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ghost-proofbaby · 1 year ago

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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.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

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#ghost's stories #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #kas!eddie munson #kas!eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #reader essentially became soul bound to him womp womp #don't drink a vampire's blood kids #i really didn't edit that intensely i spent two hours fucking with photoshop #if it's bad it's bad #finally dipping my toes into kas!eddie tho wahoo #vampire!eddie munson #someone requested eddie with this song forever ago but i lost the ask #eddie reading dracula to figure out if he's become a vampire is actually so fucking funny to me

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atinystraynstay · 1 year ago

Text

I Don't Share - Jeon Jungkook

Synopsis: Jungkook was the one that proposed you should be friends with benefits. You both were single and had desires. Falling in love wasn't a part of the plan though.

Pairing: Idol!Jeon Jungkook x Back up Dancer!fem reader

Genre: Smuttttt! Jealous, posessive Jungkook, friends with benefits - Minors DNI

Contains: public sex, mentions of eating out (f. receiving), light spanking (f. receiving), no protection vaginal sex, slight degradation, creampie, hair pulling

Word Count: 2.6k

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You were given the opportunity of a lifetime. What started as a way to kill time during the pandemic quickly turned into you flying to South Korea to join BTS in their rehearsals for their Permission To Dance shows. A little over a year later, you were in rehearsals again for Jungkook's solo promotions with the release of his debut album, Golden. You didn't think your life could get better than this.

Never before would you think that your dance studio closing to meet shutdown requirements would grant you the opportunity of a lifetime. Or that you would meet the guy of your dreams.

Jungkook was around your age, so it was easy for you two to get along. You often would spend late nights going over and over the dance routine for performances and the filming of upcoming music videos. His manager would often ask if he wanted a ride home, but Jungkook would always come up with an excuse.

"No, I'm ok. I want to make sure my hyungs are proud of me when they can finally see this!" Which often made the staff smile that he wanted to make his members proud.

Another one often was along the lines of - "No, thank you though. I am just stuck on this one part of the choreography and I think I'm finally getting it down. I will call security to make sure I get home." He promised every single time to use the resources at the company, but he never did.

He always opted to take Uber rides with you. At first, it was because Jungkook liked being able to talk to someone around his age. He had a solid group of friends, but you were new. Coming from the United States, he wanted to know what it was like to be a 20-something-year-old making it work.

The two of you often shared after practices drinks and meals. "You know, we have to nourish our bodies well. Jin-hyung taught me that well."

Quickly though, his hunger turned into something else. Getting to know you, getting to watch how your hips moved with ease, he began to grow hungry for your pussy. Jungkook was a very competitive guy, and he was determined to be the best at fucking you until you see the stars. He wanted to make you cum and scream until you forgot your name, until you questioned your ability to walk after.

Meals quickly turned into eating you out at your apartment. To be fair, it was his favorite meal of the day. He loved getting down on his knees for you, spreading them wide, and exposing you to him. Only or him. He often liked to blow cool air on your pussy to watch you squirm underneath his touch.

Jungkook thrived on knowing the reaction he could pull out of you. He liked knowing you whimpered and begged for him to lick your pussy, to suck on your clit as if his life depended on it. And if you begged well, he would reward you by sliding two of his fingers into your pussy.

Dance practices weren't the only reason why he would come over. If a recording session didn't go well, you offered comfort by letting him bend you and pound into your pussy. Afterwards, you would always talk about how he was feeling but you quickly learned that Jungkook preferred letting his frustrations out physically rather than verbally at first.

There were just a few more performances left for the group. Everyone knew that Jungkook would be enlisting soon, so nobody was taking it for granted. Every dance, every member of the crew, and Jungkook himself were basically putting their all into every dance practice, dress rehearsal, and performance.

You were currently sitting criss-cross on the dance practice floor, your water bottle resting in your lap. Your thumb moved your TikTok FYP up every once in a while. There was a 30 minute break, allowing some people to go grab lunch while others were taking a minute to just relax.

"So, y/n, did you know someone here in Korea before you moved?"

There was often conversation floating among the dancers. Down time and hanging outside of practice were opportunities to get to know one another, and do a little networking. With the days narrowing down on this contract, you were beginning to consider your options. Part of you wanted to go back home, to reunite with family, but you also were having the time of your life here.

Hearing your name, you locked your phone and set it on the floor. There were a few others who joined you on the floor, in their own worlds until the current conversation started. You felt all eyes on you as the question was directed to you.

"No, I actually didn't," You laughed. A year ago, you never would have had the courage to move across the world by yourself. Being here now, you knew it was the best decision. "So a good dancer, a risk taker, beautiful," one of the male dancers began to list.

You blushed at the compliment. One thing that has changed is your struggle to accept compliments. You knew he meant well, but it didn't stop you feeling as if your face had gotten incredibly hot.

"You've got to have a partner, right? Meet someone here in Korea? I mean, Korean men know how to treat you right," he winked.

You heard one of the female dancers scuff. She rolled her eyes at his words, shaking her head towards the two of you. "Don't listen to him. Stay away from Korean men," she warned before going back to eat her salad.

"You're just upset still about your breakup," he muttered. Quickly, that was followed by a loud smack and laughter from the other members. You watched the one male rub his tender arm, apologizing to the woman to his right. Satisfied, she nodded in acknowledgement before going back to her lunch.

The male looked back at you, smiling sheepishly. "Anyways, are you single?" He asked. "You've never met up with us after practice for a quick drink."

Yeah, I normally can't go out because I'm getting railed by Jungkook after practice.

"Maybe she has a boyfriend back home?"

Decided to speak to yourself, you laughed as a way to break the conversation. Eager eyes were on you, wanting to know more about their American colleague.

"That's my bad for not showing face after practice. I normally get tired and want to go home. Sometimes I'm even here practicing a bit more just to make sure I'm as good as you all. I mean, you guys are professionals."

The group smiled wide at your kind words. You weren't sure how you'd fit in as an outsider, especially if you weren't sure if you were going to be staying or not. At the start of this job, you placed a huge amount of pressure to do well especially as you knew that so many people would do anything to be in your position. You wanted the company to be satisfied that they chose the right person.

"Well, now that it's known that we want you here. You are coming out with us tomorrow night." "Yes, you have to! We'll have to show you around the best parts of Seoul." "And hopefully get you with the best guy." "Or at least go home with the best guy."

Your cheeks turned pink again, which caused all the whole group to smile. How could life get any better?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun had already set by the time you got done with practice. Most of the group had left for the evening whereas you were packing up your duffle bag with all your belongings. While you were very much looking forward to tomorrow night, you always loved a night-in to yourself.

You couldn't help but wonder if Jungkook would want to come over.

"You know, you really should be leaving here by yourself," a voice called out to you.

Startled, you looked over your shoulder to see Jungkook leaning against the practice room door. Speak of the devil. You placed one hand over your chest as your racing heart began to settle, very slowly that is.

"God, you fucking scared me."

He let out a laugh before coming into the room. You only could tell how he was moving by the sound of his laughter growing louder. "Sorry, doll, I couldn't help myself," he apologized. You hummed in amusement as you had your back turned towards him, trying to get the rest of your belongings together so you could leave. Because if he was ready to go, that meant that you were to.

You felt his hand ghost over your hip. Zipping up the duffle bag, you slowly stood up straighter to feel him right behind you. His lips hovered over the shell of your ear, feeling his hot breath against it. You shivered from the effect and with excitement.

"You seem to really be finding your place here," he said.

His voice was very smooth. He knew the effect he had on you, how you were basically wrapped around his finger. And he used it to his advantage. You were a bit confused as to where this was coming from.

"I mean, I overheard you making plans with the other dancers. I think that's good for you." His hand gently caressed your hip, the touch light as a feather. You were almost in a trance from it all. Just feeling his body heat radiate into your back sent a wave of warmth throughout you.

"But there is one thing I do not like." You were about to look over at him, but were cut off when his grip on you tightened. He yanked you back so you could feel his boner right up against his ass. You gasped in surprise which caused him to chuckle lightly. The laugh sending shivers done your spine. "I don't like sharing, angel."

Everything happened so suddenly. One minute, you were getting your duffle bag, the next you were being pinned against the mirrors of the dance studio. Jungkook's grip was tight enough to inform you he was in charge here, but loose enough to slip out if you felt uncomfortable. Yet, his gaze locked on you told you to stay put.

His breathing was a bit rigid, sensing emotions were coursing through his body. What was on his mind? You noticed his jaw was a bit clenched, almost as if he was contemplating what he was doing or his next move.

"Let me make it clear. You are not going home with anyone else besides me. You'll always come back to me."

Oh god, he overheard your conversation earlier. It was starting to make sense.

"I'll have to remind you if that's an issue." "Then mark me up and make me yours."

Jungkook's breathing hitched hearing you. He wasn't expecting such a response from you but it made him so damn weak. God, you were the death of him.

Not one to back down, he accepted your challenge.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Smack.

You whimpered loudly at the feeling of Jungkook's hand meeting your left asscheek. It was like an electric jolt. A bit painful, considering he has spanked you repeatedly throughout the evening, but also pleasurable because it made you feel alive. It honestly made you feel powerful.

Jungkook had you on your hands and knees. You were at the dance studio. You knew everyone had left but the thrill of someone potentially catching the two of you turned you on.

With one hand staying on your hip, Jungkook's other hand ran up your spine gently. His touch was still a stark contrast to the feeling of his thick cock sliding in and out of your soaking pussy. Each smack against your ass caused your walls to squeeze around his cock, sending the two of you into a chorus of moans.

His hips rammed into you from behind. It created a rhythmic sound of skin slapping, the two of you moaning, and how wet you were. The last sound caused your cheeks to heat up, much to Jungkook's satisfaction.

The hand on your spine gathered your hair. You were grateful you put it in a low ponytail during practice earlier. Jungkook pulled your head, causing you to hiss in response. The sweet sting of your hair being pulled made you crave more. The sudden movement also caused your eyes to become a bit glossy. Your head tilted back as you met his in the reflection of the mirror.

"Look at you," Jungkook asked. His mouth was curled into a sinister smirk. "You're crying over my cock. Is it not enough for you, hmm? Is that why you wanna go out to meet other guys?"

"No, Jungkook, fuck," he panted out. "You're all I want, all I need." "Oh yeah? Prove it. Cum on my cock. Show me that I really am the only one that can make you feel so damn good."

If it were possible, Jungkook increased his pace. You cried out in pleasure as the intensity of his brutal thrusting caused your arms to give out. You upper half of your body rested against the cool wood floor, causing your ass to move a bit up. Jungkook groaned in appreciation for the change. He couldn't help himself. Smack.

Your mind was hazy. You couldn't comprehend anything besides Jungkook's cock filling and stretching you out. Your vision was getting blurry from the tears beginning to fall as you felt that familiar tingling, warm sensation in your stomach.

In a matter of moments, your vision went white and your toes curled. You screamed out his name. His grip on your hips could be burned into your skin. You never wanted him to stop touching you. Jungkook groaned as his thrusts got harder, determined to meet you at your high. The world around you seemed to stand still while your head was in the clouds.

After a few more thrusts, Jungkook let out a loud groan. You could feel his cum filling your pussy, which sent you into a whimpering mess at the feeling. You felt so content. He also felt content seeing some of his cum spilling out of your pussy once he began to pull out.

He swore you've never looked more beautiful. All his.

Lips were being pressed against your spine. You didn't even register that your body had sprawled out onto the wooden surface until Jungkook gently moved you. Your head rested on his chest, your back on the floor. His hand ran up and down your lower back. His other hand reached up to wipe away any of your remaining tears.

You were bringing brought down to reality. You could register the sound of you two heavy breathing, the slight tremors of your body starting to subside. With your head pressed into Jungkook's chest, you could hear his once racing heart beat begin to steady itself.

"You won't forget about me, right?" "How could I ever forget about you?"

There was a pause. Jungkook was the type to usually have a response, or do something in response to what was said to him. Not this time.

You looked up at him, concerned as you knew something was bothering him. Unfortunately, you got confirmation when you were met with his own glossy eyes.

"Look, I know a lot is going to change over 18 months. I don't care if you stay here in Korea or you go back home. I don't like sharing, y/n, so just promise not to forget about me because I'll come back to you. Every single damn time." "I could never forget about you, Jeon Jungkook. I'll be waiting for you, regardless of what happens next."

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ko-existing · 7 months ago

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In a typical day, you perceive, engage, and act in a world that feels vivid and undeniable. You might work, talk with friends, or feel deeply about something you’ve experienced. Everything seems real and solid. Then, at night, you lie down to sleep.

What happens to everything you perceived and engaged with during the day? Where does it all go? The world you were immersed in—your worries, plans, interactions—seem to vanish entirely. The room you're in, the bed you're lying on, even "you," as the experiencer of the day, all fade into nothing.

When you seemingly "wake up" in the morning, the world reappears. But does it reappear from anywhere? Does it arrive with a physical solidity that you can point to, or does it simply arise, like a hologram projected from nowhere?

Consider the dream again. At night, in a dream, another world appears—complete with people, places, sensations, and events. This dream feels just as vivid as the waking world. But when the dream ends, where does that world go? The same question applies to the waking state: when you sleep, where does the waking world go? When you wake up, where does it come from?

This waking life, too, arises as if from nothing. Like a hologram, it appears within “Awareness,” yet Awareness itself remains untouched, unaltered, and always present. The images, sounds, and forms appear, but they hold no actual substance. They are like reflections in a mirror—not separate from the mirror but never altering its essence.

Without "Awareness, Presence, Beingness", would you even know of "this"?

So, if the waking world arises in the same way as a dream—out of nothing, as nothing, and into nothing—what is it, really? It’s not “out there,” just as last night’s dream wasn’t “out there.” It’s all happening within this moment of Awareness. And that "Awareness" is what you truly are. Everything else? It’s no different from a hologram: appearing and vanishing.

#no concept #awareness #nothingness #consciousness #brahman #advaita vedanta #atman #nondualism #nonduality #beingness #av #advaitavedanta #advaita #nothing #non dual #non dualism #non duality

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gf2bellamy · 4 months ago

Note

Hiii ! First of all take care of you dw if you want to slow down on request it's totally okay !!! I looove your fics tysm for your amazing writing

I was wandering i you could write something about Spencer and nonBAUreader are watching a serie about serial killer and reader ask MANY questions about Spencer's work (i'm curently watching the new season of Dexter x)) and it's all cute

love uuuu <3💐

questions — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of serial killers not getting caught / dna under finger nails / victims a/n: hi hi tysm !! that's so so nice <33 and i hope you like this <3 also i don't even wanna know how bad my google search history looks like rn

You were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs and a bowl of popcorn resting between you and Spencer. The two of you were halfway through a binge-watch of a fictional crime series about a serial killer, and while the show was gripping, you couldn’t help but pepper Spencer with questions.

After all, who better to ask than an actual FBI profiler?

“Okay, wait,” you said, pausing the show just as the detectives on screen were about to interrogate a suspect. “This whole DNA-under-the-nails thing—how often does that actually happen in real cases? Like, is it as common as they make it seem?”

Spencer, who had been leaning back against the arm of the couch with his legs stretched out, turned to look at you, his eyes lighting up at the question.

“Actually,” he said, sitting up a little straighter, “it’s not as common as TV makes it seem, but it does happen. The likelihood depends on the type of assault and whether the victim had the opportunity to fight back. Statistically, it’s present in about 12% of cases where there’s close physical contact.”

You nodded, absorbing the information. “So, it’s not a guarantee, but it’s a solid lead when it’s there,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “What about contamination? Like, how often does the DNA get messed up because of improper collection or storage?”

Spencer’s face lit up even more, and you could tell he was enjoying this.

“Great question,” he said, his tone enthusiastic. “Contamination is a huge issue, especially in high-profile cases where there’s a lot of media attention and pressure to solve the case quickly. Improper handling of evidence can reduce the reliability of DNA results by up to 30%. That’s why chain of custody is so important.”

You hummed thoughtfully, popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth. “Makes sense,” you said. “Okay, next question. How likely is it that a serial killer could stay hidden for, like, decades?”

Spencer tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “It’s more common than you’d think,” he said. “If the killer is organized, methodical, and avoids leaving behind forensic evidence, they can evade capture for years—sometimes even decades. The Golden State Killer, for example, wasn’t caught for over 40 years. The probability of staying hidden increases if the killer targets strangers, moves frequently, and avoids leaving behind patterns that law enforcement can track.”

You frowned slightly, your brow furrowing as you considered that.

“That’s… kind of terrifying,” you said. “But also fascinating. How do you even start profiling someone like that? Like, what’s the first step?”

Spencer smiled, clearly impressed by your line of questioning. “It starts with the crime scene,” he said, his tone shifting into what you affectionately called his “professor voice.” “Every detail tells a story. The way the victim was killed, the location, the level of violence—it all gives us clues about the killer’s psychology, their motives, and even their background. From there, we build a profile and use it to narrow down potential suspects.”

You nodded, your eyes narrowing slightly as you processed everything. “That’s so cool,” you said, your voice soft. “I mean, not cool that people do terrible things, but cool that you can figure all that out just by looking at the evidence.”

Spencer chuckled, his smile warm. “It’s not always easy,” he said. “But it’s rewarding when we can use it to catch someone and stop them from doing harm.”

You smiled, tucking your legs underneath you as you turned to face him more fully. “I can’t even imagine,” you said. “Do you ever… I don’t know, get scared? Or overwhelmed?”

Spencer’s expression softened, and he hesitated for a moment, as if considering how much to share. “Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “There are cases that stay with you, ones that are harder to shake. But having a team helps. And… well, it helps to have something—or someone—to come home to.”

His words hung in the air for a moment and you felt your heart swell. Without thinking, you shifted closer to him on the couch, your hand reaching out to gently rest on his arm.

“I’m glad you have that,” you said, your voice warm. “And I’m really glad I get to be that someone.”

#criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x you #criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic

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hannibals-favourite-meal · 1 year ago

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.⋆｡The Morning After｡⋆.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x plus size reader

Ghost was a big man, he loomed over everyone in the squad but you never dared to imagine how big he was everywhere until you accidentally walk in on him in the shower

Warnings: nudity, Ghost is fucking massive, horny thoughts, reader’s callsign is Pyro, implied smut, size difference WC: 1.3k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

You couldn’t look your LT in the eye, not that you could before but now it was even worse. You knew that he knew something was wrong but you were too damn stubborn and too damn embarrassed to clear it up. You could feel those striking brown eyes staring at the back of your head as you poured yourself a coffee from the ancient coffee machine. His gaze followed you as you bypassed your usual seat next to him and instead sat beside Soap, expertly positioning your body beside the Scott as to not see your superior.

“You’re next to me today then lass?” Soap threw an arm over your shoulders, shaking you with his excitement.

“Regrettably, yes.” You snapped back, your exhausted state only adding to the annoyance you felt around the man you called your friend. He smirked, dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

“What’s up yer ass today?” He asked right as you took a sip of the shitty coffee causing you to choke on the dark liquid, drawing the attention of the whole table to you. Soap beamed as you coughed and for a brief moment, your focus was not on the piercing gaze of Ghost.

“Nothing! Nothing, just didn’t sleep well.” You forced your attention to the front of the room where Captain Price was beginning his morning debrief.

Getting lost in the monotonous tones of the Brit, your mind began to wander to the events of last night.

Your entire body was covered in a layer of grime and sweat, a consequence of having to test out the new training course for the recruits coming in next week. You had been chosen ‘at random’ but knew that it was because you were the youngest of the 141 and thus at the bottom of the pecking order.

All you could think about after being in the cold mud and rain for a solid three hours (you had to run through it multiple times of course to make sure it was sound) was a steaming hot shower and maybe a quick version of your skin care routine.

Your feet dragged as you made your way to the showers, confident that you would be able to enjoy the room to yourself considering that it was nearing 1 in the morning, not hearing the gentle cascade of water already running over the sound of your own self-pity.

You beelined for your favourite stall but froze when you finally noticed the man standing under the steam. There was no question of who stood before you, the sheer size of him pointed to only one person on your squad.

Water rolled down his broad back like a river, snaking its way over scar tissue and muscle, reddening his skin with its heat. His shoulders rolled as his hands worked through his short dirty blonde hair, washing away the standard issues shampoo that clung to his locks.

You couldn’t help but let your eyes drift lower, settling on the pert cheeks of his ass and his strong, thick legs. Heat crawled up your neck and it was only partially because of the warm temperature of the shower. You held your breath as he turned to reach for the bar of soap sitting on the shelf beside him, exposing his profile to you.

Your eyes went wide and wetness pooled between your plump thighs. Good lord he was so-

“Pyro, we need you to run through the training course again. Ghost will help you out.” You were physically shaken from your daydream by your captain’s voice with the accompanying laugh from the man next to you. Your eyes flicked back up to your commanding officer.

“I must’ve run that thing 50 times sir. It works fine!” The older man raised an eyebrow at you before crossing his arms over his chest and levelling a disappointed look your way.

“Fine is not good enough. You’ll run it until Ghost thinks it’s enough.”

Soap, obviously finding amusement in your torment, said. “You’ll be runnin that course blindfolded if Riley has anything to do with it.” You groaned in annoyance and let your head fall to the table with a thud, ignoring the jeers of your teammates.

The rest of the day’s tasks were dolled out and the team was quickly dismissed, leaving only you and Simon in the room. He cleared his throat but before he could speak, you shot up. “I’ll meet you down there, I gotta hit the head.”

You scrambled from the room, leaving the giant alone smirking under his balaclava.

——————

“Faster!” Ghost barked, his voice booming between the obstacles. You growled in frustration, redoubling your efforts as you scaled the 12 ft wall in the centre of the course. You had already beaten your record three times over, yet this seemed to not be enough for your LT.

You reached for the rope at the top, your fingertips just grazing the braided fibres but right as you were about to grab for it, your other arm finally gave out after hours of work and you began to fall backwards.

Before the scream could escape your lips, your body was cradled in something warm and comfortable. When you were sure that you hadn’t just slammed into the ground, you opened one of your eyes and came face-to-mask with Ghost.

You could tell he was smiling behind that caricature of a skull by the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. You huffed and attempted to wriggle out of his arms, desperately forcing yourself not to think about how warm and fucking massive they were. “Now where ya goin there Pyro. That was a big fall, I’d hate to see ya hurt.” His voice was even deeper than normal, husky and raw. It made your cunt clench around nothing.

“I um-“ You started to say but you were quickly cut off by a tut from your superior officer.

“I think we’re done for the day Sergeant, you’ve obviously proved your… endurance.” He said the last word like it was dirty, his brown eyes growing even darker as his biceps flexed, keeping you pinned to his chest. Something in your stomach fluttered. Even holding you up to him, Ghost was still looming over you, the shadow of his bulk blocking out the sunlight that licked at his broad shoulders.

Your gaze flicked to where the black of his mask clung to his lips before you caught yourself and forced your eyes elsewhere. “Yes lieutenant.” Simon chuckled and lowered you, more gently than you would’ve thought him capable, to the dusty ground of the training area.

“Good girl.” He purred and for a second, you thought that maybe you had actually bashed your head and now you were hallucinating. Ghost kept a paw-like hand wrapped around your elbow, preventing you from sprinting off.

“S-sir?”

“Ya know ye aren’t as sneaky as ya think ya are Pyro. If ya wanted ta join me for a shower, ya coulda. Don’t cha deny it, could feel those pretty eyes of yours searing inta me from 50 paces.” Your heart dropped.

“Oh god sir, ‘m so sorry, it was a total accident. It’ll never happen again.” His grip tightened, making your mouth snap shut with an audible click.

“Now when did I say tha I didn’t want tha?” His head tilted, the deep brown of his eyes glinting mischievously as he lowered himself closer to your face. “How ‘bout I show ya what ya missed out on a give ya a proper reward for bein such a good little girl?”

It was all you could do to nod your head and not collapse to the ground with a pathetic whimper. The edge of his mask shifted as he smirked down at you.

——————

“Sorry I’m late Captain, won’t happen again.” You limped into the briefing room, dark bags marring your cheeks. Price nodded at you and continued his debrief for the day. You winced as you plopped down in the only open seat, ending up right next to Soap for the second day in a row.

“Ye look li shite.” He leaned over to you. You jabbed your index and middle fingers into his ribs, making Johnny jump slightly and earning him a glare from Price. “Jausus, Ghost musta really battered ya ta make ya so bitchy today.”

You smirked and caught said lieutenant’s eye. “He really fucking did.”

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myfictionaldreams · 2 years ago

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Day 30: Freeuse - Winter Soldier

Summary: He was your patient. You were in charge of making sure all of his needs were met, no matter what they were.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, non-consensual elements, dubious content, freeuse, discussion of injuries, violence, masturbation, fingering, voyeurism, exhibitionism, stalking (kinda), possessive

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He was your priority. Hydra had recruited you with the hopes of creating an experiment to see if anyone could be trained to look after the assassin frozen in a Cyrogentic state. You were trained and kept underground to be the lead carer and doctor for the Winter Soldier. He was yours to look after, physically and mentally. After each mission you sent him on, he’d return and give you the reports. Most importantly, you were always the first face he’d see before and after being on the ice.

The Soldier would answer to you and Alexander Pierce, but even that was touchy sometimes as he would look to you before answering Pierces’ questions as if he was asking for permission to talk.

What’s more, is that you knew who he was outside of his assassin's status. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, born in 1917, was the best friend to the one and only Captain America, Steve Rogers, who was currently alive, having been found in the ice and unbeknown to him, his best friend was also alive with similar super solider serum pumping through his veins. Steve was Bucky’s potential saviour; one day, you hoped to be there when this could become a reality; however, currently, you were watched so closely by everyone in Hydra that you’d not even been able to contemplate a plan as to how to break him out. Until then, he was your priority, keeping him out of harm's way as much as possible.

Alexander Pierce had given you strict instructions to adhere to every single need that may affect or alter the soldier's performance as the ghostly assassin. At first, you just assumed it was to feed him, wash, cut his hair, make sure he was healthy and metal arm was working to its best ability. But the basic human need for the Winter Soldier ran deeper than that, causing your role as his doctor and carer to be blurred and something more developed.

The longer he was out of the ice, the more you would notice his increasing frustrations that couldn’t be erased with a simple afternoon in the gym or sparring with other guards. There were even days when no one could calm him down, his aggression so high that he had to be sedated if you were not available to talk to him.

For example, there was once a day when you were actually off of the unit, in your new flat, having just been granted the allowance to live there when Rumlow came knocking on your door. He only gave you the courtesy of putting on your shoes before gripping your upper arm and dragging you to the office.

When you arrived, the rooms were in disarray. Equipment smashed, blood and unconscious bodies trying to be aided too. It was a mess, and you were more nearly barging down the door to get to him, shouting for the guards to stand down and leave him to you. Yes, he was a highly trained assassin, but with the trust he held in you, there was no way he would intentionally harm you.

The underground room had no windows, which you were thankful for as they would have been destroyed in his rampage. You were only dressed in your joggers and a vest top, trainers already marked with red streaks from the puddles you’d walked through. It felt like your heart would escape your mouth with how erratic it was pounding in your chest as you tried to take in his appearance.

The shirt he had previously been wearing was now ripped to shreds on the floor. The tactical trousers had tears throughout but still seemed to be held together enough that he was indecent, and combat boots that gleamed with smudges where he’d been kicking objects and people. Each of his knuckles were busted in their own way. The flesh hand was cut, and the metal fist was red with other people's blood.

You’d not seen him become this erratic since he’d been out of his cryogenic state for too long, and his memories began to return to him as he questioned his entire existence. Whereas for this example, he’d only been defrosted for several days and shouldn’t have had any cognitive issues.

Stepping closer with your hands raised to show you meant no threat, you asked in a clear, concise voice, “Soldier? Where is the threat?”

His height seemed to tower over yours, more so than usual, as he turned his deathly glare towards you. The hulking muscles of his shoulders heaved with each breath he took as if he was out of breath, which was a rare occasion as he could run for miles and continue to breathe steadily, unaffected by the strenuous exercise. Your question was supposed to help identify what his issue was, hoping he’d find you being there to create a safe space for him, but the angry charge of his massive body had you flinching back in shock.

The warm hand of his wrapped around your throat, using the momentum of his steps to push you back up against the wall. Your hands remained up, even though you were itching to tear at his wrist to relieve some pressure. He wasn’t squeezing hard enough that you were struggling to breathe, but it was still uncomfortable and unnerving.

Your mind was working on overdrive, trying to think of a way to ease the stress he was going through. Your eyes searched over his body, starting with his head and face, but there were only minor scratches and grazes from the fights. Lower your eyes explore his arms and chest until they halted, seeing something that had never been through your consideration.

His tactical pants were tented, showing the outline of his hard-on, raging just as violently as the blue of his eyes. Was this the issue of his anger? The soldier shifted his stance, hand twitching towards his crotch like he was going to move himself to be more comfortable, but stopped as he watched you closely.

Alexander Pierce had once told you that whatever the Soldier wanted or needed, you were to give it to him to ensure that he was performing to his best abilities. You cursed to yourself quietly, unsure if this was even plausible or right to do. Of course, it wasn’t right to do. He was a prisoner in his own body, but you were his doctor, and you had a job to do.

“It’s okay. I know what will help you. I’ll show you how to get rid of the pain; I won’t touch you, I promise”.

From there, you were able to explain anatomy, the ache throbbing through his abdomen and how he could relieve himself. He did. Right there in front of you, his pants by his knees and cock in hand until he came on your shoes.

You didn’t so much as blink or flinch at the action. He didn’t understand that it wasn't appropriate to cum on someone's shoes or to masturbate in a somewhat public scenario. It calmed him down enough that you could push him back onto a chair and fix the injuries that were already mostly healed.

These situations only continued to escalate, which occurred more often than not. However, the Winter Soldier only touched himself when you were around, and you were unsure if it was because you made him feel safe or for other reasons that Rumlow liked to hiss in your ear, saying that the deadly assassin had a crush on his favourite doctor.

You blew it off as gossip and nasty rumours, unprofessional at most.

This only lasted for a few months before you noticed the changes in the Soldier, and it all came to a head one night as he turned up at your apartment after a mission. You hadn’t even told him your address, and he wasn’t due back from the mission for another 24 hours, but there he was, at the end of the bed, having snuck through the window as you were halfway through having some intimate time yourself.

Your fingers were between your legs, eyes closed, and your head tipped back, not covering your moans as you didn’t think you’d need to as you were living by yourself. The assassin watched, confusion causing his brows to furrow, head tilted to the side as his fists clenched.

The look on your face was one he’d never seen before, and he noticed the anatomy was different to his. Of course, he was aware that not everyone had the same genitals as his, but it hadn’t crossed his mind that it could be touched like this.

The only time you were aware of his presence was when the bed dipped, your eyes snapping open and legs closing as you released an almighty scream that caused the Soldier to flinch.

“Mine”, he muttered under his breath, grabbing your ankle and dragging you closer.

“What? Soldier, what are you doing here? When did you- please stop” he paused his attempts to drag you closer as he was half crawling over your body. You were trying to remain calm, but he was acting so possessive, and why was he even here? How did he get in?

“Mine”, he repeated above you again, eyes trained between your legs.

You were at a loss for words, feeling both confused and safe simultaneously, even with someone as dangerous as this. The night was one that definitely crossed the line for professionalism.

The Winter Soldier was so interested in your masturbation and different genitals that he practically begged you to continue, shouting mine and gazing at your intimate area until you continued.

You came, and then the Soldier unbuckled his belt and ejaculated over your stomach, and this was the turning point of the relationship. Your job now seemed to be a half doctor, half a sexual release. Masturbation escalated into hands in underwear until there was no point holding back the restraint, and the two of you were fucking.

It was challenging to wrap your head around, especially when the two of you were in the work environment, but if it was what he wanted and needed that you were more than happy to be face pushed into the wall, trousers and underwear by your ankles and cock shoving so far into your cunt that you saw stars.

The most significant issue was that, even though none of the workers commented on it, they all knew the sex was occurring. Mainly because the Winter Soldier didn’t seem to understand that this was supposed to be something that was for ‘behind closed doors’ and out of view of the guards and other doctors. To him, if he was to push you over the table and whisper “mine”, then this was enough warning that he wanted to fuck, even if you were unfathomably embarrassed that your coworkers had to watch you coming undone to the man they were all looking after.

The worst time had to have been when Alexander Pierce came strolling into the ‘jail’ they kept the Soldier in during his downtime. Multiple guards were surrounding him, and three doctors in lab coats were working tirelessly around the room. You’d been in there for hours. Warm, tired and ready to eat whatever take-out you could encounter on the drive home later that night.

With Pierces’ presence, however, your posture straightened, and you tried to remain as professional as possible. This was a feat easier said than done as The Soldier eyed you from across the room, staring with his unblinking glare. Eventually, he pushed past Pierce, the guards all raising their guns expecting a fight, but there was none to have as the metal fingers of his specially made hand eased into the front of your work trousers, plain underwear and pushed into your cunt.

“What are you doing?! Now is not the time and place- Ah fuck!”. There was nothing other than a hand over your mouth that could have stopped the moan pitching from your lips as his thumb circled your clit. You’d not been at all aroused, but he had learned enough about your body to know the exact way to stimulate your bundle of nerves and curl his fingers inside of you to stroke that beautiful spot that had you whimpering without any restraint.

As he pleasured you in front of all your colleagues, there was nothing you could do but painfully grip on to his metal forearm. He didn’t even smile or mutter a single word as he made you orgasm with a knee-buckling euphoria. It seemed he was just in the mood to hear your whines as he turned around and sat back in front of Pierce, who was looking between the two of you.

“It seems things have changed through here. I’m glad you have been able to … satisfy the Asset by any means necessary”.

You tried not to visibly cringe with the way he had worded it as you tried to straighten your clothes and continue with the work you had been completing before. Nothing further was thankfully said as he was given his next mission, and you were left to continue working for a further three hours with underwear that was utterly soaked due to his wandering fingers.

#bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #winter soldier smut #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes one shot #bucky x reader #marvel smut #marvel fic #winter soldier one shot #bucky barnes x reader #mine*#kinktober 2023 #kinktober

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shaunasrabbit · 15 hours ago

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Eyes on the Prize | QZ!Joel x F!Reader

Explicit. Minors DNI. Part V.

Summary: You play a road trip game with Joel.

Tags: No use of y/n, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns, some physical descriptions (has a bush because #bushnation, has hair that can be pulled, and is curvy if you squint), age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his 50s), bratty reader and mean!Joel, dom!Joel, verbal degradation, some pussy smacking, spit, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, use of good girl and other pet names, fingering, m!masturbation (Joel jerkin' it), spit, finger sucking, hair pulling, cum eating, like sort of edging but not really, distracted driving (drive safe, y'all). If I missed any tags, please let me know!

Word count: ~4.2K

Read on AO3

A/N: I'll be traveling for work this next week, but I wanted to get something out before I'm super busy. This chapter is on the shorter side and mainly smut, so it kind of feels like filler, but I hope you enjoy! Lightly proofread this myself, so my apologies for any typos. All on me. As always, likes/reblogs/comments are appreciated and feedback is welcome. Thank you for reading! Divider by @/saradika-graphics

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

“Jesus, where d’ya learn to drive?” Joel mumbles, gripping the grab handle like he’ll somehow fly out of the car if he lets go.

“I didn’t really learn how to drive,” you snap, “and it’s not my fucking fault that no one’s filling in the potholes during the apocalypse.”

You roll your eyes and try to ignore the way your face feels hot under Joel’s gaze, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel. In the last hour and a half, you’ve only hit two potholes and considering the state of the roads, that’s a feat.

It’s surprising that Joel is even letting you drive. When he said you’d be borrowing a truck from Bill and Frank, you were sure that he’d be the one behind the wheel the entire time, but after a solid two hours on the road, he let you take over, still exhausted from fucking you last night. You’re tired too, obviously, blinking away any exhaustion that tries to settle within you, but you’re not going to complain. Knowing Joel, he’d say something like I guess I won’t fuck you anymore ‘cause ya clearly can’t handle it.

Thinking about Joel fucking you is a mistake. Distracted from your daydreaming, you hit another pothole and your heads nearly smack into the ceiling.

“Don’t even—”

“Are you even paying attention?” Joel cuts you off with his question. It’s rhetorical, but you start thinking of a snarky comment. “Gonna pop a fucking tire.”

“Joel,” you begin, tone venomous. When he shoots you a sharp look that you catch from your periphery, you bite your tongue. With an annoyed huff, you ask, “How much longer?”

“Couple’a hours,” he responds, pulling out the map and tracing a line from Lincoln to Lake George. “D’ya think you can manage not to kill us?”

“Stop talking to me.”

“Gladly,” he murmurs, turning his head to look out the window. He reminds you of an angsty teen and you bite back a smile.

Over breakfast, Joel informed you of your plan. The two of you would head up to Lake George, a roughly a three hour drive if you were able to take the highways, but it would take you longer if you were avoiding infected, raiders, or other smugglers. You’d be trading with some people that Joel met when they were still in the QZ. He said he trusts them enough and if Joel trusts them, so do you.

Bill and Frank need welded cage wire to secure the perimeter of their safe haven and a few other things, so they’re sending you with a hand crank radio, ammunition, and guns. Joel hasn’t told you what you’re getting out of it, but again, you trust him. At this point, the two of you are hours from the QZ and have to rely on each other for survival, so you don’t really have a choice. If Joel says it’s a good deal, then it’s a good deal. You’ll have to take his word for it.

Are you nervous about the journey? Of course. It’s indubitably dangerous and honestly, a little stupid, but again, what else are you to do?

The silence feels oppressive as Joel stares straight ahead, eyes glued to the busted concrete terrain in front of you. Reaching over, you grab a cassette from the holder in the center console. You’re trying not to hit potholes, so you don’t really look at your selection before popping it in the tape deck. Turning up the volume, you feel your breath catch in your throat when Johnny Cash starts to play.

“Good pick,” Joel mumbles.

“Sure is, cowboy,” you say teasingly, glancing at Joel as he shoots you a dirty look, eyes narrowed. His lips twitch into what resembles a smile.

Then it’s just you two and the music.

I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ‘round the bend.

And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when.

You can practically hear your father’s voice from afar, like he’s still in the kitchen singing and making breakfast. You can almost smell the bacon and taste the eggs, your dad appearing in the doorway, juggling plates. Sunny side up, he’d say. Just how you like ‘em, so you can dip your toast in the yolks. The music drags you back in time.

The tapping of Joel’s foot from the passenger side snatches you from your memory and you feel grateful for the interruption. You let the whole tape play before pulling it out. As you’re retrieving from the deck, ready to toss it back in the console, your hand on the steering wheel follows your turned head and you nearly drive off of the road.

“I know,” you blurt out before Joel gets the chance to speak. “I’m a shit driver.”

“Not necessarily a bad driver, just a distracted one,” he says.

“That was almost a compliment, so thanks, but also, I’m not…that easily distracted,” you defend yourself, eyes trained on the open road.

Joel lifts a brow, looking at you with amusement etched on his face. Glancing over at him quickly before looking at the road again, you furrow your brows. Whatever’s going on in his head makes you uneasy. You think about saying something, breaking the silence, but a firm, heavy hand lands on your thigh. His thumb traces lazily circles over your jeans. You sigh softly, quietly hating yourself for the way your clit is already throbbing.

“Not that easily distracted, huh?” he teases, voice low and dark. You recognize the tone well. You heard it last night when he snuck into your room.

“Nope,” you reply, popping the p.

Eyes glued to the road, you control your breathing as Joel’s hand snakes up your leg. Nearly brushing your clothed center with his thumb, he moves his hand to the valley where your thighs meet. Unconsciously, you part your legs for him and he chuckles.

“Y’wanna test it? Play a little game to see if you’re right?” Joel asks, giving your thigh a tight squeeze.

You run your tongue along your top teeth, sucking them and shaking your head. Whatever he has in mind is a bad idea, you know that, but he has a way of making you think with your pussy and not your head. The weight of his hand on your thigh alone feels intoxicating and each time he strokes your plush skin with his thumb, you feel yourself getting closer and closer to giving in.

When Joel’s fingers make light contact with your clit through your jeans, you shudder slightly and your breath hitches. Joel hums next to you, satisfied with himself, and cups your mound before smacking your pussy. You hold in a whimper, biting your bottom lip.

“C’mon, sweetheart. I think she wants to play with me.” Joel’s voice is syrupy, dripping with lust. It shoots right to your core. “Bet she’s already real wet for me.”

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. You glance over at Joel and his eyes look impossibly dark. He rubs your clit through your jeans and you know it’s over. You’re going to give in. “What do I get when I win?”

“Don’t go gettin’ ahead of yourself. Let’s just see if you can be a good girl for me.”

“Joel, I’m not doing shit for you unless you tell me what I’m getting out of it.”

A sharp blow lands on your pussy and you yelp, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that it makes your palms ache.

“Not off to a good start,” he says, moving his hand away from your pussy. He fumbles with the button of your jeans and the zipper; the angle is awkward and you get a kick out of watching Joel struggle. He’s usually so smooth. Once he gets it, he taps your leg and instructs, “Lift.”

You shoot him a sideways glance, trying not to take your eyes off the road for too long, but you do it, lifting your hips so Joel can slide your jeans down. Almost immediately, you fuck up and press the gas way too hard, the truck jolting forward. Joel puts a hand on your lower belly as if he were your seatbelt.

Much to your surprise, he doesn’t say anything, but you’re still holding your breath. Heat creeps across your face as you think about how ridiculous you must look sitting in the driver’s seat with your jeans down just past your knees, soaked underwear still on. Joel’s gaze weighs on you, his eyes dragging up and down your body, taking all of you in. He unbuckles his seatbelt to move closer to you. Brave move all things considered, you think.

“Knew she’d be fuckin’ soaked,” Joel growls, running two thick fingers up and down the center of your panties. He leans forward to get a better look at the wet spot that’s formed. “Look how bad she wants me.”

You inhale sharply, knowing damn well that if you were to look down at the mess between your legs, you’d swerve off the road. Instead, you focus on what’s in front of you. Your hand gripping the wheel, the sun tucking itself behind the trees, the broken concrete.

“I have to focus, remember?” you lilt.

Joel doesn’t respond with words, no. He just shoves two fingers inside of you without moving your panties, pushing the fabric into your leaking slit. With the barrier preventing him from going deep, it’s not enough to make you feel satisfied, but you let out a whimper as if you’re telling him more, more, more. You fight the urge to close your eyes, something you normally would do to focus on the feeling of Joel. If there’s anything that rivals Joel’s touch, it’s the satisfaction of winning.

When he pulls his fingers out of you, he moves to your clit, rubbing precise circles on your swollen bud. The pressure is perfect and you whine, pushing your hips into Joel’s touch while also doing your best to stay in line. Although it’s not like it matters. No one else is, thankfully, on the road. You’d have bigger problems than your bad driving.

Joel picks up the pace, massaging your clit and rolling it between his fingers. You’re nearly panting at this point and very much struggling to drive well, but you manage to focus on avoiding potholes and debris.

“Doin’ so well for me. I’m sorta surprised,” he rasps. Joel hits your cunt once—hard—and you whine. “Usually so fuckin’ brainless when I’m touchin’ you.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you mumble under your breath between moans. “Maybe I should drive us off the road.”

“But then you wouldn’t be able to come and this whore of a cunt is makin’ a mess of your pretty panties,” he says, his voice drenched in condescension as he pulls the waistband of your underwear, letting it go and snap back into place. “I think ya need it.”

You hold back a strangled whine at his filthy words and you catch a glimpse of a smug smirk on his face, knowing damn well what he’s doing to you.

“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me how bad you wanna come.”

Shaking your head, you clench your jaw and clutch the steering wheel like it’s the last thing tethering you to earth. You do want to come. You want to completely ruin your panties. You want to moan and whine so Joel tells you how pretty you sound. You want him to call you a good girl. Every time you give in, you think you might hate him, but you love it. You can’t get enough of Joel Miller and his stupid, dirty mouth.

Joel pulls his hand off of your pussy and leans back in his seat. Your eyes go wide as you turn your head to look at him, abandoning the road in front of you.

“What are you doing?” you ask, hoping that your voice doesn’t sound as desperate as you feel.

He shrugs and stares straight ahead. “Not going to touch you ‘til you say it.”

You look out the windshield once again, reminding yourself that you are, in fact, in control of a vehicle that weighs a few thousand pounds. Plus, you want to win. You want to come, badly, but you also want to win. You can do both, right? It’ll mean admitting it, saying what he wants to hear. What he already knows.

“I want to come,” you mutter and it’s barely audible.

“What was that, sweetheart? Couldn’t hear you.”

“Joel,” you say with a groan and an eye roll, “I want to come. Okay? I want to come, so make me come.”

“D’you think you’re in charge?” he snaps, turning to look at you again. You, sitting there exposed, with your pants down and wet underwear. “Think you can make demands? I don’t have to make you come.”

“I know, but you want to and fuck, I did what you asked.”

“So damn bratty when you’re not getting what you want,” he grumbles.

You do your best to bite back a smile, noticing that he didn’t deny that he wants to make you come. Knowing Joel Miller wants you as bad as you want him makes you shift in your seat in an attempt to quell the ache between your legs.

“Please, Joel,” you say softly. “I want you to make me come.”

Joel sighs, like it’s an inconvenience to touch you, but he leans over, spreading your thighs further apart with force; the movement nearly makes your foot slide off the gas pedal. With two fingers, he moves your panties to the side and holds them open, finally making contact with your bare cunt as he dips a finger inside of you. It’s shallow and quick, but enough to make you sigh in pleasure. Now that he’s gathered your slick, he circles your pulsing clit.

“Oh my god,” you whine as he speeds up. Joel knows your body so well, knows exactly what to do to make your legs tremble. “F-Fuck, thank you.”

Humming in response, he keeps the pressure and pace steady. You can feel your orgasm building low in your belly, your legs shaking as you try to maintain a consistent speed while also avoiding potholes. Driving has never been harder and you sort of hate him for this, but you really can’t when he’s making you feel so damn good.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joel’s free hand move and you turn your head fully to look over. Joel’s palming his hard cock through his jeans, the fabric straining against his bulge. His eyes are fixed on your pussy, wet and wanting, and all he can hear is your panting that’s interrupted by moans. He doesn’t even notice that you’re staring at him, eyes completely neglecting the road, until you mumble a holy shit under your breath.

“Don’t fuckin’ look at me,” he practically barks, slapping your clit which only heightens your pleasure. “Eyes on the damn road.”

The gruffness of his voice spurs you on and you’re about to tumble over the edge. Your orgasm is so close that your breathing is uneven. Still, you manage to goad him on with your eyes trained on his hand that gropes his own cock.

“Or what?” you ask, your voice sing-songy and dripping with lust.

You’re about to come when Joel snatches his hand away and grabs your jaw, ripping your eyes away from him and forcing you to look forward. He completely ruins your orgasm.

“Or I won’t fuckin’ touch you. Use your damn head,” he growls.

“I was so close, Joel,” you complain, shifting in your seat like it’ll give you any sort of relief. You realize you sound like a petulant child as you whine, but you can’t seem to give a fuck, so desperate to come.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Mine,” you mumble, knowing that if you don’t take the blame he’ll let you sit in your frustration.

Joel nods and hums in acknowledgement. You’re staring straight ahead, not daring to look at him, when you hear him unbutton and unzip his jeans. Flicking your eyes over ever so slightly so he doesn’t see, you catch a glimpse at his hard dick that’s been freed from his boxers. He begins stroking himself and your chest tightens with desire, your lips parting instinctively. You could drool just thinking about the weight of his cock on your tongue.

“Now I wanna hear you beg for it, baby. Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me how bad ya want it,” he rasps.

Part of you wants to fight him on it, but you need to come so bad you can’t even bring yourself to argue.

“Please, Joel,” you say, wiggling in your seat, “I’m sorry. I-I was…I was a bad girl.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to call yourself a bad girl because you know Joel is never going to let it go, but you try not to kick yourself for it.

“Shit,” he grumbles, low and gravelly. Joel’s strokes himself faster. “Say it again.”

“I’m sorry for being a bad girl. Touch me, please,” you beg. “I swear I’ll be good for you.”

The groan he lets out is from somewhere deep inside his chest and in your periphery, you notice that he’s still jerking himself off. For a moment, you thought he had come by the sound that came out of him. Joel obliges and reaches over to shove two of his thick fingers into your cunt. With his palm against your clit, you begin rutting into his hand, desperate to chase your lost orgasm again.

Joel leans over, lets go of his cock, and sticks his free hand toward you.

“Spit,” he commands with an open hand.

You glance at him for a second to see if he’s serious. With a furrowed brow, parted lips, and eyes so dark you feel like you could get sucked into them like a black hole, you know he’s serious. Dead serious. Spit pools in your mouth before you let it fall into his hand, doing your best to keep your eyes on the road even though you want to look at his fucked out face so badly.

Joel says something under his breath, but it’s hard to decipher what over the sound of his fingers fucking your cunt and the wet glide of his hand on his cock. You think it sounded like a thank you, but there’s no way you heard him correctly.

“Bein’ a good girl now, huh?” That sounds more like Joel. “You’ll do whatever I say when you’re needy like this. My pretty, desperate whore.”

Even though it was followed by desperate and whore, he still called you pretty. Better yet, he called you his. Your face and neck get hot from the compliment and your impending orgasm.

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, grinding into his palm. The pressure that was snatched from you before quickly returns. “Joel, I’m going to—”

“Alright now, fuck yourself on my fingers. Come f’me, sugar,” he encourages, plunging himself deeper into you.

You unravel as your orgasm hits you like a freight train and high-pitched moans claw their way out of you. Clenching around Joel’s fingers and slamming on the brakes, your trembling legs close around Joel’s hand, trapping him between your thighs. It takes everything in you not to close your eyes.

“‘Atta girl. S’good, sweetheart,” Joel says through grit teeth as he massages his shaft.

Abruptly, you pull over on the shoulder, all gravel and debris. If you could think straight, you’d be worried about popping a tire. You put the car into park and throw your head back on the headrest. Letting your head loll to the side, you finally get a good look at Joel. His cheeks are flushed and mouth is slightly agape as he continues to stroke his dick. When he notices you staring at him, he pulls his fingers out of you.

“Open,” he commands. His voice is low and firm in the most delicious way.

Once you part your lips and stick your tongue out, Joel puts one of his digits, coated in your juices, in your mouth. You wrap your lips around his finger and close your eyes, humming as you taste yourself. He pulls his finger out of your mouth with an obscene pop. The other finger that was buried in you goes into his mouth as he plays with himself. He sucks it clean and you feel your juices leak out of you at the sight.

You have to have him. You have to.

Leaning over the middle console, you go to wrap your lips around the red, leaking tip of his cock when he grabs you by the hair.

“No.”

“No?” you ask, slowly and obviously confused.

“No,” he repeats. “Ya don’t get my cock, baby.”

“No?” Furrowing your eyebrows, you sit up and stare at him incredulously. “Well, why the fuck not?”

“‘Cause you slammed on the brakes. Y’were distracted,” he states matter-of-factly like you’re an idiot for even asking.

You let out a dry laugh and lean back into your seat, pulling up your pants. The whole time you’re doing this, Joel continues to chase his own release.

“You’re un-fucking-believable. I was coming. I was doing what you said to do,” you defend yourself.

“Wasn’t the point of the game. Point of the game was to not be distracted.”

You shake your head and turn away from him, crossing your arms. You realize you look childish, but that doesn’t stop you from staring out the front windshield, ignoring the man next to you who sounds closer to his orgasm every second.

“No, c’mon. Look at me,” he demands between ragged breaths. “Couldn’t keep your damn eyes off of me earlier. So right here, look right here.”

Joel grabs your jaw and makes you look at him, your eyes locked on his blown out pupils.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

You listen. You always do. Joel’s chest heaves up and down as he gets closer to coming and he looks beautiful like that, with his brows drawn tightly together and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His hand cradles your face as he pries your jaw open with his thumb, sticking it in your hot, wet mouth. You clasp around him and suck. This does him in, and he spills all over his hand as he groans. You can’t look away, completely mesmerized by the mess dripping down his shaft and rough hands.

“Fuck,” he says with a sharp exhale.

He pulls his thumb out from your mouth and gathers some of his cum on his index finger. Before he even lifts his hand to you, you open your mouth expectantly. Joel smirks at you as he pushes his finger into your mouth. Joel always knows what you want and to some extent, you always know what he wants. You suck until there’s nothing left.

“Fuck,” you repeat back to him, nodding and wiping some spit off of your lower lip with the back of your hand.

Joel’s hand drops and he tenderly rubs circles on your thigh, letting his hand rest there. Your breath hitches at the contact. It’s soft, sweet, and surprising. Both of you sit in silence for a few minutes, trying to catch your breath and come down from your highs. Eventually, Joel squeezes your thigh before pulling away and reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out napkins to clean himself up. Once he tucks himself back into his boxers and buttons his jeans, you slide closer to him and shove his arm.

“What?”

“Move,” you reply. “I don’t want to drive anymore. Someone tired me out.”

Joel rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Never afraid to show his annoyance with you. Even so, he gets out of the car and you slide into the passenger seat.

Back on the road, Joel’s dead silent, staring ahead and acting like nothing happened. Maybe it’s the nature of the situation, of fooling around in the car, but you feel like you’re missing something. There’s not the weight of Joel’s body on yours, no comforting touch, no kisses on your neck.

“Do you even like me?” you ask suddenly. Goddamn it, you think to yourself. Why the fuck would you ask that?

Joel glances over at you with one eyebrow raised, looking surprised by your question. One of his arms is perched on the side of the door, his hand resting on his cheek, while the other hand grasps the steering wheel tightly. His knuckles are almost white from the grip.

“Enough to deal with your ass for a week,” he says, looking back at the road. It’s Joel, so he sounds grumpy, but there’s also some lightness to his tone and you don’t know what to make of it.

“I’ll take it,” you reply, “but for the record, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

No. You don’t.

You shake your head and lean against the window, closing your eyes while a smile creeps on your face against your will.

Joel’s looking at you. You can feel it.

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toastiest-mittens · 3 months ago

Text

ALEXANDER J. NEWALL, DID YOU BUILD AN ALCHEMICAL JESUS CHRIST AND NAME IT FUCKING

MR. BONZO.

Give me a minute I can explain.

So the theory I am building this off of is the Tria Prima Theory (@magnus-marmot is whom I first heard about it from), basically defining three alchemical primes (salt, sulfur, and mercury) as the basis for Protocol’s classifications of terrors. What strikes me is that the symbol “W” is a symbol for water, is also affiliated with “The Son” in the Christian Holy Trinity as it pertains to solidity, the physical presence, and the body (all fall under the prime of salt). And “W” is directly fucking related to Mr. Bonzo in Freddie’s backend code. Furthermore, I would bring to light MAGP 35’s Terrence Menke and his deification of Mr. Bonzo, literally stating he, “used to be everywhere growing up, like God. He was like God in a lot of ways really.”

So, alchemically linked by a particular alchemical symbol to The Son, Jesus Christ, deified and made manifest in an actual flesh, blood, and bone body (but there are multiple references to him being “wet” and his teeth being “not soft” in the transcripts as you might expect from a mascot suit), and main focus of the series; they made Mr. Bonzo The Anointed One, only much more so anointed in blood than in oil it would appear.

So this begs the question; who are the Father and the Holy Ghost? While I do not have definite evidence for this yet, there is a strong case to be made for Freddie and The Archivist, however I am not confident in which is which. If we follow the trend of “Father begets, Son is begotten, Ghost proceeds,” then in chronological terms the Archivist is the Father (presides over alchemical processes and the stories of them, presumably created in 1999 when the Magnus Institute was razed), the Son is Mr. Bonzo (presumably made manifest through some alchemical process of fear and reverence in February of 2000 by Terrence Menke) and the Holy Ghost is Freddie (classifies the fears and the newest entity*, it basically acts as a receptacle for prayer via the statements. One is meant to pray “In the Spirit” after all [Ephesians 6:18]).

*newest by virtue of Johnathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, and Jonah Magnus being inside Freddie, yet another “Three Entities in One Being,” reference I might add.

#I am biting writer’s ankles #im foaming at the mouth #i haven’t gone this deep into Christian Theology in years #i think i hauve stigmata #tmagp spoilers #the magnus archives #the magnus protocol #tma spoilers #tmp podcast #alexander j newall #MAHTIN

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grlcarcass · 23 days ago

Note

Hii im not sure if you’re taking requests rn, but Im going to just in case bc i absolutely love your writing!!

You feel like the kind of author that needs smut to have a backstory or at least a solid dynamic to be established between the characters, which I can absolutely relate to, so I was thinking maybe Izzy and the childhood best friend trope? I’m not sure if that’s your cup of tea but I love it when there’s a certain tenderness to two people having known each other for song long and then discovering this new side to their relationship.

Maybe they knew each other back in Indiana, but then he moved and they didn’t see each other for a couple years, and then they bump into each other in LA? Idk it’s all up to you, you’re fantastic at writing real chemistry and unique tropes so I don’t want to ruin this by babbling too much.

missing stradlin - izzy stradlin fic

taglist: @brokenglassb1tch @californiaahunny @tranquilitybasegrunge @slashes-strings @dazecrea

content: smut (18+), slight angst, mostly romantic

a/n: babe, after all that love for my writing in that ask? HOW COULD I NOT WRITE FOR YOU ASAP?! I’m extremely flattered that you love my chemistry writing, I try so hard T_T I tried extra hard for you here, I can tell we're very alike! Hope you love it anon!

tag an izzy lover <3

It was the kind of night in Los Angeles that felt like it would come undone before you if you just breathed too hard. The air was warm, dizzy air thick with gasoline and jasmine, the infectious air that poured out the nearby incense shop overwhelming her senses each time she passed.

“You’re in LA, and close to the bar.” it’d tell her, apparently yuppy-filled enough to have a running essential oil/crystal shop on damn near every corner. It was a humbling feeling, the jump from Indiana, where the fanciest joint was the restaurant of the local Inn. At least that was true back then, her little friends used to agree with that exact sentiment. Here she was, where we have enough money to spend on pretty rocks that don’t do jack, that’s what Momma told her about LA at least.

The bar was buried somewhere off Melrose, a place that didn’t advertise, didn’t care to. Its name was half-burned out in neon lights. The lighting was low, the music was loud, and the scent of sweat and old beer didn’t change no matter what state she chased her high. It lived in bars, and that made her feel right at home no matter how far she was from Indiana. At least for a moment.

She hadn’t expected anything from the night, maybe a cheap whiskey. Maybe a guy who’d nod too hard at anything she played on her acoustic. Physically egging her to finish the song until he’d take off her pants. What did sex mean anymore? What did anything?

She felt like she had missed the Get-Big-And-Out-Of-Indiana bus, ever since high school. Her two best friends weren’t Bill or Jeffrey anymore. With their new shiny titles, she questioned if that part of her– no, their past had existed. Knowing every damn thing about them, knowing them long enough to remember how bad they were at singing or guitar back then? Had that even existed in comparison to what those two became now?

She traveled endlessly, searching for nothing and something all at once. Bars. Sex. Smoke. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but to chase a familiar feeling. The comfort of both her Momma’s garage with their ruckus, but aged, grown up to a loud bar. It just wasn’t her guys though, no matter how talented the performing acts were.

Never admitting that she yearned to find them, outright. Cause she knew the possible rejection of forgetting her would ache like their absence tenfold. Finding the adjacent was fine, she’d convinced herself.

Karaoke nights at the bar, she’d sing whatever she felt like. Just to feel how she felt when her only friends did, who felt like more of a crowd on their own than a bar full of twits. A few people clapped. A guy in the back whistled. But she wasn’t really singing for them.

She was trying to shake the feeling that someone was listening.

Watching, even.

When she stepped off the stage, disappointed yet again in the lack of high, her hand around her chipping Yamaha, she saw him.

At first she thought her mind was playing a cruel trick. Reminding her of what she failed to find bar to bar, a flicker of a memory projected onto the crowd by the hum of the audience and stage lights. No. He was real.

Leaning against the far wall in a denim jacket that looked like it’d seen a stage or ten, one foot across the other, a cigarette between his fingers and an unmistakable bore in his eyes.

Jeffrey.

Izzy.

He didn’t move. Just looked at her like he was trying to decide if she was a dream or a ghost.

She swallowed. Her body moved before her brain could catch up.

“Jeffrey?” she said quietly, approaching him like he might vanish if she was too loud. “Izzy?” she squinted up at him, the title unfamiliar in her mouth.

His big eyes blinked slowly. “Shit.”

It wasn’t much. But there was something tender behind it, like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“It’s you,” he said after a moment. Voice low. Familiar.

She half smiled, unsure if she wanted to laugh or cry. “Yeah… whatever though. It’s you, though.”

“You look…” he trailed off, eyes scanning her like he didn’t know where to start. “Different. But sure as hell not.” That was him alright, he couldn’t muster up something outright sweet to save his life.

Senior prom, he gawked at her all night but all he could choke up was that her hair looked “Bigger than usual.”

“Well, it’s been what? Five years? Six?”

“Closer to seven,” he murmured confidently, like he’d counted every one.

They both ended up in a booth in the back. A tiny red candle flickered between them in a cloudy glass holder. She had her guitar case at her feet. Izzy’s beer stood untouched.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she admitted after a while.

“I looked for you,” he said, almost too quickly. Then he cleared his throat. “Both me and Axl, or… Bill? When we first got out here, you were still back at home. I figured you stayed put.”

“I did. For a while.” She toyed with the condensation on her glass. “Then I left. I left state after state actually. Just… needed out.”

He nodded, like he understood. Like they were still tuned at the same frequency 7 years later.

His eyes were softer than she remembered. Not in a fragile way, just quieter. Like he didn’t have anything to prove, or the world hadn’t gotten to him yet.

“You’re really doing it,” he said. “Your music thing, that’s cool.”

She looked down bashful. Knowing that he was millions bigger than her. “You’re just being nice.”

“I’m never nice,” he said. “Even back then, you knew that.” he smiled his quiet smile.

She looked up to meet his ever round eyes, there was a nostalgic warmth and familiarity that was better than any adrenaline rush she got from going bar to bar. Something old. Unfinished.

“What about you? Mister Guns N Roses.” she chuckled, swatting at his hand like she was scolding him for not addressing the elephant in the room. What had taken her friends up and out of Indiana in the first place.

“It’s a mess. But yeah. We’re making noise.” He rolled his eyes.

“For as calm and collected as you are, you’ve always attracted messes haven’t you.” She smiled.

“Maybe you mean Bill.” he chuckled softly.

They left the bar together. Not because they planned to, just because it didn’t make any sense not to.

Outside, the air was thick with that night time buzz, full of potential and unfinished business. His car was parked a block down. She hesitated.

“Wanna drive for a bit?” he asked. “Like before?”

Her heart tripped. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

The city flew past them in a blur of red brake lights and yellow street lamps. Neither of them said much at first. It was the kind of silence that existed back then, feedback whining in Momma’s garage. Herself, Axl, and him laid out on the cheetah printed couch by the minifridge. Filled with jello, cause Momma would be damned if she had a beer.

“I missed this,” he said eventually, one hand on the wheel, the other on his leg. “You.”

It hit her. She shouldn’t be humbled, it was still her highschool friend. Of course he’d miss her, she couldn’t believe she let his status get to her. Like she was lucky to have him miss her. She was new to experiencing their history, if that made any more sense than this sensation of longing.

She turned her head slowly. “You both left without saying goodbye.”

“I know.” His voice went quiet. “I was scared if I did, I’d change my mind.”

A beat went by. “We drink to it to this day. I know that when this moment slips by? I’ll drink even harder to this one.” he said.

She nodded. She understood now. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

They had pulled into a motel off Sunset. One of those old places with buzzing signs and doors that opened to the outside.

“I can get my own place if this is weird,” he offered.

She looked deeply into him.

And for the first time she saw Izzy Stradlin before her, not grown up Jeffrey. The man he became, faded denim, cigarette roughed voice. Gentle eyes. The same crooked smirk he used to pull when they were caught stealing cassettes.

“Izzy,” she said softly, “you can stay.”

The room was small. A double bed, floral sheets, a lamp with a crooked shade. Her guitar leaned against the wall in the corner like it was the third of whatever this reunion was to become.

She kicked off her shoes. He stood near the window.

She didn’t want to say the wrong thing. She didn’t even know what the right thing would be. So she just told the truth.

“I used to think about you. Each time I moved.”

He turned slowly. Like he wasn’t sure he heard her right. His eyes met hers, and something had shifted in them, like the air had changed pressure.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, the words crept somewhere behind her ribs. “Not in some big dramatic way. Just… like a constant in everything I did. You were two… well, you were the first person who just didn’t laugh at me. No matter how bad I was at guitar, no matter what silly guy I cried over, no matter how lame my poetry was? That kinda thing stays with a girl.”

He moved toward her carefully, like she was something sacred. His steps were slow, quiet. But there was something determined and in them too. Like maybe he spent years walking toward.

Izzy knelt in front of her. One knee to the motel carpet. He looked up at her like he didn’t know how to begin.

For a second, that was all. The silence curled around them again, but this time it pulsed. It buzzed into something bigger, something breaking.

Then he leaned in, slow and reverent. He kissed her like it wasn’t new, like it was something they’d been doing in dreams for years. His mouth slowly moved over hers with a softness that stunned her, lips just barely parting until she opened for him and let him in.

He tasted like smoke and beer. Her hand curled into his hair, tugging gently at the strands. He kissed her like he’d never kissed anyone like this before, tentative and tethered, full of feelings he was sure the English language didn’t have words for yet.

He pulled back, her heart was in her throat.

He pressed his forehead into hers. “We don’t have to. If this is too fast–”

She shook her head, breath catching.

“I want to.”

Not because it was overdue, or convenient. But because she had never felt more certain about anything in her life. This wasn’t lust, this wasn’t some hot guy from the bar. This wasn’t even about filling in for lost time.

It was about what was there between them now.

She leaned back against the bed, and he followed her gently, his hand finding her waist, and then the hem of her shirt. Everything he did was slow, like he wanted her to feel every decision he made. He kissed her again as he undressed her, his fingers brushing reverently over skin like he wasn’t just touching her, but remembering it, relearning it, letting it etch into him.

When he peeled off her top and she laid back in her bra, he stared for a moment. Not with hunger, but awe.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re…”

Aging after this long, he didn’t care if she ended up a bit rough and less pretty around the edges, becoming gorgeous wasn’t a grace everyone had. He would’ve been in this position as long as her soul was in her body. But she was absolutely stunning, she was clearly more fortunate in his mind than any Hollywood babe had ever come unto him with. It made her all the more powerful to him, it made her terrifying.

He never got to finish, he just kissed down her throat with gratitude, like an apology. And she arched into him, fingertips slipping under his T-Shirt, wanting more. Wanting him.

They undressed each other in pieces. His jeans came off slowly. Her bra, even slower. He kissed her chest like he was memorizing it, like he didn’t want to take anything for granted. When she was finally bare beneath him, she felt more seen than exposed.

“You do this to me.” he shakily whispered. He was never shaken, not Izzy Stradlin, always had a plan. This time around he felt the most careful he’d ever been.

When he slid into her, it wasn’t rushed or ragged like the bastards she agreed to sleep with for a feeling. It was deep, deliberate. His forehead pressed into hers, and he gasped like he hadn’t breathed right without her for years. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in fully, feeling that soft stretch that burned in the best way.

Every thrust was careful, like he didn’t want to hurt her. Like he needed her to feel just how much he meant it.

He kissed her shoulder, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Whispering her name like a vow.

Their rhythm built slowly, sweet and steady. He felt like he had been the most undeserving man in the world as she closed around him, like pleasing her was proof he had done anything right in his life. Fuck Guns N’ Roses, Fuck millions of dollars, Fuck guitar. Pleasing this woman was the only thing he’d live to get right, just right enough to make her cum.

His breath that’d hitch in the slams against her ass became slightly whiny and desperate, like he’d cry in pleasure. She was already there, tears streaming down her cheeks as she caressed his cheeks, sharing a tender stare, both of them sniffling of pleasure and longing.

She hung her arms around his neck, pulling him into her mouth, both groaning and gasping like something was changing spiritually around them.

Electricity climbed up and under her belly button, shot up into her mouth in a moan.

“Izzy…I’m-” she whined, still crying, as was he.

“Do it. Please.” he whimpered, a trait the world would’ve never expected from the stone cold Izzy Stradlin, a sight for her to see only.

Both of their moans wound up louder and louder the closer she got, everytime she whined he would. What was happening between them would be more than an orgasm, or two.

When she came they both let out strangled moans, which turned to tears sooner. Their naked bodies holding each other like they needed each other to live. They were both just as raw and exposed, having finally melt past everything in their way.

Distance, time, estranged familiarity.

This was what she searched for, she’ll finally say it.

They hiccuped and wiped each other’s tears, kissing each other’s cheeks.

“You’re gonna make me cry if you keep crying.” she chuckled through her own sniffles. Wiping his cheeks, the slight pout on his lips killing her.

“You gotta stop too then.” He said using his wrists to wipe his own.

♡

They laid there, naked in the cold air of the AC that stirred in the motel room. Her cheek against his chest.

“You’re not going anywhere, I think I’ll get alcohol poisoning if I let you go after this. I’d want to black out each second.” he demanded.

“So be it.” she smiled warmly, half laughing. “Take me to see Bill one of these days.”

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