its like she's writing love letters to him the way he can read each of her paintings and feel how horribly she misses him, how thoroughly she loves him.

[gothghostiie]

ik i love talking about price with a domestic little spouse BUT what about price's partner who's an absolute outgoing techno/rave freak? little outfits that look insanely complicated and/or barely cover everything, matching makeup with rhinestones and glitter, accessories that you cant wear in broad daylight, music that makes his head throb. you go out so much, always sending him videos of the events you're at, sending him outfit checks - he really, really wants to keep you home with him, cover you up so no one but him can see the precious body that he knows like the back of his hand. but he can't and he knows it, he knows it'll be like trying to catch a fly with bare hands. and God, seeing you smile brightly and dance makes his heart skip a beat - even more so when you offer to take him with you

[perpetualcynicism]

For most days of the year, the Grove of Epiphany is graced with pleasant temperatures and clear moonlit skies, forming the ideal atmosphere for quiet study. However, on occasion, Aquila’s fickleness reaches even this sheltered abode, and the foliage receives a more than ample watering at the expense of its citizens. 

Today is one of the worse days. Early in the morning, a collection of grey clouds gathered stealthily in the sky above the Sacred Tree and, without warning, broke their contents over the unsuspecting residents of the Grove. The onslaught has continued through to what would now be considered afternoon. Sheets of cold rain lash against the greenery as if holding a personal grudge. Thunder growls in the distance. 

Outdoor lectures have been hastily relocated or cancelled due to the downpour. Students hurry past each other in search of shelter, holding books or clothing above their heads to protect themselves from the rain. 

Anaxa is no exception to those seeking to avoid the worst of the storm. He walks with brisk steps along the muddied paths in the direction of his office. His timetable has not been too greatly affected by the weather save for one suspended lecture, which gives him the time to sort through some sources on ancient alchemy which he has not yet had the opportunity to read. 

As he turns around another bend, something catches his eye. He hesitates. Sheltering beneath the branches of a tree by the roadside is a familiar silhouette. 

You are sitting on the grass with your limbs drawn up close to your chest. Your clothes are soaked through and your unruly hair plastered to your skin, yet you are staring into space, seemingly at peace with your surroundings. Anaxa stops by the tree and looks down at you, crossing his arms.

“What in Amphoreus do you think you are doing?”

Startled out of your thoughts by his voice, you glance up. Your expression eases when you recognise him. “Ah, it’s you, Anaxagoras. I thought my intentions would be rather obvious. I am seeking shelter from the rain, like everybody else.”

“You would call this shelter?” He gestures towards the patchwork of branches you’re sitting beneath. The canopy is not thick enough to completely ward off the rain, and drops slip down from the leaves and onto your head. 

“I said I was seeking shelter, not that I had found it,” you rectify. Anaxa clicks his tongue. “But, please, do not concern yourself: I have sat out many storms in a similar manner.”

The sight of you sitting there like a bedraggled wet cat is simply too exasperating. Anaxa fixes you with a look of utter unamusement. “Come,” he says. It’s an order, not an offer. “With me, to my office, before you get yourself a cold.”

You blink. “Are you certain?”

“Would you rather stay here and freeze to death?” he remarks sardonically.  

“I suppose not.”

Anaxa holds out his hand to you. You take it, and he pulls you to your feet. Raindrops hang like beads on the ends of your eyelashes and the tips of your hair. He turns away from you and marches briskly through the downpour back to his office, with you tagging some sorry, dripping paces behind him.

When you arrive, Anaxa steps in through the door first. You make to follow, but he moves to block the doorway, preventing you from entering, and fixes you with a sharp glare. “You are not entering my office like that.” A puddle is already forming at your feet. You look down at it and then shrug, as if to say, Fair enough. “Wait there.”

He disappears into his office. Shortly thereafter, he emerges again and tosses you a towel. You catch it and set to work drying first your hair, and then the rest of yourself. Once deeming your state satisfactory, Anaxa permits you to enter. 

“Don’t touch anything. And change out of your clothes,” he says. “A dry location won’t do you any good if your clothing is keeping you wet.”

“Have you anything else I could wear?” 

He sighs out sharply. What a bother this all is. “I will find something.”

Thankfully, owing to his own tendency of enclosing himself here for days while researching, the office serves decently enough as a living space, and for that reason contains a small wardrobe which houses a decent selection of garments. Anaxa searches for something appropriate (for you are certainly not borrowing his dromas onesie; that is a step too far). He settles on a dark tunic. It is not in your size, but if you want to complain, that is not his problem. 

You do not complain, and accept the clothes gratefully. Anaxa turns his back to you as you change. He does not have to guess why you were forced to shelter under a tree: evidently nobody in the Grove was willing to take you into their own accomodation. This is sensible enough, considering you are not officially part of the Grove and thus do not count as anybody’s direct responsibility. However, Anaxa knows that the true reason for your dismissal lies not in the factual recognition that you are not their responsibility, but rather a certain sentimental factor which prevents them from engaging with one whom they would otherwise have no qualms about helping. 

He hears you sneeze behind him. You walk back over, now clothed in his tunic, and place yourself down cross-legged in the middle of the floor. As expected, the size of the tunic is off, but it does not not suit you. 

“I am rather afraid,” you announce, slightly nasally, “that I indeed would seem to be catching a cold.”

Anaxa kneads his brow in exasperation. “What did you expect to happen, you daft fool?” 

“I admit to misjudging the strength of my body’s resistance,” you reply with dignity. “So I must thank you again for taking me in. It was kind and not necessary of you.”

“Hmph. Think little of it. I simply do not want my most engaging conversational partner perishing prematurely through their own folly.” His response comes out more barbed than even he expected; but if you take any offence, you give no indication of it.  

Over the next few days, your cold steadily worsens. You stay in Anaxa’s office, slowly accumulating a makeshift nest of blankets around yourself as you drift in and out of sleep, murmuring incomprehensibly to yourself about justice, knowledge and death. Anaxa checks in on you if he finds the spare minute between teaching and conducting research. When he takes your temperature, the result is so alarming that he has to call Hyacine to determine whether it is truly a cold you have contracted or something more serious. 

“From what I can tell, it really is just a cold,” she concludes at the end of her inspection. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t get more serious. Keep a close eye on them and let me know if anything gets worse. In the meanwhile, you can give them this medication to help with headaches, and make sure to keep them well-hydrated, as well as avoiding any foods which might agitate their sore throat.”

The voices must have roused you from your partial slumber, because once Hyacine is gone, you stir from within the depths of your cocoon. 

“Are you busy at the moment, Anaxagoras?” you croak out. 

Anaxa casts a glance in your direction, pausing in penning a detailed list of the various recommended treatments Hyacine has given him. “Not at the moment, no. Why?”

“I am afraid that I am terribly bored, lying here all day.”

“And this matter concerns me because…?”

“I was hoping that we could converse.”

He scoffs. “Considering the state of your throat? Absolutely not.”

Disappointment creases your brow. “Then… perhaps you could read something to me instead?”

“Read something to you?” Anaxa repeats, sceptical. “Such as what?”

“Whatever you think would take my best interest. You know the Library of Philia’s contents far better than I do.”

Anaxa is silent for a while. A long list of texts he is certain would intrigue you flit through his mind. On the Duality of Cerces, Foundations of Erythrokeramism’s Theory of Consciousness… 

“I’m unable to do that,” he eventually says.

“Oh. For what reason?”

“Whatever ‘takes your best interest’ is sure to do with philosophy, and whatever is to do with philosophy is sure to get you talking, which is precisely what this alternative was raised to avoid in the first place.”

“You do have a point, yes,” you admit with a frown. “Furthermore, considering that—”

“However,” Anaxa continues, cutting you off before you can foolishly exhaust your voice even further, “that does not mean I cannot read to you on principle.” His eyes pass over his desk, where any number of scrolls lie at any given point, courtesy of his students’ peculiar research topics. One in particular catches his attention. Anaxa crosses over to the desk and picks it up. “Is A Slate Guide to Grove Flora sufficiently unremarkable to keep you quiet?”

The expression which passes over your face is difficult to decipher. You seem at once both infinitely grateful and terribly disappointed. It’s good enough for Anaxa. Before you can make any further comment, he clears his throat and begins to read: “Ever dreaming of distant flora but trapped by the black tide? The Veil Greenhouse, jointly developed by…”

Even this text, however, proves enough to stimulate your curiosity. You croak questions and comment on the narration until Anaxa has to snap at you to be quiet for your own good. The only benefit is that you tire yourself out so much that you fall asleep again afterwards, attested to by your finally growing silent. Anaxa places aside the scroll with a sigh and falls to silent observation of you. There is a sickly flush in your skin brought about by the illness, and your eyebags are more pronounced than usual despite your increased hours of sleep. The sight of you so subdued and vulnerable irks him in a way he cannot describe. 

After a few moments, Anaxa stands up and approaches you with quiet footsteps. He takes your temperature with his hand before pulling back with a frown. Still hot. 

“Stubborn old fool,” he mutters under his breath, though there is no true bite to his words. He pushes a stray strand of hair from your clammy forehead. “Just come in next time it rains. If your condition doesn’t improve soon, I will have to start cancelling classes. I would rather not have to do that, so you had better come to your senses.”

You mumble something unintelligible in your slumber. Anaxa clicks his tongue, raps you lightly on the head, and returns to penning the list. 

A few more days pass in a similar manner: you stir now and then, trying to make conversation which Anaxa swiftly shuts down, and he reads the odd passage to you when time permits. By the end of a week or so, under Hyacine’s continued guidance, your temperature begins to fall, and eventually you are well enough to return to your usual habits of milling about the Grove’s campus and interrogating unwitting passersby. Anaxa allows himself to let go of a tension he was not even aware he had been holding onto once he sees you back to your normal self, in conversation with one of his students. 

The next time it rains, you do not seek his permission: Anaxa finds you already seated on the floor of his office when he enters. You spend the time absorbed in animated discussion which continues long after the rain has stopped.