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jooniperbonsai · 7 months

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My Bloody Valentine (jjk)

Pairing: Vampire!Jungkook x human reader (afab)

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 13.9k

Release date: Thurs. February 15, 2024

Genre: smut, fluff, humor, hella angst

Summary: You don't understand why your vampire boyfriend is so caught up in the idea of a silly holiday, until you realize it's about more than just candy hearts.

Warnings: Blood (duh), swearing, blood drinking, lots of angst, allusion to jungkook being bisexual, alcohol, brief description that sounds similar to disordered eating, jungkook is clingy and kind of a brat, so is reader tbh, accusations/assumptions of cheating, both are conflict avoidant which makes things worse, discussions of death and infertility, references to opiate addiction, medical theft, uh y/n kind of non-consensually feeds jungkook her blood, oral sex (m/f), masturbation (m/f), fingering, temperature play, unprotected rough sex, clit spanking, biting kink (!!!! just be warned lol), choking, dirty talk, mention of menstrual sex/oral kink, mention of somnophilia, creampie

a/n: Hi! Happy (late) Valentine’s Day! Thank you all for your enthusiastic support for this fic. I hope it exceeds your expectations (as it exceeded mine). I have some extra thoughts that I’ll leave at the end of this fic to avoid spoilers, but I hope you enjoy my little y/n and vampire Jungkook couple as much as I do. I would like to thank p for talking this universe through with me until it made sense.

“All I’m saying is that Halloween hardly feels like a holiday about vampires!”

“As opposed to what? Christmas?”

You’ve been standing in your kitchen arguing with your boyfriend for so long that the once-scalding cup of coffee in your favorite mug is now cold. Jungkook is sitting on the bar stool against the counter, his white shirt rolled up his forearms to reveal a similar pale shade underneath. You can see the corded tendons of his arms flex as he wrings his hands together in frustration.

When you woke up this morning, it was not from a lazy well-slept haze you were expecting to have. Instead, you had awoken to a crash coming from the kitchen, sending your heart jolting as you tried to make sense of the world and the source of the noise.

Buttercup, your cat and usual suspect for mischief, mewled angrily from her perch as she, too, eyed the wrongfully accused sleep disruptor. As she arched her back in one long, tail-shaking stretch, she glared at you and then twirled herself around to face the wall before settling back into her bed with a final huff.

If it wasn’t Buttercup, then it could only be one other creature.

You’d padded your way down the hall to the kitchen, only to see Jungkook already dressed and swearing to himself as he gathered the shattered pieces of a glass measuring cup and what looked like orange juice into a pile with a wet dish rag.

“Don’t come any closer!” he shrieked, and before you could even open your mouth to assure him you’d be fine, he'd already swooped you into the living room and onto the couch. “Don’t move!” he ordered and because you heard the sharp warning creeping into his tone, you obeyed.

An hour and a half later, the kitchen is a mess from what you now understand to be Jungkook’s attempt at cooking you breakfast for Valentine’s Day, a holiday that you both agreed you wouldn’t celebrate.

You take a sip of your coffee, trying not to wince at how it still somehow tastes burnt through the too-sweet pink sugar cookie creamer he’d doused it with when he insisted on making you a cup.

“No, of course not. Y/N! But don’t you think Valentine’s Day should be more about vampires?”

You snort, and the residual coffee on your tongue shoots to the back of your throat, sending you into a coughing fit.

“What?” You say when you finally regain composure. You set down the mug and glance around for a single cup in your kitchen that hasn’t been dirtied in this process of making…well…you’re not sure what. There’s some burnt edges of something in the sink, but a weird goo glazing various bowls that somewhat resembles pancakes. However, a bright green lump of…maybe spinach?...rests in those as well, so you’re not entirely confident where he was going with this execution.

Jungkook isn’t usually this oblivious to human tendencies, mostly because it wasn’t so long ago that he himself was a human. In the year you’ve been together, you’ve learned all about Jungkook’s swift descent into vampirism. Unlike many of his kind, he’s a fledgling. He was turned a handful of years ago and doesn’t exist in the ancient, strange accents and customs form of vampire some know. Nor is he a sleepless, sparkly teenager with superhuman speed. Yes, he has fangs, is paler than the normal person, and he will not (you think) age. But as someone who has maintained his twenty-something appearance, this currently presents as a non-issue because, if still alive, he would still be a twenty-something.

And unlike the stereotypes of his kind, Jungkook is not in a decades-long bloodlust. Lust, perhaps, but it’s unknown if that’s because of his vampirism or because he’s a horny man. The one who changed Jungkook did so in a dark night club in Paris between searing hot kisses, where he slid his fangs along Jungkook’s throat while rutting against him on the dance floor. Jungkook, in that drunk and sex-induced haze, never suspected that the slight sharpness tracing along his jugular, sending a delicious chill down his spine, would result in him waking up three days later in a hotel in Vienna with nothing more than a vague note of warning and a few plastic bags of blood chilling in the mini fridge.

While he doesn’t consume much now beyond A or O positive, Jungkok often cooks you meals so you’re not as tired when you get home from work. It’s sweet, but you know that he does it for himself, for the reminder of his humanity and, as he once admitted himself, for the fact that more energy saved from you not cooking means more energy for him to fuck out of you seven days a week.

“I’m going to need you to explain your reasoning behind that logic,” you say, and finally locate a clean cup to fill with water.

Jungkook grunts, and when you glance over at him, you can see he's pouting, his dual lip rings pulled under one of his fangs.

“Well,” he says, tense, “I just thought…with all this stuff, Valentine’s Day should be more about, you know, vampires? Blood? Red? Hearts?”

“Baby,” you laugh, and fish around on the cluttered countertop for something to eat until you spot a bowl of strawberries tucked behind a jar of kimchi. Your stomach growls. “Valentine’s Day uses the heart motif because of love. You know that. You weren’t born yesterday.”

He rolls his eyes in annoyance and you furrow your brow before popping the sweet fruit into your mouth. What is going on with him today?

“Yes, I know I wasn’t born yesterday! Thank you for the reminder! But I’m saying that Halloween is this holiday that makes vampires into these beasts who suck and drain all the blood from bodies or sleep in coffins! Beware the dark corners of the world or else they’ll get you! But Valentine’s Day, what even is this about? A fat naked baby who spears you with an arrow and suddenly you’re in love with someone? Sounds way more monstrous to me! And people embrace this guy? People want him to stab them so they can be all fluttery in love and get all these nice things. But I have to be seen as this awful monster all the time? It’s just not fair!” he shouts, and swipes his hand across the counter.

You gasp as you watch an empty plastic container clatter to the ground before he brings his hands up to cover his face.

Jungkook isn’t one for temper tantrums. While he does have a tendency to be more sensitive, throwing things, even empty containers, is very out of the norm for him. You remember early on in your relationship, he once used a little too much of his supernatural strength to hit you with a pillow when you were both goofing off, which resulted in you being smacked right off the bed with the wind knocked out of you.

You spent the rest of the day posted up on the couch under his orders, while he waited on you hand-and-foot despite the fact that once you recovered (mostly from laughter), you were perfectly fine. It led to an eventual discussion about how you weren’t so breakable, where you proved your point by showing him just how flexible you were.

Which is why now, as Jungkook huffs all over the place, you know something is seriously wrong.

You move away from the strawberries and walk around the kitchen island to Jungkook, gently pulling his hands down.

“Hey,” you whisper, looking up at him. His hair has fallen into his face, disheveled from all his fussing in the kitchen and the many times this morning you’ve seen him running his fingers through it.

Jungkook yanks his hand away and stands, pushing away from the counter before stomping into the living room and pacing angrily. You follow him.

“Hey,” you try again, firmer. “You gonna tell me what is going on? Because normally you don’t leave a giant mess of whatever that is going on in the kitchen before you walk away from it, and you especially don’t walk away from me when I’m trying to talk to you.” Your jaw sets and you stand in the doorway, crossing your arms as you watch him pace.

He responds with a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, well that’s a start. Can’t even fucking cook my girlfriend a meal on this stupid holiday.”

This is exactly why you told Jungkook you don’t want to celebrate Valentine’s Day this year. All week long he’s been making snarky comments about it, from rants about the greeting card company’s agenda to explaining how it’s become over-the-top and overrated to now, as of this morning, promoting vampires as the superior holiday mascot to Cupid.

Truthfully, you’ve always liked this holiday. When all the post-holiday sales were running months ago, you’d noticed a deal on the record player Jungkook had been eying for months but would never let himself have. His last one had started to break right after you two started dating, but he was always a good sport about it, cracking jokes about how the old-timey canned sound it produced didn’t play Eminem, but “Eminesquire the Third”. Prompted by the desperate need to replace the tinny echoes that haunted your apartment, you didn’t hesitate to snag this gift for him and immediately wrapped it before shoving it under your bed to give to him today.

Well, that was until all this started a little over a week ago. Up until that point, he’d seemed fine, never mentioning an opinion on Valentine’s Day. Then one morning you woke up and saw him complaining about how since he turned he would never be able to eat chocolate again. Which was incredibly dramatic, because Jungkook can eat if he wants to, but he chooses not to since it doesn’t do anything for him anymore.

Every mention of the holiday since, from the ads popping up on his phone to the colorful heart shaped decorations in store fronts, has made him irate and hostile.

“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on, but I didn’t ask you to make me breakfast,” you huff, now offset by his bad mood. “Like, I know that I told you last week we didn’t have to do any of this. So I’m not sure why now you’re trying to make some grand gesture of breakfast or stomping around arguing with me about the politics of vampires being a traditional mascot for Halloween instead of Valentine’s Day or how dumb you think this holiday is.”

His nostrils flare. “Well excuse me for trying to be a good boyfriend and do something nice for you!”

“What?” Heat flashes through your entire body as you feel the thin hold you have on your anger slip. “Oh, I see. So this is all about me is it? This is my fault? Tell me, when I go in there and clean up your mess of all my food you wasted by doing this nice thing I didn’t ask for, is that also for me as a treat? Or is that going to be leftover in the fridge for me to clean later?”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow as you match his anger. He opens his mouth to speak, but you raise your eyebrow, daring him to try.

“Ah ah,” you warn, your voice laced with venom. “I’m not fucking done speaking.”

He slides his tongue over his teeth instead before sucking in his lips.

“So, after I noticed it hurt you and said we didn’t have to do it, after I promised you I didn’t mind if we skipped the theatrics of this holiday, you what? Took it out on me? How the hell is this being a good boyfriend, Jungkook? How is you shutting me out for the last week, pouting and being an absolute brat doing me any favors? Showing you love me?”

You begin to feel the fury recede into something worse: pain. It settles over the heat, moving back down into your throat with a sharp lump.

“You wanna talk about shutting someone out, Y/N? Really?” Jungkook roars, halting his anxious movement. “That’s rich considering the secrets you’re keeping!”

Your brain buzzes with confusion and anger. You rewind the conversation, trying to form connections that would lead to this accusation.

“Are you serious? Wh-Do you think I’m cheating or s-something? Jungkook who the fuck do you think–” Your voice cracks, and you heft a heavy sob from your chest.

Never in your relationship have you two ever suspected the other of cheating. You’ve always been so certain of each other, that you two would never stray, that your connection and the very nature of your relationship demonstrated a type of bond that didn’t present anyone else as an option simply because you never wanted anyone else.

But given how things have been going, how Jungkook has been hiding things from you, you are starting to wonder if that’s not the case, if him pulling away isn’t to try to protect himself from getting hurt.

You’ve also tried not to notice how this month, when you counted the inventory of the blood bags stashed in the back of the freezer, it wasn’t nearly as empty as it usually was. You considered that maybe Jungkook just wasn’t thirsty, that maybe some of the bags you’d snagged from work, one of them being plasma, were satiating his hunger more than usual. With how Jungkook is looking at you now, eyes wide with the shock of your address, you can see you were wrong, the faint circles of thirst tugging under his eyelids.

You pull your shirt sleeve up to wipe your dripping nose, only to see it’s stained blue from some mysterious breakfast ingredient.

“I’m not saying you’re cheating, Y/N! God why would you think that! Fuck, no, this.” He produces a folded up envelope from his back pocket and shoves it toward you.

You sniffle and take the envelope, noticing it’s addressed to you. From your work.

Your stomach sinks. You know exactly what that is. “You know what? I’m going to take a shower,” you mumble, and you see in your periphery Jungkook’s head snap toward you.

“What?” he says exasperated. “Now? We–”.

You nod, choosing not to look at him now as you cut down the hall and shut the bathroom door firmly behind you.

You and Jungkook met, ironically, at a blood drive.

You were both volunteering to hand out snacks and mini water bottles to donors at the drive. This was a few months before Jungkook had gone on his Eurotrip, a few months before he would never again be able to volunteer with clinics to help patients.

While you’d met back then, and certainly had some chemistry that resulted in one really sexy car makeout ending with his hand down your scrub pants and you panting into his neck, it wasn’t until a few years later you’d reunited.

Jungkook had been pacing around the clinic near closing time, his thirst becoming far more unbearable by the hour. He had been trying desperately to avoid consuming human blood, but the various city rats or injured birds he was drinking from were still racking him with unfavorable guilt and an almost hazy sickness you remember sinking his features.

When you went to leave that night, you’d spotted Jungkook propped up against one of the glass doors, pale, with heavy bruise-like markings under his eyes. He was conscious, you’d noted, despite the fact that you couldn’t detect a pulse and his skin felt harder and icy to the touch. When you grabbed your phone to call an ambulance, he knocked it from your hand, instead begging you for a bag of blood.

“I can’t do transfusions, Jungkook, not here. That’s why we need to get you the hospital, so we can you look you over and–”

“No, Y’N, that’s not what I mean.” He’d laughed and flashed you a weak smile. “I don’t need a transfusion.”

“Then, what––.”

And that’s when you saw them: his fangs.

When you’d heard about Jungkook going missing in Paris, randomly disappearing in the night and showing back up months later with no story to share, there were rumors circulating that he’d started doing drugs and lost his job at the record store because in Europe he got hooked on opiates.

And you’d so easily believed that lie, though it soured your stomach. What other explanation was there for someone disappearing and coming back more pale, less human? You simply continued on with your work, finishing school in between and finding a more permanent presence at the clinic as a phlebotomist.

Feeling guilty, you turned around and headed back into the building, emerging with two bags of warm blood that you watched him practically shotgun in the passenger seat of your car. You didn’t tell him it was your blood, but as he told you later, he knew anyway. He could smell your particular flavor dotting the bandage.

Slowly, you and Jungkook became closer, you swiped a blood bag here and there from the clinic when no one was looking, sitting with him as he told you the story of him turning or the first time he fed. It seemed too surreal to be true, but as the dark circles under his eyes began to fade over the weeks, and his laugh started sounding more round and full, you felt like there was no way you could deny who he was, or more importantly, how he made you feel.

Being around Jungkook was addicting, which was evident in how easy it became for you to steal blood from the clinic without thinking twice. At first, you felt awful, knowing that each bag you were taking could very well be taking away someone else’s chance at life. But the more you thought about Jungkook, how he was just as alive as any human– how he feathered his fingers through his hair or how just a few years ago he breathed and moaned before you in the backseat of your car– what really was the difference between giving him blood versus some other person? Didn’t both bodies need it to survive?

The months ran on, and the crisp fall days that welcomed Jungkook back into your life were becoming tender, warmer as the early blooms of spring replaced them. Jungkook, too, was warmer, his body full and flushed with blood as he finally returned to as much of a human as he can be, reaching for your hand when you two walked through the park together, or falling asleep on your stomach while watching a movie.

Vampires sleep, you learned, though it’s not so much necessary as it is habitual, as Jungkook explained. He once tested himself to see how long he could go without sleeping, and as it turned out, the answer was evidently forever, for he managed three weeks not feeling groggy in the slightest. But sleeping helped time pass. Nights were lonely when the only people he wanted to interact with weren’t around, and grappling with being some shade of immortal often led Jungkook into a spiral as he processed time passing.

Therefore, sleep was welcome when it came. Especially with you, who he could tuck himself close to, and the soft beat of your heart served as his lullaby.

That’s when you knew that you loved him: when he told you that he went to sleep for you, that otherwise, he waited for you to wake up so he could see you again.

You’d become just as addicting to be around as he was for you, and you trusted it wasn’t just because you were his favorite teller at the blood bank who snuck him a withdrawal.

It was because he loved you too.

The fog on the bathroom mirror doesn’t show your reflection currently, but if it did, you know you’d see Jungkook standing behind you silently as you brush your teeth. Despite his stillness and his ability to appear without making a sound when he wants, your body reacts to Jungkook like a magnet pulled toward metal.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks finally, and you rinse your mouth.

“Because, I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” you say and reach for the envelope you left on the bathroom counter before your shower.

After a year of sneaking blood from the clinic, one year of popping plastic bags your into pockets after writing them off under a sealing failure or manufacturing issue or recording less volume in the official donation records or claiming a miscount in inventory, you were finally caught last week with a warm bag of blood in your possession.

Stupidly, you’d popped it into your purse right before an end-of-day meeting and in the rush to make it on time, you didn’t zip everything closed securely. When you inevitably knocked your knee onto the table while shifting to get more comfortable, your purse tumbled to the floor, exposing the vermillion contents within, and issuing you an immediate suspension.

Suspension, instead of fire only for the singular fact that the bag of cooling blood was your own.

You had known for a while that the clinic’s director of operations was becoming suspicious. The entire team had been subject to instances of recertification and retraining to try to address whatever issues that were leading to so many mishaps. It would only be a matter of time before the records kept showing your name attached to these transgressions, though you were almost relieved when you’d learned there were other various cases of blood loss occurring for factors you weren’t responsible for, most notably some interns who kept forgetting to put the bags containing red blood cells in the refrigerator, or who were not filling the entire bags, disqualifying the entire sample.

Overall, it would be safer to divest from your current plan, but finding an alternative to feed Jungkook was more difficult than you thought. You knew given the shortage of blood donations, you could no longer keep gleaning from work or other affiliates as resources.

But you also couldn’t convince Jungkook to feed from you.

You’d tried many times in the last year when he was dizzy or grumpy from thirst. And every time without fail, he refused.

“I haven’t even bitten anyone before,” he admitted one day, the dark circles under his eyes especially purple. His stubborn refusal slurred his speech into a lisp. “And I don’t intend to start now! Especially not with you!”

You’d dropped the subject, rooting around in the freezer until you found a blocky pint underneath a tub of freezer-burned ice cream.

But Jungkook had drunk your blood before on that first night at the clinic. And maybe if you executed things carefully, you could supplement some packets of your own blood in to help him get by. That way, he wouldn't have to bite you, but at least he would be fed. And you wouldn’t be at risk of imprisonment for medical theft.

So that’s what you started to do, slowly introducing him to your blood by creating fake donor names with the label machine and reprinting the same barcode as you filled bag after bag over the weeks.

And then last week, you got caught, your only assurance that you might only be suspended rooted in the fact that you hadn’t had the time to issue a fake label for the bag before the meeting.

And, because the blood was still warm in its pouch, because your arm had only just stopped bleeding, your case that you made of the blood being yours wasn’t entirely unreasonable. But what no one could understand was why you needed a bag of your own blood in the first place, much less why you were doing your own draw of it.

They confiscated the bag, as well as a small sample you offered for lab comparison to confirm it was yours, and they sent you home with the letter almost like you were a kid who was in trouble at school.

Your suspension is in effect until the board meets later this week to discuss your case, at which time you’ll be informed if you’re terminated or if you’ll be put on probation.

You’ve accepted that you might be fired, but what you couldn’t accept is the idea that Jungkook would definitely blame himself if he found out. Which is why you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him when it happened. If you did, you knew you would also have to admit to him that you have been non-consensually feeding him your blood instead of others’, which was a conversation you’d hoped to avoid until you were sure he would understand. Instead, you fucked up, and it’s all the more apparent as Jungkook frowns at you in the bathroom.

You rinse your mouth of the toothpaste, feeling a huge shard of guilt pierce your stomach.

“I wouldn’t have let you keep doing this if I’d known you were at risk of losing your job,” he mutters. “You already know I feel shitty even relying on you like this.”

“That’s exactly my point! That’s why I didn’t tell you! Because I knew we would end up here!”

“And that’s why this is a problem! You are failing to see how fucked up it is for me to have to depend on you to feed me!”

“Why?” You snap, and you immediately regret it, giving him an apologetic frown. “Sorry, I mean. Why do you feel so shitty relying on me? We’re partners, Jungkook.”

“Yeah, Y/N, we’re partners. Which means we are supposed to communicate with each other about things. That doesn’t mean you risk your entire career for me.”

“But doesn’t it, though?” You argue.

Jungkook groans and then wets his lips with his tongue before speaking. “No, baby. You’re not supposed to be making sacrifices like this! Not for me! Fuck, you shouldn’t be doing shit like this at all! You should be going to work, kicking ass, and then coming home to eat real food with your real boyfriend before you have incredible sex and then fall asleep!”

You cock your head at him, confused. “But, Jungkook, we already do that stuff.”

“No, we don’t, Y/N. You go to work, orchestrate some grand scheme to basically illegally harvest strangers’ blood during a national shortage, you come home and you eat. But I don’t. I leech off of someone else’s platelets. And then we have sex, and you fall asleep. And sometimes I do. But sometimes, I can’t. Because all I want to do is dream of you and I can’t do that anymore. Because I’m not real, Y/N, I’m literally a monster.”

You shake your head furiously and step toward him. “Listen. I made the choice to do this. Ever since the first day when you showed up at the clinic. I could have left you behind, I could have insisted to take you to the hospital anyway or put you in a headlock or something–”

“You are way too weak to put me in a headlock, even on that day,” he chuckles.

“I would have figured it out! But I had a choice in this Jungkook, just as much as you did for showing up, for asking me to help you. You could have gone somewhere else, or broken into the clinic after I left. You could have continued to live a half-life with a diet of rats and the occasional squirrel. But you chose this. You made choices, too.”

You push your toweled body into him, desperate for his touch. This is how you often are with him, needing him to ground you, to make sure you don’t spin out of control. He sighs, and you feel him circle his arms around you, his nose nuzzling into your wet hair. You shiver at the contact. Your shower must’ve been hotter than normal, because Jungkook feels almost like ice against your skin, much colder than his normal, albeit cooler temperature.

“Fuck, Jungkook, when was the last time you ate?” you ask.

He stiffens, then withdraws from the embrace.

“Get dressed,” he says, ignoring your question, before opening the door to the bathroom, the draft of the apartment, of his absence, leaving goosebumps on your skin in its wake.

The kitchen is clean, any and all evidence of this morning’s tirade gone. Jungkook has changed out of his jeans and button-down for a black hoodie and basketball shorts, solidifying the idea that he has no intention of leaving the apartment for the rest of the day.

You dress down similarly, throwing on a large ratty t-shirt and some sweats, very similar to the pajamas you’d been wearing for most of the day.

There’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing, but you ignore it, your stomach feeling sour over the idea of putting anything into it right now.

You lead Jungkook into the living room, and both of you sit on the couch, legs folded as you face one another.

“I know you’re not eating.” You try to say it softly, like an observation, but as the words leave your mouth, you hear them sound accusatory, tense.

“I know you know I’m not eating,” he responds, his tone even and cool. “I’ve seen you doing inventory checks daily.”

“You have to eat,” you urge. “You can’t just starve like this.”

“I’m not starving,” he says, still composed, distant.

“Bun, you’ve significantly curbed your consumption. You used to throw back two pints a day, easily.”

“Yes, well, that was before I found out my girlfriend was suspended from work for smuggling me those two pints, jeopardizing her entire future.”

“I don’t understand why you’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

His eyebrows rise. “I don’t understand why you’re not making it the bigger deal that it is!”

“Because it’s not! Not really! I have it under control!”

“And how exactly do you have this under control? Getting fired? Ruining your life isn’t control!”

“I don’t think I’ll be fired. Put on probation maybe, but not fired.”

“And why are you so sure about that?”

“Because…because I didn’t steal someone else’s blood. And that’s a criminal offense. But the laws are muddier when it’s your own blood.”

“Your…your own blood. You were caught with your own blood.” Jungkook looks at you quizzically. And then you see it register. His pupils blow wide.

“I fucking knew it,” he says. “I knew I was tasting you. I thought maybe it was just because you were on your period for a little longer than usual this month, and that maybe I was catching something in the air and just mixing up the scent with the taste of the blood. But, fuck! Goddamn it Y/N! I told you I didn’t want to feed from you and you just went and did it anyway?”

“I’m sorry,” you admit, your cheeks burning with guilt. “I just wanted to help you.”

“By taking away my choice in the matter? By hurting yourself? Shit!”

“No. I–I know you said you didn’t want to bite me, so I thought maybe if I did it this way that it wouldn’t be so bad and you wouldn’t have to feel so bad about it! And then I wouldn’t be as likely to be caught at work. It gave me some protection too in this! The board is meeting later this week to talk about my case and because the blood results proved to be mine, they just have to decide an appropriate punishment. I’m not going to go to jail over this, and if I lose my job, I’ll figure something out. But, I really didn’t mean to take away your choice, and I see now that I did.” You feel your throat close as you begin to cry..

Jungkook is right, you took away his choice by doing this, and no matter your intention, he has the right to know.

“I’m really sorry. I completely fucked up doing this.”

“Yeah, you did. But not in the way you’re seeing this. God. It’s not about biting or not biting, it’s how easily you did it for me. How you keep putting yourself, your own health, at risk for me! You don’t get it! You stole blood for me for almost a year. And then when you started to realize your future was at stake, you took it from your own body. Which you shouldn’t have to do!”

You swipe at the tears pooling from your eyes. “You keep saying that. Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true, baby! You shouldn’t be in this weird supernatural chaos! It’s Valentine’s Day! You should be feeding your boyfriend chocolates or eating breakfast in bed. Exchanging presents and going on dates to dinner or the movies. Having sex! And not just sex, making love, making babies!”

“But you said you didn’t want to do any of that! Jungkook, I’m so confused. What is it that you want? If you want to celebrate Valentine’s Day, I have a present for you wrapped up that I’ve been dying to give you for months. And we can go to the movies. We can have sex… I don’t even want a baby!”

You pull a pillow into your lap like a shield.

“You do want a baby,” he accuses. You snap your head up.

“What? No, I–”

“You do. You told me on Christmas Eve, when we were watching that movie on the couch. You were falling asleep during it, but in that scene when he comes home after saying no to that deal, she says ‘I want my baby to look like you’ and you looked up at me so sleepy and warm and alive, and you repeated it back to me. You said ‘I want my baby to look like you.’”

You think back to that night, when you and Jungkook were cuddled up together watching It’s A Wonderful Life since he’d never seen it, and between sips of a very strong eggnog, you kept studying his face, almost overwhelmed by the idea that you could ever love him more than you did in this moment. When Mary told George she was pregnant, something just felt right about that phrase, and in your tipsy, sleepy, haze, you must have recited that part back to him.

Honestly, you do want your baby to look like him. You can’t imagine anyone else in the world whose features you would want to see copied into another human, one that you make together.

“It’s okay, Y/N. I’m not mad that you said it. I’m honored. Because if I could have children, I would want them to look like you.” His voice is tight. “But I can’t give you that. I think if I could, we would currently be arguing over paint swatches and baby names while I rub your swollen feet, not this. Because fuck we have definitely not been careful,” he chuckles.

Despite the sadness in his voice, you feel yourself smirk.

“And even if we adopted, that doesn’t solve one of the biggest issues out of all of this. Which is that you will grow older and more beautiful and our children would grow older and more beautiful, and I don’t know if I will. I don’t know if I’m going to be doomed by the stereotypical vampire life because I don’t know who turned me. He didn’t give me anything to go off of. Maybe I age but I do it slower. Maybe I will never age. Maybe I live forever or just a little longer than you. Or fuck, maybe instead of living forever, vampires actually have an insanely short life span because we are just another type of mosquito derivative!”

You laugh at that, though you still feel the tears staining your cheeks, making no effort to stop.

“The point is, I can’t promise you anything human. I can’t promise you a normal life with me. Babies that we make, us growing old together. If I could do one thing different, I kinda wish I put a baby into you the first time we fucked around in that car. God knows I was hard enough.”

“Jungkook,” you choke, ignoring his attempt at deflecting. “I don’t care about any of that. I know I said that stuff on Christmas, but I didn’t mean it like that. Maybe you can have kids! Like you said, you don’t know. For all we know, my freakishly long periods might be a sign I’m infertile. I don’t know either, I haven’t gone to the doctor or taken tests because I haven’t been too worried about it. That or aging or any of this! My job even.”

“Wait, hold on, back up. You might be infertile?” He looks almost offended by his own use of the term.

You nod. “Maybe, but I haven’t really been thinking about it lately. I’ve been more worried about you, more focused on you.”

He squints. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been evasive and bratty and honestly just fucking awful. And I can see why. You’re thirsty. You stopped eating again. You started screaming about heart themed things being for vampires. You’ve been avoiding me…is that why you haven’t told me anything? Because of my work thing?”

“I still can’t understand why you are this nonchalant about your career,” he says and you shrug.

“Bunny,” you warn, and Jungkook crosses his arms across his chest.

“Okay, yes,” he concedes. “Part of this is due to that. Because you didn’t tell me. But also I feel like I’m ruining your life. And if that’s the case, if I’m taking so much from you, I want to take less. I want to be less.”

“I’m a parasite. A leech. I consume human blood to carry on living my nonexistent life. I sleep but I don’t dream. I can’t enjoy things the same way. I can’t be normal and that’s what you deserve. What you need. So if I’m going to be a parasite and dependent on you, I want to make things easier. You mentioned that gift under the bed…and, I don’t know that started it all. Got me thinking about all the things I can’t give you. All the experiences you’ll never have because of me. But how much you want it. Valentine’s Day. Baby, I know it’s a holiday you like. I see your eyes sparkle every time you pass the decorations and candy at the store. Of course you have had a present for me wrapped and ready since Christmas, because that’s you and how incredible you are. And I wanted to give you some of that back, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I got that I can never be good enough for you. I can’t give you everything. And then this morning, I don’t know, I snapped. I tried to cook you something I normally can do with my eyes blindfolded and walking backwards but everything came toppling down around me and I got overwhelmed and ended up fucking it all up.”

Jungkook reaches across the couch, taking your hand in his, tracing his thumb across your knuckles.

“You’re so dramatic,” you accuse, and roll your eyes.

Jungkook retracts his hand and pouts. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“You’re being dramatic and over the top with this broody Edward Cullen shit. I’m sick of it.” You toss the pillow to the side and sit up on the couch, edging your body closer.

“For starters, you’re punishing yourself by not eating. Your hands are like ice, and that means you’re extremely underfed because very little blood is in you. Second, you refuse to eat because at first it was someone else’s blood and I could get in trouble so that justified not doing it. But now that it’s freely available, because it’s mine you have some moral conniption preventing you from nourishing your body. And all of this is circling around the same problem. Which is you deciding for me what you think I want and need.” You hover just above him now, your knees digging into the cushions on either side of him as you trap him under you.

“You decided wrong, by the way. You based what I want not on who I am, but on your own insecurities and fears about me, Jungkook. And that’s not fair to me.”

You plant yourself down on him, straddling your weight across his chest. Jungkook gazes up at you, a frown still etched on his face, though it’s grown softer.

“It’s also not fair to me that you are trying to control my decision about feeding from you or not. If you were a vegetarian, how would you feel if I had replaced your veggie burgers with meat patties just because I thought you needed the protein?” He asks.

You hadn’t thought about that. Your shoulders sag as you sit with the realization.

“I need you to trust that I won’t ever go back to feeling the way I did when we first met. Look at me, are the marks under my eyes as dark? Am I as hard or pale?” You shake your head, and Jungkook reaches up to your face, touching his palm to your cheek. “I am thirsty, baby. But I also know how to control myself. I have spent months with you, around your blood, smelling you when you do something as little as get a paper cut or have a large blood clot pass during your period. Don’t look at me like that, it’s literally just blood from your body, you as a phlebotomist know better than to find that weird or gross.” You giggle, trying to ward away the flush of your cheeks. “And yes, it hurts, but kind of like when you smell something really good cooking in the kitchen and your stomach growls. But that’s the worst of it.”

“Is it though?” you ask gently, trying not to argue with him, but his eyes seem almost cloudy to you.

His brows knit and he opens his mouth but then shuts it, nodding for you to continue. Instead, he strokes along your brow bone, then down the curves of your jaw, tracing your features with his index finger.

“Your eyes aren’t as clear as they are when you feed regularly,” you sigh sadly. “I don’t want to change you, at all. But you’re warmer then too. And on days like today, it would be nice to have you less frigid to cuddle up next to. But I don’t want to make you do something you don’t want to do. I was wrong to not tell you about my work stuff and my blood. Those are two big things that you deserve to know as my partner, and because they impact you directly. I’m sorry.”

You take his hand in yours and bring it down over your chest. “If you don’t want to drink those blood packs, I understand. We’ll find some other way of getting you blood. But we need to make these decisions together. All of them. No more of us deciding we know what the other person needs best. That means I am not force feeding you my blood, I know. It also means you don’t get to decide if I want to have a biological baby or if I want to grow old with someone else.”

Jungkook contemplates this, and then nods in agreement.

“Do you feel that?” You ask, glancing down to your chest, referring to your heart beat.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“Good, because in all this, you keep saying you’re this monster and that can’t be further from the truth. Maybe I don’t need normal, because I don’t want normal. I want you. And I am alive and warm as a human is, sure. You insist you’re not alive. But what is life really? Do you need to be breathing and to have a beating heart like mine to experience love? Joy? The things that make up life? You feel me. Even if it’s all a habit now. The memory of your body, I don’t know. I don’t know how you work either but that doesn’t matter.”

“Do you need to have dreams or to eat chocolate or make babies to feel like you’re living, Jungkook? Because I don't think you do. I think your body and my body sitting here together, my heart pumping blood through me, more than I probably even need to keep me going, is more than enough for me. You loving me, I think that’s life. Is that not enough for you?”

Jungkook’s eyes are glassy, and he takes a deep breath, also probably out of habit more than necessity. “No, it’s more than enough,” he says. “I think this is life.”

You smile. “Okay, then let’s live. Let’s live like this. Whatever it is. And we can decide as we go what living looks like, alright?”

Jungkook releases his bottom lip from his fang. “Alright.”

You lean in, and Jungkook’s lips pull up into a smirk right before he kisses you, molding his body into yours with relief.

You welcome his tongue into your mouth, surprised by how cold even that is. When you pull away to catch your breath, you pull yourself tightly against him.

“We need to find you something to eat,” you say for what feels like the millionth time today, and Jungkook sighs.

“Tomorrow, okay? I just want to be close to you right now.” He burrows deeper into your t-shirt and you hum in agreement, letting the soft animal of his body feel like home.

The rest of the day, the two of you drift back into the softer and more familiar patterns of your relationship that the last week has disrupted.

Jungkook cooks you dinner, properly this time, a steak you wash down with a beer, the two of you discussing your friends and the latest episode of the show you finally have caught up watching, the tense air between you two perhaps not entirely diffused, but ultimately much more at ease than before.

You choose to not address the moment in your peripheral vision when you see Jungkook gnawing on some bloody gristle that he trimmed off the steak, his brows set in dissatisfaction as he tries to replace some of the nutrients he’s craving.

He’s thirstier than he’s admitting, you know, but you are trying to loosen the tight hold of control you are tempted to have.

“Hey,” you say as you load your dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

Jungkook, who is reading the beer founder’s story on the back of your empty can, perks up, curious.

“Do you want to open your present?” you ask, and can’t help but laugh at the way his face lights up at the suggestion.

“Oh my god, yes! I've been dying to know what it is since Christmas!” He beams, and before you can even move to go get it from under your bed, he’s gone, shuffling around down the hallway and cooing to Buttercup, who has just finished her own dinner.

When he reappears, he puts the gift on the counter and looks at you sheepishly.

“Um,” he says, and you can tell he’s desperately trying to be polite and well behaved like a small child on their birthday.

You snort. “Open it, bunny.”

Jungkook rips right into the paper, his jaw dropping. “You! This?”

You watch as he takes off into the living room to disassemble the current turntable setup.

“Goodbye Old Play, Fall Down Boy, and Alicia Broken Piano Keys,” he sing-songs. “Damn, when was the last time we had music around here?”

You watch him putter around.

This, you think, could be a good life.

Lying in bed, you drift between a dreamstate and your overactive brain trying to process your reality. Thoughts of your job, more specifically what you’ll do if you actually are fired filter through your head. You suppose you’d change careers, but this job has always been the one thing you wanted in life, at least before you had Jungkook.

Between a body heat barrier of blankets and pillows, you toss yourself around and sigh, finally coming to a state of being fully awake. Jungkook shifts across the pile to alert you that he, too, is awake.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks gruffly, and you grunt as you roll over.

“Can’t sleep,” you whine, and you move one of the pillows shoved between the two of you out of the way so you can see his face in the dark.

The soft glow of the outside city lights shifts through the window, casting a hint of pale blue light across his face. Like this, he looks more wan, sallow, and your heart wrenches. God, it’s so hard to see him this way, starving himself, and you know you shouldn’t feel guilty, but with the day behind you, you feel the late-night flood of regret starting to taint your mind as you try to figure out how you let this all go so horribly wrong.

“Busy mind?” He asks, and you blink up at him, a little surprised by how it seems as though he’s reading your thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“Me too,” he grumbles, and then reaches out to pull you into him, his cold hands in an even colder room sending a tremor through your body.

“God, I’m sorry,” he says, and you clench your teeth.

“ s’okay” you mumble, and you push your face into his chest to warm your nose in his hoodie, throwing your leg over him to bring you closer.

Jungkook gently rubs your back, his touch light as his fingers trace up and down your spine. It tingles, sending a shiver that hardens your nipples.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks after a long pause.

You could lie, and then you wouldn’t have to worry that Jungkook would be awake all night carrying your baggage for you. But, you know how important this step of honesty is, so you take a deep breath.

“I-I just keep thinking about work. What’s going to happen? I don’t regret it, please don’t think I do or misunderstand. But I love my job. I love you more. It just feels all convoluted and scary. If I get fired, how will we afford this apartment? Find your blood?”

You feel Jungkook take a steep inhale, and you know he’s doing this to steady you, that his lungs don’t really need to expand but to breathe next to him, with him, is what feels the most natural to you both.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” he says, and you fight the urge to cry for the third time today.

“I know it’ll be okay,” you assure him, “but I’m sad anyway.”

His fingers continue to strum along your spine, soothing you in the quiet winter night. At some point Buttercup gets up to go prowl around the apartment in her usual late-night zoomies, leaving you two alone in your little universe.

“I’ve been thinking a lot tonight, too,” Jungkook mumbles into the dark.

“About what,” you whisper. The wind outside kicks up, and you feel a sharp draft cut against your now-bare legs, beading you with goosebumps that make you shiver.

Jungkook tuts, shifting you to his side momentarily so he can reach down and pull up your thick duvet. You relish the return to warmth and lay back down on him, resting your head onto his chest while letting out a satisfied sigh.

“Feeding,” he says casually, but you can still hear the hunger in the word as he pronounces every syllable sharply. A different kind of tremor rocks through you, and you feel a tug of arousal behind your belly button.

“Oh,” you say, trying to be unaffected, but Jungkook sees right through you and chuckles.

“The first time I tasted your blood, you don’t even know what it did to me, Y/N,” he groans.

“It felt like every single dead neuron in my body was firing all at once again. I’ve never experienced anything like it. You were so warm, your blood was so thick on my tongue. I knew I was going to crave you for the rest of my, well I guess, existence.”

You squirm a little, trying to ignore the slight dampness you feel forming between your legs.

“Then, god, I thought I was going crazy when you were feeding me those blood packs. That I had wanted the taste of you so badly that I was imagining it somehow from knowing the way you smell.”

He continues. “I know I told you that I have control, but fuck, baby, you almost destroyed me with that little stunt of yours.”

Jungkook shifts, and you can feel his hardening length brush against your stomach. His thigh butts up against you, and you know he can feel the effect he’s having on you.

“How?” you ask weakly, and Jungkook flexes his thigh underneath you, putting a little pressure right onto your clit. The whine you’ve been suppressing escapes, needy and rich.

“I almost caved. One night while you were sleeping, Thought about waking you up by fucking you with my tongue so I could finally taste you again.” Jungkook’s cock twitches underneath you and you rut against him in response, the heat in your core building. “Shit, you were even sleeping with your legs wide open for me, your panties and those tiny fucking things you call pajamas shifted and your pretty little pussy was right there for me to taste. Practically begging me for it.”

You rock against Jungkook’s thigh, the broad grind of your wet panties against Jungkook’s thigh releasing some of the tension.

“Oh,” you moan softly, but Jungkook isn’t done talking, and he ignores you as his hands come up to your ass, his cold touch on your cheeks causing you to squeak as he pulls them apart to force you to rut harder, deeper onto him.

“I can smell you right now,” he says roughly. “You can’t hide it from me, you know. Your blood, your wet pussy, they’re equally delicious to me. Equally mine.”

You moan as he forces you back and forth on his thigh. “You like that, don’t you? The idea of me devouring you like that? Waking you up with my mouth swirling around that hard clit, have you drooling and begging for my cock before you even know what day it is?”

“Shit, yes. Yes,” you pant, and Jungkook laughs, grasping your panties with his fingers and pulling tight. The fabric shifts, digging onto your swollen clit, blurring your vision from the sharp, deep wail.

“Such a dirty fucking girl, humping me like this. Letting me use you like this. What happened to my good girl, hm? Where’d my baby go?”

You know the question is rhetorical, but you find yourself entering the familiar, delicious haze you often go to with Jungkook, one that has been trained to answer every question he asks.

“Still your baby,” you whine, and Jungkook laughs.

He reaches down, tearing your panties off of your body with a single tug, exposing your wet pussy to the chill of the air.

“Oh really? You’re my baby? I don’t know about that. My baby usually has her mouth around my cock by now.”

Obediently, sit up, tugging your shirt over your head, your nipples hard and sensitive from your arousal. Jungkook groans as he takes in the view of your naked body, but before he can act, you hastily strip him of his hoodie and shorts to reveal his naked length.

Jungkook’s cock stands tall and heavy, and as you take it into your hands, you don’t mention how that, too, has become incredibly cold from his thirst. Maybe this hunger could be soothing in summer, but in midwinter, it is going to drive you insane.

You pull him into your mouth, determined to imprint some of your body heat onto him as you dribble your warm saliva down his shaft with a deep suck.

Jungkook moans above you, tangling his fingers into your hair in approval.

“Fuck, yes, Y/N. God.”

You use one of your hands to cup his balls, enjoying the heft of how full they are before stroking up and down the parts of his cock that you can’t take into your mouth.

“There she is,” Jungkook sighs, and you relax your jaw so you can take more of him in, edging his tip down your throat. He bucks up, and you gag, feeling the familiar tang of him spread across your tongue. Globs of saliva bubble out of your mouth as you attempt to fight the urge to gag more from his occasional thrusts.

“There’s my baby. My little cockslut. Fuck, I missed this.” You hum in agreement and Jungkook gasps at the vibration. He grabs your head, stopping you from bobbing.

“Shit…fuck baby, hold on. Stop. God, I almost just came,” he laughs, and your lips twitch as you slowly pull away from him, strings of spit still connecting you to his thick cock.

You look up at him as he steadies himself, smiling up at him devilishly.

Feeling naughty, you lean forward, testing the waters as you tongue around the head, taking one final, deep suck. Jungkook’s eyes darken in warning and you giggle, sitting back on your heels as you smile at him with fake innocence.

“Brat,” he mutters, and shoves you down onto the bed, his lips on yours before you can even breathe, tasting himself in the corners of your mouth with feral need.

He pulls away, tapping your knees with instruction to open, and you do, propping your head up on a pillow so you can see everything.

The curve of his nose rocks against your clitoris as he begins, and because Jungkook knows you so well, his hands clamp down on your legs to prevent you from squirming. You feel him dig one hand into your thigh, a warning not to try to take control, and you force yourself to relax as he begins exploring you, sucking one of your swollen labia into his mouth.

You groan, the slow method of him licking and sucking, moving down and up between the inner corners of your thighs back to your center feels both like heaven and absolute hell.

You have the urge to whine, to shove your hips up, maybe your neglected clit will get more attention, but you know better. Jungkook is testing you, trusting you in this moment not to fail him.

His eyes meet yours as feasts, the bruises under his eyes more dark now than they were earlier. Between the maddening, erotic swishes of his tongue against your clitoral hood and smug look on his face, you’ve had just about enough.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to play with your food,” you snap, and surprised, Jungkook pulls back, his wet cheeks and wide smirk indicating how satisfied he is with his torture.

“No,” he says, licking his lips. His fangs peek out from under his lips. “But I think my food really likes it when she has to work for it.”

You roll your eyes, and he brings his fingers to your clit, pinching it. You gasp.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” He scolds, and again you lose the urge to disobey.

You feign an apologetic look and buck your hips at him.

“Such a fucking bad girl today,” he chides. “If you’re not careful, I won’t let you cum. I’ll just use you like my little cumdump and you’ll have to figure out how to get off on your own.”

You shudder at his words and his shoulders straighten, satisfied with his apparent win.

“What do you say?” he asks, tracing one finger along your ridges.

You feel yourself trembling as his soft touch swirls around where you need it most, a frustrating, dizzy fury building in you.

“Jungkook, please.”

“That’s not the word I’m looking for.” His voice is dark, heavy in the cold of the room. Desperation is blinding you, only allowing you to think in fragmented sentences.

“I don’t know,” you whine, and you feel a hard slap hit directly onto your clit, sending a shock of pain and delicious pleasure through your body.

“Liar,” he snorts, and then rubs your wetness to soothe the ache. “You have a big girl brain, Y/N. I know you know what you need to say.” He dips a finger inside of you, you clench. “Or are you already too fucked out and needy to say it?”

Heat shades your face in embarrassment. Any other day, maybe, you’d challenge this, let him chip away at you until you are babbling and a mess underneath him. But the swell of heat in your core is pulsing what feels like everywhere in your body, including your head, and you rack your brain for the one word you know he’s looking for.

You pull a sharp breath between your teeth. “I’m sorry.”

“Good girl, I knew you could do it,” he says, and then he shoves his face into your cunt, more fingers dipping into your entrance. He begins to stretch you, pulling his fingers apart, urging more of your wetness to spill onto his tongue. “So sweet.”

Your hips twitch in the air and you fight to keep them down now that one side of you is freed, so you concentrate on him, pushing his hair back from his forehead as he devours you.

Jungkook’s eyes are so dark, pupils blown wide. And in them you see something more than just lust.

I’m thirsty, he’s telling you, the lines faint, but still there. He sucks hard onto your clit, a low sound tearing through his throat.

He’s asking you for permission, grazing his fangs along your inner lips, trying desperately to restrain himself as the hand still wrapped around your thigh tightens with a bruise-inducing pressure.

Then eat, tell him mentally, your tongue darting out of your mouth to lip your lips as you watch him get lost in his instincts. You hum your approval, thrusting your hips forward and shoving his head further into you.

“Yes,” you rasp, finding enough air in your lungs to puff out your consent.

Jungkook moans and you watch the resolve break as he delivers one final satisfying lap over your clit before he bites.

Nothing In your life could ever prepare you for this.

That part of you, the very organ having the most nerve endings, is alive and electric, burning hot as if you are the sun, the center of the universe. And Jungkook is orbiting around you, grounded by the gravity of your blood as he feeds from your pussy, groaning and bucking his hips in pleasure against the bed. A whimper churns from the depths of your throat as you writhe under him. The heat, god it’s everywhere, from the slight sting of the bite melting away from your core to the heady, steady throb of your clit that makes you feel your pulse everywhere.

Jungkook too, is warming underneath you, the chill of his body flushing away with each feverish gulp he takes. His cheeks are slightly pink again.

“So wet, so good,” he praises you as he swallows, and you see the blood smearing across his cheeks as he dips back into you.

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you say shakily. His tattooed hand leaves your thigh, reaches up, searching for you in his feast. You don’t hesitate to lace it with yours, your hands a little clammy, but you’re afraid that if you don’t hold on to him, you might be lost among the stars.

He drags one of his fangs along the edge of your clitoral hood, and flicks your swollen bud with his tongue, self assured in your destruction. Your legs begin to close, but he growls.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he warns. His fingers press deeper inside you, thrusting toward the burning in your core that feels like it’s just out of reach. “You asked for this, now take it.”

“I can’t,” you say. “I can’t.” You thrash your head to the side, gaze unfocused as you take in the shapes around your bedroom you know once were pieces of furniture, but the combination of blood loss and building ecstasy has you feeling like you’re almost drifting from your body.

Jungkook clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction. “Look at me, Y/N,” he demands.

You force your eyes to him, and he instructs you to take a deep breath. You inhale shakily, letting him come into focus.

“You’re going to take my tongue. And then you’re going to take my fingers until you cum all over my face.” He makes his threat official, presses deep inside of you, thrusting deeper, toward the burning in your core that feels just out of reach. “And then you’re going to take my fat cock into my pretty little pussy and watch the cum drip out of it after I fuck you full of it, do you understand me?”

You tremble as he claims you. “Yes,” you reply and he leans in closer, thrusting his fingers in harder as you rock your hips toward him.

“Good,” he says. “Then give me what’s mine.” You feel him nip into you again, throwing you over with one deep suck.

You cry out, your hips twitching into the cold room, heaving deep broken gasps into your lungs, head spinning as you obey him. Your ears ring as you fall deeper under the wave, but you still feel Jungkook’s hand in yours, tender and encouraging as you force yourself back from beneath the current of your orgasm.

You try to steady your breath as you feel his drinking slow, his tongue placing a few laps here and there around your vulva in a gentle motion as he pulls himself away.

“Are you okay,” you hear him ask, though your eyes are trained on the ceiling as you try to stop yourself from seeing double. “Did I take too much?”

You’re not sure, to be honest, but you feel the warmth of Jungkook’s body cover you as he looks you over, feeling your pulse.

“Your heart is starting to slow down,” he says softly. “Can I leave you for a second to get some water?”

You make some kind of grunt of approval, and you feel him drape your covers back over you as he pads down the hall to sift through the kitchen.

He returns only a few moments later, a bottle of water and bag of heart shaped chocolates in hand.

You take the water from him and sip slowly, feeling the cool liquid soothing your hoarse throat, stabilizing you. You pop a chocolate into your mouth, the sugars melting your tongue tasting decadent.

When you finally glance over at Jungkook, you erupt into laughter.

“What?” he asks, his doe eyes going wide with panic. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

You fail to collect yourself, wheezing your breaths as tears burn your eyes. Maybe you did lose a bit too much blood, because it shouldn’t be as funny as it is, but he looks so full and flushed and innocent in light of what might just be the kinkiest thing the two of you have ever done.

His face is an utter mess, cheeks shiny and smeared with the faint pink of your mixed juices and blood. He looks like a child who just ate a cherry flavored popsicle.

“I-go look in the mirror,” you say between fits of laughter, and Jungkook looks at you confused before he obeys, standing and walking over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

“Oh shit,” he mumbles, then laughs. “Looks like I was saving myself a snack for later.” He reaches for a tissue from on top of his dresser and wipes his mouth.

“How can you not feel that all over you?” you ask, coughing when you finally recover.

“I don’t know! My brain isn’t focused on anything else right now but you! Well, you and…” he gestures down between his legs, where his cock is flushed from the blood, twitching as you give it attention.

You feel a flutter in your core and let out a soft gasp.

“But really, are you okay?” he asks tenderly, sitting back onto the bed and rubbing your thigh.

You scan over your body, checking in with yourself. You don’t feel woozy or nauseous, just loose, like how most large scale orgasms feel. Your thigh you know will be bruised tomorrow, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. And your clit, oh.

Your clit is tingling, and your pussy is dripping wet.

“Fuck,” you moan, and run your hand down between your legs and press your palm to your clit, enjoying the added pressure as it throbs under your touch.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, interested in your response.

You swipe your fingers through your folds and then pull them up. Surprisingly, the liquid is clear, meaning you’re not bleeding. Meaning that this dripping want is coming solely from you.

“What did you do to me?” You ask, and Jungkook’s eyes flash with worry as he moves closer, pulling your thighs open to inspect you.

“I hurt you?” he asks, panicking as he misunderstands. “God, I’m sorry Y/N.”

“No, no, baby, not like that,” you say, and you feel his hands fall from you as he moves to look at your face.

He scrunches his nose in confusion. “Then what–.”

“My pussy is tingling, and fuck look at me. I’m drenched.”

His eyes blow wide and he dips to look back down, his tongue darting out over his lip piercings as he takes in the liquid spilling out of you and onto the sheets underneath.

“Shit. I don’t know. Maybe my venom does that? I don’t even see a cut on you from where I bit.”

He sits back on his legs and his hand finds his cock, squeezing the base as he flits between looking at you and in between your legs.

You clench around nothing and a low, tortured moan escapes from his throat as he draws his hand up the base, wrist flicking to pump himself up and down in slow, delicious tugs.

“Y/N,” he says, and the way he says your name is dripping with need. You feel his eyes burn into every inch of you as he touches himself, causing you to mimic the fluidity of his strokes as you rub your clit.

“Please,” you respond.

“Cum for me again,” he demands but you shake your head.

“Don’t want to like this,” you say. “Want your cock in me. You promised you would let me watch your cum spill out of your pretty pussy, remember?”

His nostrils flare, and Jungkook jolts, flipping you over on the bed so you rest on top of him, his hard cock smearing with your wetness as he rocks your hips against him.

“We need to do something about that filthy mouth of yours,” he says, and you pant as you grind against him with broad movements, coating him with your juices. “The only time you haven’t said something bratty today was when my cock was down your throat.”

You moan, raising your hips off of his and taking his cock in hand. “You love it,” you say, and sink yourself down onto his cock in one solid motion, his thick length stretching and filling you to the brim.

He hisses and you begin to bounce, using him to curb some of the ache in your core.

He reaches up and wraps a hand around your throat, squeezing. You squeak, feeling him pull you off of his cock, and leaving you devastatingly empty.

“Did I say you could fuck me?”

You whine and he scoffs. “Maybe you don’t deserve my cum after all. Disobeying me like this. I told you earlier I wondered where my good girl went, and I think I was right. Didn’t know I traded her in for a disrespectful bitch.”

You feel your stomach flip with excitement at the new term and you clench around him.

He laughs. “Oh? You like that, hmm? Well, if I traded away my good girl, I better see how much of a whore her replacement is.”

He lightens his grip on your neck and the oxygen floods back, making your fingertips and nipples prickle with the heightened sensation.

“Well? Get to it, slut.” and he takes your hips, slamming you back down onto his cock with one single stroke.

“FUCK,” you scream, and your hips buck, overstimulated as Jungkook doesn’t even give you the chance to have control, his hands clamping down on your sides as his fucks you onto him.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s it, take my cock like a good little slut.”

You cry out, clamping your arms around him and pulling his face into your neck.

“Jungkook,” you say, and he grunts in response, pounding into you with a rhythm so that when you come down, he pushes up, hitting you deeper with each thrust.

“You like that, huh? Being like little fleshlight? Me using you like this to fuck all my cum into?”

You clench around him, slightly light headed from where he’s targeting you, trying to hit your g-spot dead on.

It’s so good, so primal, and you know you’re almost there, but you need something more.

“Please,” you whisper, shoving his head into your neck. “Bite me.”

And that’s when you feel it, the tiny prick of his fangs as Jungkook pierces your skin and begins to feed.

Sharp cold pleasure is immediately replaced with a silky, scorching wave of pleasure as his venom delivers that addicting tingle through your neck.

Jungkook, too, seems to be affected, his cock twitches in you as the blood fills his body, somehow making him feel thicker and a little longer.

“Oh,” you gasp as you feel the fingers of one of Jungkook’s hands reach down to your clit, rubbing it hard and fast.

He detaches himself from your neck and laps up the excess blood before he holds you steady and adjusts your position, placing you on your back as he hovers above you.

The cloudiness in his eyes is gone, the markings underneath have faded. He settles into slow, deep strokes, his eyes ghosting over your body.

“I love you,” he says. Your heart swells.

“I love you too,” you respond, and you look down at where the two of you are connected, your pussy making a vulgar squelching sound as he drags himself in and out, his cockhead glossy.

“More,” you beg. “Please I’m so close”. He obeys, picks up his pace.

He bends over you, pulling a nipple into his mouth and releasing it with a pop.

“Should I bite you here next?” he mumbles and you squirm in delight.

Each thrust is now jutting Jungkook right against your cervix, and you feel the wet mess of your pussy trying and failing to take more of his cock inside, relishing the warmth that now reaches every corner of you.

As you flutter around him, the mounting tension drawing you closer to orgasm, Jungkook dips down again, this time laving over your nipple, plucking it between his teeth and delivering a soft bite.

This sends you over the edge, a stream of white hot pleasure rocketing through your core as you gasp on top of him, your pussy clamping down and trying desperately to take him with you.

But Jungkook has better control than that, and instead of letting you rest, he sets a deadly, relentless pace, fucking you into overstimulation.

“One more,” he breathes between thrusts.

“Hurts,” you pout, but he knows you. Knows your limit.

“One more. I know your messy little cunt can take more than this, baby.”

He spreads you wider, hooking your legs back so he's deeper in you than before, the wet slap of his balls against your pussy echoing through your bedroom as you are coated with your wetness.

You groan and he keeps going, his fingers ghosting over your clit once but not staying. You huff in frustration.

“Words,” Jungkook demands and you take a deep breath, trying to rack your brain for something other than moans.

“Yeah,” is all you can manage, and with a dark laugh, he accepts it, placing his fingers back on your clit and finally, finally putting you back on track.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he utters, and this is how you know he’s getting close. The praise flowing from his mouth betrays his cold, dominating facade. “Such a warm, wet pussy. Just for me to fuck my cum into.” He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on his lip rings.

You moan, matching his thrusts with your hips, slamming yourself together harder, deeper. “God, Jungkook, please.”

“You gonna be good for me this time?” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. The tone of his voice is slightly higher, straining. “Gonna let me fill you up?”

“Yes,” you pant. “I need it.” His fingers circle faster, desperately working to make you cum before him. “Need to be full of your cum.”

You pull him into you, needing him closer, needing to feel the distance between your bodies to be smaller as you get closer. His fingers keep working, his thrusts hard and deep, hitting you exactly where you need it.

“Right there. Fuck your pussy, Jungkook. Take what’s yours.”

His hips falter. You place your teeth onto his neck and bite. Hard.

“Fuck,” Jungkook moans and erupts, his cock twitching as he spurts load after load of warm cum into you, giving you the last bit you need to send you off one last time. Your pussy spasms, greedily taking in everything he gives you.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, his voice shaky as he continues to anchor both of you to your bodies, to the sensation of being full and satisfied.

He kisses your temple, then your cheek, rocking his hips slowly against you as you come down, flushed and overwhelmed.

You feel almost weightless, untethered to the joints in your arms and legs. If you weren’t being held by him right now, you might think you were out in space, floating around without gravity. In the haze of it all, you feel Jungkook shift you onto your side, his body still linked to yours as his erection deflates, cum leaking onto the bedding below you.

You don’t care enough to do anything about it, instead clinging to his forearm, needing to feel him everywhere so you don’t disappear.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” he says, and you’re confused by this, and then you realize you’re crying, wet tears stinging your cheeks as you shake against him. He runs his hands through your hair and down the length of your back softly. “I got you.”

You breathe a shaky breath as he wraps the blankets around the two of you, gently humming a song, sighing when he feels you wiggle your toes next to him and finally steady yourself.

You look up at him and he’s smiling softly, his eyes warm and brown like they were when you first met him.

“That was intense, huh?” he asks and you nod.

“But really good,” you add and he beams.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I…”

He sits thoughtfully for a moment and you let him, trying to gain the courage to detach yourself and venture into the cold apartment to pee.

“I wish we did that sooner. I mean, I guess I should ask how that was for you. For me to, you know, feed from you.”

You wince as you shift away from him, feeling him slip out of you as you leak onto the sheets. Your sticky, damp legs beg for a shower, but you ignore it.

“I…it was a lot. But…but I liked it. The first bite, shit. You explained earlier how it felt when you first tasted my blood? About it being like how everything fired off in your body at once, right?” He nods. “It was like that for me, too.”

Jungkook smiles, pulling you in tightly against him.

“Do you think we can do that more often?” you ask shyly, and he laughs.

“Damn, once is all it takes for you to get addicted?”

You smack his arm. “Hey! No kink shaming! I didn’t judge you for wanting to go down on me during my period! While I was asleep!”

He sputters. “I’m not kink shaming! But you sound like you’re judging me now for it! We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to I’m sorry but I was caught up in the moment and the bloodlust and I was–”

You choke out a laugh, kissing him on his bare chest. “I’m teasing you...it sounds kind of hot actually.”

He hums in approval.

“I think we still have a lot of stuff to talk about,” he says after a pause. You sigh.

“Yeah. The great job reckoning is coming.”

“Yes, and not just that. I do want to talk more about you…your body. The…infertility thing. I want to go with you to the appointment, I mean if that’s okay? Even if everything is fine, or that you don’t end up wanting kids or whatever, I just want to be there for you through any of it, okay?”

You bristle a bit, feeling yourself starting to cry again. But after the day you’ve had, the intense, passionate sex, all of the things you will still be dealing with in the morning, you let the release guide you as your tears fall.

“Okay,” you say. You think about your conversations with Jungkook today, how he’s right. There are so many things you both don’t know about what you want or don’t want, about your own bodies.

“Um,” you say, and you pull back from him, rubbing up and down his forearms. “I want you to know something, too. I know that being a vampire wasn’t really in your life plans, and that there’s a lot of unknowns about it too. Not just about fertility, but like, it would have probably been nice for you to know you had magical tingly, healing venom that turns you into a sex god.”

“Hey! Was I not a sex god without the venom?” He scoffs, pretending to be offended.

You snort. “Okay fine, healing venom that turns you from a sex god to even more of a sex god. But you know what I mean. There are things that would be so helpful for you to know. To maybe take away some of the worry and those terrifying unknowns. And if you ever want to know, if you want to try to find your creator, I’ll support you in that choice. It would be hard, and maybe we wouldn’t find him, but I’m with you in this.”

Jungkook takes your cheek in his hand, his warm thumb rubbing across the skin.

“Thank you,” he says, and leans in to give you a soft kiss.

The world outside plunges deeper into the night, and after you clean yourselves up and change the sheets, you lie closely against each other. So many things remain unknown, but one thing you’re sure of as you watch Jungkook sleep: you have time to figure it all out.

ending a/n:

Thank you again for reading! While doing research about blood donations for this story, I was reminded that there’s currently a national shortage for blood donors in the US, and it’s safe to assume that this isn’t unique to just us. Right now, with the ongoing genocide in Gaza, blood shortages are extreme, and with the stonewalling happening preventing aid to enter the strip and Rafah, supplies, including blood for life saving transfusions, cannot make it through.

The Red Crescent/American Red Cross issued this statement in January:

“During emergencies, the American Red Cross will ship blood products outside of the U.S. following a specific request from the U. S. State Department for U.S. citizens overseas, at the request of the United Nations, or at the request of the affected Red Cross or Red Crescent society abroad. We have not received blood product requests for Israel or Gaza at this time.

For those interested in learning more about international humanitarian law and its vital role in protecting the innocent during armed conflict, please visit www.redcross.org/ihl. The American Red Cross has a duty to fulfill the Geneva Conventions’ purpose of reducing suffering during armed conflict. As part of our duty, the American Red Cross leads the effort to ensure Americans are informed of these laws and the humanitarian principles they reflect.”

While it’s not yet being asked for, I cannot recommend enough donating blood if you are eligible. There are many different qualifications for blood donations (if you’re not sure about your eligibility, please look at your Red Cross/Crescent website depending on your country). Your donation can help not just your local communities, but ultimately a population of people you might be unsure how to help. And if not, monetary donations are also accepted.

I’m not affiliated with this organization in any way, but I felt like it would be wrong to ignore this issue just in favor of a fun fanfic.

#bts smut #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #vampire jungkook #bts fanfic

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butchcarmy · 4 months

Text

Blood Orange (Ch 2: The Bathroom)

Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18, MDNI)

Rating: E (5.7k)

links: fic playlist, pinterest board, ao3 link, ch 1

Chapter Summary: No more fucking your boss. That’s what you’ve been telling yourself, but he doesn’t make it easy, even as you find yourself wanting to scream. Somehow it all falls away when you lower yourself to your knees before him. You don’t know if there’s any stopping this anymore.

Content Tags: work sex, blow jobs, mouth fucking, CUM PLAY, dom/bossy carmy, coworkers with benefits, carmy being difficult, mental illness, they/them reader, gender neutral reader, the usual

A/N: WHEW. It’s here! Thanks for waiting y’all. I think I embarrassed myself writing this one (flushed emoji). It’s ramping up. Next chapter is gonna be big one. Let me know what you guys think, and enjoy! <3

Before you go to work the next morning, you make yourself come on your fingers. It would've been twice if you had more time.

You open your eyes waking from a dream with his ghostly blue eyes and low voice, and you already know you're wet before you even touch yourself. The pads of your reaching fingers chase the tender spot Carmy stroked inside of you, but they don't quite make it. Of course they don't.

Fingering yourself eases the ache for a little while. On the early morning transit with headphones over your ears, you still manage to find yourself aching for him. The music doesn't cover up the sound of his voice, and you catch yourself grimacing in the faint reflection of the dirty metro windows.

This is not a good way to start your second day at work.

Since you left the walk-in yesterday, Carmy's been following you around like a mosquito in the summer, whizzing around your head, buzzing in your ears. You can't rid your thoughts of him. When you close your eyes, you're trapped in the fridge with him, again, and his fingers are deep inside you.

Fuck. You're standing in front of the restaurant, willing yourself to go in. Just stop it, you think to yourself.

You really should be more mad at him. He technically never apologized for insulting you, but you suppose you didn't expect him to in the first place. You didn't usually get apologies at places like this, from people like him. You don't want to get in the bad habit of expecting good things from broken people.

No more fucking your boss, you think resolutely to yourself, and that's the thought you meditate on as you open the door.

By this time yesterday, there were already a couple of people floating around the kitchen. Today, you find dim lights and silence. Your footsteps feel too loud on the white linoleum as you walk to the lockers to drop off your stuff. You can’t pretend to understand the schedule yet.

“Carmen?” You pace around again as you secure your apron with a tie. No response. Surely he's here, at least. Someone had to open the place.

You take a couple more steps when you hear his voice.

“No, I'm not—that's not what I was sayin’.” The direction of his voice sounds like it's coming from his office. “Of course I miss him. Sugar—” A pause. “I know. Yeah. It's bullshit.” He laughs then, you think. You can't measure how genuine it is. “You're bullshit. Look, I'll call you back later, okay? And I'll—yeah, I'll look at it. Promise. Yeah. Bye.”

It's quiet after that. You're standing there, not sure what to do with yourself when you hear footsteps. Sure enough, Carmy pops out of the office, and you catch just a glimpse of something haunted in him before surprise takes over.

“Hi,” you say at the same time he says, “Jesus Christ.”

“How long have you been here,” he asks, as you go, “That's an interesting way to pronounce my name.”

“Um,” you start, and he stares at you blankly, unreactive to your joke. Too early, you guess. “I just got here.”

“Okay. Cool. Uh…” Anxiety radiates off of him, making his hands fidget and run through untamed hair. Not that you were looking at his hands at all. “You’ll be doin’ prep again.”

“Alright.” You expected as such. You’ll probably be on prep for the rest of the week, if not the month. That’s how most places go, but this isn’t most places.

“Your station was dirty when you left yesterday.” You walk up to your station, and it’s spotless. “I had to clean it before I left.”

“Ah. I’m sorry about that,” you apologize quickly. I was preoccupied with other things, you think bitterly to yourself, thinking of locked doors and heated kisses. Not that you’ll mention it. “I’ll make sure to clean it this time.”

“Prep’s gonna be a bit different today,” he says, completely ignoring your apology. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from snapping. “You’re gonna inspect produce, and then you’ll prep the stock again. Correctly this time.”

“It was nearly perfect, I just misplaced it,” you mutter under your breath.

“Yeah, nearly.” Looks like he heard you this time. Asshole. He places a box of onions on your station, rattling the table slightly. “Do I have to tell you how to sort out the bad ones from the good ones?” You’re honestly not sure if he means that as a jab, but the way he says it makes your insides sizzle with irritation.

Don’t take it personally, you remind yourself. Don’t. Take. It. Personally.

“How about you show me just in case? Just so we’re on the same page.” It’s a wonder how calm you keep your voice. To your surprise, Carmy doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t sigh, he just nods and proceeds. Every time you think you’ll predict him properly, he does the opposite.

You follow the line of his callused finger pointing to brown splotches on some of the onions. Intently, studiously, you examine the dark spots (indicative of mold), the sprouts (initial stages of deterioration), and the mushy areas (a sign of decreasing freshness). He’s talking about details as he seems to do when it comes to food, even elaborating on the farming process, but you don’t quite pick up that part. You just pay attention to the parameters you need to follow.

No more fucking your boss, you remind yourself again, because you catch yourself aching at the sight of his fingers. Your eyes have a hunger of their own, flickering up and down his muscular arms. God damnit. Maybe there’s another reason you can’t quite pay attention today.

“Are you listening?” Carmy’s pointed question snaps you out of it. Fuck. You hope he didn’t catch you staring at his fingers again.

“If I can save it and just chop off the bad parts, then I should,” you regurgitate on instinct. “Those are the best ones to use for the stock. Otherwise, I should just toss it.”

For a split second, all he does is fix you with his focused stare. You feel the intensity of it in your chest, your beating heart fluttering with its weight. No matter how many times you scold yourself for finding him attractive, your eyes can’t ignore what’s right in front of them. You find yourself counting his moles.

“I caught you staring,” he murmurs, “for real this time.”

“I—uh—” Your eyebrows are so raised you’re sure they’re bound to shoot off your warmed face. He’s smiling like he knows something you don’t. You weren’t going to mention yesterday, and after your first interaction this morning, you were sure he wasn’t going to, either. Guess you were wrong again.

“I’ll be in the back if you need help. The others should be here soon.” He’s moving on without giving you a chance to recover. Your brain can’t process the shock. “Just call if you need anything."

Before you get a chance to scrounge up anything to say, you’re alone in the kitchen again.

This time I'm really gonna do it, you fume internally. Because you have a healthy amount of anger management, you don’t let yourself continue that thought.

Sydney is the third person to show up after you and Carmy. You give her a nod and a thin smile as she walks in, and she waves back. Soon after she arrives, the others trickle in one by one. As you're learning to expect, the quiet never lasts for long.

There are tasks circling you just like yesterday that you don't fully grasp yet. Everyone seems to be instinctively following their own schedule, their circadian rhythm matched to the chaotic ecosystem of the kitchen. It’s just as suffocating as it was yesterday. You remind yourself that as a new hire, you don't need to understand the madness yet. Nonetheless, an invisible pressure presses down on you.

“Hey, d'you mind telling me where this produce goes?” A triple stack of filled containers sits heavy in your arms. With Sydney out of the kitchen, Marcus is your next safest option in terms of coworkers. His head flicks up from where he was focused on kneading dough. A streak of white flour is across his nose.

“Oh, that one's bottom shelf, near the back.” He claps his dusty hands together, flour falling between them like snow. “Here, I'll just show you. You know where the walk-in is?”

With Marcus, it doesn't feel like there are any stupid questions. It's a gift you don't take for granted, especially around here. You let him lead you to the fridge again, even though you remember where it is. It doesn't hurt.

“Thanks. I'm, uh, still having a hard time figuring out where stuff goes,” you say after you put the produce away.

“It’s cool. It's only your second day, right?” You nod. “Just takes time. Don't sweat it. You ever work in a restaurant before?”

“Yeah, a couple of times.”

“Then you know what you're gettin’ into.” That makes you laugh.

“Sorta.” You shrug. “To be honest with you, I just need money, and I like cooking enough, so…now I'm here.” You're not quite as honest with how desperate your situation was on the verge of coming, but it's fine. Not really the time and place for it anyway.

“I gotcha. That's how it was for me too, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Well, that's how I started at McDonald’s. That was a while ago now.”

“I see. It's better here, I hope.”

“Hard to say,” he says, but there's a little smile on his face. “For the most part, Michael was cool, but—”

“Michael!” You blurt out, startling the both of you. “Holy shit, I'm sorry. I've just been trying to remember the name of the previous owner for forever now and—wow, sorry. I didn't mean to shout.”

“It's fine.” Marcus has this amused expression, but it dissolves quickly. “You met him?”

“I did. I came here a couple of years ago when I first moved. Just once, but—anyway, what's his deal?”

“His deal?”

“Yeah, like, why'd he give the restaurant away? Carmy said he didn't want it anymore.”

“Oh.” You can't read the way Marcus’ face shifts. “That's what he said?”

“...Yeah?”

“I see. Okay. Uh…” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “Look, I know how this sounds, but just try not to bring Mike up for now. It's still kind of a sore subject.”

“Ah, my bad.” Your brain instantly supplies stories of estranged families, sibling spats, and stolen money. You suppose it's a sour sort of relationship—something you're intimately familiar with. “Can I ask what happened, or…?”

“I'll tell you later,” he replies evasively. “You know what else they got you training on today?”

“No idea,” you answer honestly. The nosy part of you wants to hear more about the Berzatto family, but the responsible part of you reminds you to cool your jets. “Carmy just told me I was on produce. Know where he's at? I peeked into his office, but he wasn't there.”

“Oh, he just left.” Your blank stare makes him elaborate. “He's off doing Carmy things.”

“Doing Carmy things?” Looks like the person in charge has abandoned you yet again.

“Business stuff, probably.” Marcus shrugs. “He does that sometimes. He probably won't be back for a while, so I can help you with training for now if you want.”

“That would be great.” There's a remark on the tip of your tongue about poor management, but you hold it. “Is Carmy a better boss, at least?”

“Compared to Michael?” You recognize sadness in Marcus’ pinched brows, even if it's only momentary. “I dunno. It hasn't been long, but this place has been running more smoothly since he started doing things.” Your shocked expression makes him laugh briefly. “I know, it used to be worse if you can believe it.”

“I'm not sure that I can,” you admit.

. . . . .

The next several days at work continue to test your patience. While Carmy keeps you on prep, keeping your tasks simple, he continues to find ways to keep you on edge. You stiffen up every time he enters the kitchen, waiting for him to point out yet another mistake.

Chef, this cut's too uneven. Chef, you're taking too much time on this. Chef, you should’ve cut this part off. Chef, you’re creating too much waste.

Yes, Chef, you always reply, even as his comments become more and more grating. A childish part of you wants to do a worse job out of spite, but another part of you is hungry for his approval far more than you would ever admit. You wonder if he's this tough on everyone.

The incident in the walk-in does not get mentioned again. A childish voice in you wonders if Carmy has forgotten about it. Of course he hasn’t, but every time he critiques you, you wonder about the Carmy who kissed you. You wonder what that Carmy's thinking, because you have no clue.

Has he been thinking of you, too?

This is how things should be, you remind yourself after you touch yourself for the fourth night in a row to the thought of him. Your fingers are wet, and your wrist is embarrassingly sore. I can't have sex with my boss again. I just can't.

Would it be different if he also touched himself to thoughts of you?

You desperately suck your own cum off your fingers, and you wish it were his fingers instead. It doesn't taste the same.

The bright lights are irritatingly bright when you come in this morning. It looks like you're the first person here again, other than Carmy. You hear his irritated voice as soon as you enter, which is clearly a good sign.

“I appreciate you thinking of me, I do. I do. It's just—” He sighs. Looks like he's having another phone call. “I can't come back. Not right now.” Silence. “No, uh, won't happen for a while, I think. The place's fucked.” A shaky breath. “What? What did you say?

“The head chef asked about me?” Carmy's voice has gone tight. “I see. Of course he said that. No, it's fine.” Pause. “...I know what they've been saying. I figured they'd look down on me.” His laugh is hollow and painful. “Look, I got shit to do. Thanks for asking me, but it's a no. I can't.” Another pause, drawn out and tense. “Sure. Bye.”

After he hangs up, you hear him muttering to himself. You can't pick out any of the words other than the curses, but it sounds bad. As you put your things away, you silently pray to the abstract idea of a god to give you both strength of patience. Seems like you'll need it today.

“Morning,” you tentatively greet him when he sees you. He's not surprised by your presence today, it seems. He nods back.

“Morning.” His eyebags are dark with a lack of sleep. Upon closer inspection, his whole everything screams sleep deprivation, perhaps a bit more so than usual. His messy hair seems particularly unkempt today. “You're doing prep again today.”

“I figured.”

“You need to get better about cleaning your station.” His words are full to the brim with irritation. “I keep having to clean it after you.”

“I thought I was—” You stop. Calm down, you think, but it's getting harder and harder to repeat. “Sorry. I didn't realize.”

“I told you the other day that it was dirty. Were you even paying attention?”

“Of course I was!” Annoyance bubbles over inside of you, potent and unbridled. Carmy barely reacts to your raised voice. Somehow, that pisses you off more. The cap on your contained anger has popped off, and there's no fitting it back on. “Are you always like this towards your employees?”

“Like what?”

“Like an asshole?” You're too irritated to hold yourself back.

“Depends. Are you always like this with your boss?” He retorts immediately.

“I don't usually have sex with my boss, so no, I suppose not,” you respond stupidly, and that makes him go dead silent. He narrows his eyes, fixes you with his gaze. Like you're a new problem that needs solving or something like that.

God damnit, you think to yourself. Why'd you have to say that?

“You've been thinking about it.” The air feels thicker, suddenly.

“I never said that.”

“Then why did you mention it?” Shit. “You said you were going to do better.”

“And I have been. I've been trying to do everything you've been telling me to do.” You don't know why you take a step towards him. “You said you were gonna be nicer.”

“And I have been,” he echoes, and his sincerity makes you roll your eyes.

“Bullshit! You've been nit-picking me all week!”

“We have standards here, and you need to learn how to follow them. That's all.”

“You're right! I'm learning,” you argue, throwing exasperated hands up in the air. “Cut me some fucking slack!”

“Then learn. Improve.” He slams a hand down on the aluminum surface next to you, enclosing you partially in. Being this close to him, you can really see how dark his dark circles are. You could easily move to the side if you wanted to, but something in you stays put. “There's no excuse for a dirty workspace in a kitchen. I thought you would know that already.”

“I'm so fucking sorry, chef,” you spit back with about as much venom as you can muster. Which, right now, is a lot.

That shifts something inside him. You see it flash across his face—surprise, anger, and then…something else.

“Dirty work station and a dirty mouth,” he murmurs. His voice is lower, quieter, and it sounds just like how it did in the walk-in. You hate how that change instantly makes your heart pick up speed. “You think you get a pass to act like this because of what happened in the walk-in?”

“You motherfucker,” you hiss, meeting his glare with your own. “So now you're going to acknowledge it? And for the record, I get to act however the fuck I want. Especially with someone like you.”

“Someone like me.” He doesn't ask you to elaborate. He just laughs, breathy and condescending, and he's so close you can feel his breath fan across your face. “You think you're above all this, don't you?”

“What?” The question takes you so off guard that it almost dissipates the strange mix of anger and arousal simmering in your gut.

“I know it doesn't feel good to have to take orders from someone you hate, but here's the thing. You have to.” He's not smiling, but you swear he's getting some sort of sick satisfaction from all this. Why else would he be saying any of this shit?

“I could leave right now if I wanted to,” you threaten him. “You won't be able to find anyone else that wants to work in this shithole of a place.”

“You're right. You could leave if you really wanted to.” His eyes narrow curiously at you. “Then why haven't you?”

You’re well within your right to leave already—it checks all the boxes. Chaotic work environment. Awful management. General workplace misconduct. Unprofessionalism between coworkers. You suppose you're partially to blame for that last one, but still.

If it's bad, I'll just find another job, you told yourself. You're not sure why you're not listening to your own advice. The simple truth of the matter, though, is that other jobs won't have him. They won't have the man that's been keeping you up at night, the man that you want to simultaneously devour and destroy. They won't have Carmen Berzatto, and for some reason, that's all it's going to take.

You don't understand yourself. It scares you, but not enough. Not enough to leave.

“...I don't know why I haven't left yet,” you say quietly after a while. “I have no clue.”

“I see.” If he's dissatisfied with your answer, he doesn't show it. “Then for the time you're here, let's make one thing clear.”

“What is it now?” You sigh.

“I'm in charge here,” he whispers. His other hand is on the counter now. You're completely blocked in. “I'm the one who runs this place, so you're going to be good and listen to me when I speak.”

“You're not really giving me a lot of incentive, chef.” You lower your gaze to the counters next to you. “Maybe if you gave me something to work with.” You don't mean for it to come out as suggestive as it does, but with him surrounding you like this…

“Incentive?” He brings a hand to your face, tucking his fingers under your chin to pull your gaze back to him. His touch is achingly gentle, but it forces it to look straight into his eyes. Your fidgety gaze catches glances of the dark blue speckles that border his pale iris. “Hey,” he whispers, “look at me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Your heart's pounding like sprinting feet thudding on concrete. You can't place what feelings are excitement or anxiety or both, but maybe no separation exists. Shutting your eyes was a weak attempt to temporarily block him out, but now all you can focus on is the sensation of his rough hand on your hot face.

Hesitantly, you open your eyes to face him. Ice blue and dark circles. His intense stare is difficult to match, but you try.

“What do you want from me?” You ask quietly.

“I want you to clean your station. Think you can do that?”

“Don't patronize me. Of course I can. I just—happened to forget.”

“Hm.” He smiles briefly. It's just a bit mocking. “You don't have a good track record so far, so you'll have to prove it to me.”

“...And how would I do that?”

“Depends,” he replies vaguely. “Depends on what you want.”

“What I want? I thought you were supposed to be in charge.”

“When I touched you, you told me you wanted to touch me.” The realization clicks in your head. “Do you still want that?”

You hesitate. Memories of the walk-in flood in. You remember the silhouette of his tight jeans over his bulge, and you ache. You shouldn't say yes. You really shouldn't. A distant voice says, you don't want to do this. What have you been telling yourself? This is a bad idea.

Unfortunately, it's far past a matter of want anymore. It's a matter of need.

“Yes,” you whisper back. Your fate is sealed. “I do.”

That's how you find yourself in the cramped bathroom with him. It's dark with one of the lightbulbs having gone out, making it feel even smaller. An eerie green cast coats the room.

“You're going to show me that you can listen. That you can clean up after your messes.” He's leaned up against the wall, broad hands unbuttoning his pants. Your eyes shamelessly zero in on the motion. “Think you can do that much?”

“Of course I can,” you reply, but it comes out a lot softer than intended.

“Good.” You force your eyes away from the outline of his bulge in his boxers to look at his face. His darkened eyes are trained on you. “Get on your knees.”

Oh, you think. So this is how it's gonna go.

You wish you could say that you hesitate even a little bit, that there’s even a shred of contemplation left in you. However, there isn't any of that remaining. Obediently, you fall to your knees, resting them against the cold, hard bathroom floor. You're at eye level with his unbuttoned jeans. Slowly, you raise your eyes to look at him.

His downturned face is framed by wild strands of hair. Looking down at you casts darker shadows across his face, but not enough to hide his expression. It's an odd mix of hunger and what you think to be admiration. Surely not, but that's immediately the thought that comes to mind.

“Waiting for directions, chef,” you murmur.

“Mm. Right,” he says, like he was lost in thought. “You look better like this.”

“Watch it,” you warn him. “I could still bite your dick off.” To that, he just briefly smiles, and then it's gone.

He's pulled his black pants down just enough to let his clothed bulge hang over the waistband. The sight of it goes straight to the simmer starting in your gut. You watch his veined hand disappear into his boxers. He's doing this far too slowly for your taste.

Finally, he pulls out his cock, nearly completely stiffened, and you can't deny the way you begin to salivate.

You were right. It's big, though not just in length. His cock is thick. You immediately know you won't be able to take the full length of him into your mouth, but what fits is going to be a stretch. You're already imagining how those bulging veins are going to feel against the flat of your tongue.

“Use your mouth for something other than talking back to me. Make me come,” Carmy orders quietly. “Enough direction for you?”

“Shut the hell up,” you mutter, ignoring the feeling of the growing heat inside you, and you pull the reddened, shiny tip of his cock between your lips.

His pre-come mixes with the saliva on your tongue. You savor the taste of his salty musk, suckling slowly, and you hear him exhale shakily above you. Looks like you've been given something of an opportunity to get him back for the walk-in. Not repayment—payback. The distinction is important.

When you pull back, thin strings of spit connect the pink head to your glistening lips. One of your hands moves to hold the base of his cock as you close the gap again. You drag your tongue down the side of his length, licking the thick vein you were eyeing earlier. You feel him twitch.

“Do that again,” he breathes. Without question, your tongue retraces its path, running back over the line of spit it created. That gets you a quiet, strangled moan, and it's music to your ears.

“Is this part sensitive?” You ask as you stroke the vein with your thumb. You suck your way down the vein again, making small, wet seals of pleasure.

“Somewhat.” He sounds good like this, breathless and flustered. A smile twitches on your lips. You lick across the inside of your hand, wetting it before lazily curling it around his cock. He slides effortlessly in your grasp.

“You gonna come already?” You can't help but tease. He's surprisingly reactive, more so than you would've thought. It's not that you're complaining—it's not that at all. The sound of his low groans is making you drip.

“Hah—no. You'll have to work harder than that.” You feel a hand pushing back your hair, and that makes you raise your head towards him. His touch is surprisingly gentle. You watch the movement of his lips when he speaks. “Open your mouth, and stick out your tongue.”

You can't quite figure out what it is about all of this that makes you submit. Just moments ago, you wanted to wring your hands around his throat. It was far too easy to abandon your anger and kneel in front of him. Maybe it's the incomprehensibly part of you that undeniably needs his validation. Maybe it's the soft, low tone of his voice, gentle yet commanding. Either way, it has you obeying with a thought in your mind.

You do as he says. You part your lips and extend your tongue. As your eyes flutter upwards towards him, you're struck with the impression that you must look obscene.

“Perfect,” he whispers, and just the one word sends something of a euphoric rush through you. “Doin’ so good for me.”

You soak up the praise, basking in the warmth of it. Then, Carmy spits onto your tongue, and his saliva slides towards the back of your mouth.

You can't hide your surprise. Your breath hitches, but you don't say anything. Fuck, that should've made you angry, but it just made your clit throb painfully hard.

He drags his thumb down your tongue, slow and sensual. You have half the mind to suck on it until he glides the head of his cock on your tongue, leading it into the heat of your mouth.

“Ah—” You lose the words you were going to say, along with the empty space in your mouth. The tip of his cock's nearing the back of your throat. You breathe shakily through your nose. You were right again—you can't take him fully in. It's enough of a stretch as it is.

“Fuck, that's it…” Carmy sighs. “Just like that…”

His hand holding your hair turns into a tighter grip as you begin sucking up and down his cock. It's an awful mess, the size of him forcing spit to drip down your chin. It's not just that, though. He's thrusting his cock back into your mouth quicker and quicker. You wish he would slow down so you could lean back and suck on his dribbling tip, but his hand has you anchored.

Time slows as he starts fucking your mouth. Your hands fall to your hands. Your knees are starting to hurt. You care surprisingly little about that fact, instead opting to care about rubbing your clit as quickly as possible. When you get your hands under your underwear, you find your whole pussy already smeared in wetness. You've seeped through the fabric.

When he pulls his cock out of your mouth (or rather, when he tugs you off), you think he's going to give you a new order. Or that he's going to say something. You don't realize what's really happening until it's too late.

You watch him bring a hand to his cock. He strokes it twice, keeping his hand tight in your hair, and with a low groan, he comes.

With his hand on you, you can't move away. Not that you try. When the first glob of cum streaks your cheek, you freeze. All you can do is pause as he comes on your face. Even your hand under your pants has frozen, your palm pressed up tight against your pulsing clit.

With each rope of cum across your face, you feel yourself throb. Carmy is a sight to behold as he comes, long-lashed eyes falling shut with his parted, gasping mouth. He's jaggedly fisting his cock as he just keeps coming. You feel the cum starting to drip down the slopes of your skin, even your lips.

By the time he's come down, he's left your face an absolute mess. Your jaw feels heavy, and his cum is hot against your swollen lips. You've come down as well, and it's left you with the irate realization that he just came all over your face without asking.

“You could've at least told me you were gonna come on my face,” you snap. Your cheeks are burning. Your argument feels weak with how worked up you feel over watching and feeling him come, but the irritation is still very real.

“Clean your station, chef,” he responds, infuriatingly smug even as he catches your breath. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Are you kidding me?” Of course. That's what this all was. A fucked up lesson, a twisted sort of discipline.

“I'm not.” He uncurls his fist from your hair. “Stand up—your knees must hurt.”

You pause for a second before you shakily get back up on your legs. One minute he's messily fucking your mouth, and the other, he's worrying over your sore knees. He continues to become more and more confusing.

“You're gonna make me clean up your mess.” You catch your face in the small, shitty rectangular mirror hanging on the wall. God, are you a filthy sight, cum and spit all over your face.

“I had to clean up yours for the past week, so yeah.” He's zipped himself back up. He's clean, not a drop of anything on him. Unlike the mess parading itself on your face. At least there's not any in your hair.

“This is not the same. This is—” You frustratedly search for the right words. He's remaining as stoic as ever. “You didn't even kiss me,” you blurt out, and as soon as you say it, you regret it.

Carmy stills. You can't tell what he's thinking with his unmoving expression. You're sure he's about to insult you again, but then he’s leaning in and sealing his lips against yours.

You're stunned. A small noise escapes you as he kisses you deeply, thoroughly. His tongue drags up a trail of cum and spit up your chin and back into your mouth. Or back into his. You're unsure, with the way they're all blending together.

“There,” Carmy murmurs against your lips. When he pulls back, you see his tongue running across his lips, collecting the pearlescent sheen that was on them.

“Um—” You start and immediately stop. You’re speechless.

“Now clean up.” You hear the sound of distant company. Your other coworkers must be arriving now. “I expect improvement now, chef. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” you reply bitterly. “I suppose I met your expectations, then?”

“Sure. Closely enough, anyway.” Potent aggravation hits you like a cast iron pan. He drags his thumb in one last infuriating line across your cheek. He sucks it into his mouth and cleans it off. “Don't take too long. I have a lot planned for you today.”

Without waiting for a response, Carmy leaves. He leaves you alone in the shitty bathroom with a now flickering lightbulb, left to clean his cum on your face with water, hand soap, and thin paper towels. You don't know if you've ever been so angry before.

The anger doesn't make the arousal go away. You rub your needy clit to orgasm, your back pressed up against the wall like Carmy's just a moment ago.

As you come with Carmy's cum slowly trailing on your face, you wonder if there is any coming back from this. If there's anything left to be done to stop whatever's happening. You can't come up with any solutions or suggestions. Only one thing is undeniably clear:

You hate Carmen Berzatto, and you're already thinking of ways to get his cock in your mouth again soon.

taglist: @zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @thehouseofevangelista @alastorssimp @talas-starlight @jmamas92

#carmy berzatto #the bear #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #jeremy allen white #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto smut #carmen berzatto smut #carmy berzatto imagines #carmen berzatto imagines #my fics #blood orange #ARGHHH ITS HEREEE. i won't lie this chapter was so hard to write #im still having a hard time figuring out what this particular carmy acts like. its difficult. im getting there tho #my smut

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sparklingcid3r · 16 days

Note

hey ive been seeing this hc on other blogs but what is ur hc on pony having to go to the doctor? like darry in waiting room with him, then pony forcing him to come into the exam room and silently looks to darry to answer every question the doctor asks of him. do you think darrel gets frusturated by pony or is he in full overprotective guardian mode of "he said his stomach hurts!" at the doctor.

I’ve seen a few of these too and I love what everyone’s come up with so I have no idea if I’m gonna be original but I wanna talk abt this soooo🫶

Pony HATES going to the doctor. That shit scares him so bad. His parents had to drag him kicking and screaming out the door and as a freshly turned 14 yr old, nothing’s changed. He still hates it. Sure, Darry’s not pulling his legs while Pony holds onto the door extreme, but he’s moping all the way over there.

Darry’s never wanted a frontal lobotomy more than during his first time taking Pony into the doctor’s office.

After he’s finished filling out the insurance part of the paperwork in the waiting room, he passes it off to Pony to answer the rest seeing as it’s his appointment. Pony ends up reading every question out to Darry like he’s supposed to answer it for him.

“It’s asking if I have any stomach pain.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Then write no.”

“Oh, okay.”

…

“It’s asking if I have any joint pain.”

Darry’s head is in his hands.

They finally get into the exam room and when the nurse tries to get him to follow her to measure his height, weight, blood pressure, vision, he just looks at Darry like he expects him to come with. Darry just gestures for him to go with the nurse like literally every other time he’s had to do this.

The nurse brings him back after an incredible series of “You want me to take my shoes off🤨” and “Am I supposed to get on that😐” (the scale). When she closes the door, Pony collapses back into the chair like he’s just been through an ordeal. He’s giving Darry the nastiest side eye and Darry’s just like “Do you really have to make this so complicated, all you have to do is sit there and let them look at you” but Pony hits him with the “You weren’t even there bro”

The doctor comes in and tries to make friendly small talk, just asking what grade he’s in and what kinds of school activities he does.

“So, what kind of physical activities do you partake in?”

Pony looks at Darry.

“He does track.”

“Alright, good. What would you say your diet is made up of, Ponyboy?”

Silence.

“He eats his vegetables. Lots of chocolate cake, though, nearly every day. I’m sure you want him to cut back on that.”

“Every day? Ha! Yes, I would advise that a young track star like you should limit your sugar intake.”

Darry has no intention of following through on that, but he’s satisfied with the heat Pony glares at him with. Darry is a shithead of an older brother when he’s taking Pony to the doctor. If Pony gives him the reigns he’s gonna fuck with him so hard. Like yeah he’s pretty sure it’ll help Pony to speak up for himself more, but Darry’s absolutely doing it more for his own entertainment.

And also they find out that Pony’s reflexes are garbage. The doctor gets his little hammer out and knocks on Pony’s knee. That shit doesn’t move until he’s about to move onto the other knee. Darry is in shock.

Overall a great day out for two-thirds of the Curtis brothers, 0/10 wouldn’t recommend

#the outsiders #the outsiders headcanons #the outsiders darry #darry curtis #the outsiders ponyboy #ponyboy curtis

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months

Text

Algorithmic feeds are a twiddler’s playground

Next TUESDAY (May 14), I'm on a livecast about AI AND ENSHITTIFICATION with TIM O'REILLY; on WEDNESDAY (May 15), I'm in NORTH HOLLYWOOD with HARRY SHEARER for a screening of STEPHANIE KELTON'S FINDING THE MONEY; FRIDAY (May 17), I'm at the INTERNET ARCHIVE in SAN FRANCISCO to keynote the 10th anniversary of the AUTHORS ALLIANCE.

Like Oscar Wilde, "I can resist anything except temptation," and my slow and halting journey to adulthood is really just me grappling with this fact, getting temptation out of my way before I can yield to it.

Behavioral economists have a name for the steps we take to guard against temptation: a "Ulysses pact." That's when you take some possibility off the table during a moment of strength in recognition of some coming moment of weakness:

https://archive.org/details/decentralizedwebsummit2016-corydoctorow

Famously, Ulysses did this before he sailed into the Sea of Sirens. Rather than stopping his ears with wax to prevent his hearing the sirens' song, which would lure him to his drowning, Ulysses has his sailors tie him to the mast, leaving his ears unplugged. Ulysses became the first person to hear the sirens' song and live to tell the tale.

Ulysses was strong enough to know that he would someday be weak. He expressed his strength by guarding against his weakness. Our modern lives are filled with less epic versions of the Ulysses pact: the day you go on a diet, it's a good idea to throw away all your Oreos. That way, when your blood sugar sings its siren song at 2AM, it will be drowned out by the rest of your body's unwillingness to get dressed, find your keys and drive half an hour to the all-night grocery store.

Note that this Ulysses pact isn't perfect. You might drive to the grocery store. It's rare that a Ulysses pact is unbreakable – we bind ourselves to the mast, but we don't chain ourselves to it and slap on a pair of handcuffs for good measure.

People who run institutions can – and should – create Ulysses pacts, too. A company that holds the kind of sensitive data that might be subjected to "sneak-and-peek" warrants by cops or spies can set up a "warrant canary":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warrant_canary

This isn't perfect. A company that stops publishing regular transparency reports might have been compromised by the NSA, but it's also possible that they've had a change in management and the new boss just doesn't give a shit about his users' privacy:

https://www.fastcompany.com/90853794/twitters-transparency-reporting-has-tanked-under-elon-musk

Likewise, a company making software it wants users to trust can release that code under an irrevocable free/open software license, thus guaranteeing that each release under that license will be free and open forever. This is good, but not perfect: the new boss can take that free/open code down a proprietary fork and try to orphan the free version:

https://news.ycombinator.com/item?id=39772562

A company can structure itself as a public benefit corporation and make a binding promise to elevate its stakeholders' interests over its shareholders' – but the CEO can still take a secret $100m bribe from cryptocurrency creeps and try to lure those stakeholders into a shitcoin Ponzi scheme:

https://fortune.com/crypto/2024/03/11/kickstarter-blockchain-a16z-crypto-secret-investment-chris-dixon/

A key resource can be entrusted to a nonprofit with a board of directors who are charged with stewarding it for the benefit of a broad community, but when a private equity fund dangles billions before that board, they can talk themselves into a belief that selling out is the right thing to do:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/12/how-we-saved-org-2020-review

Ulysses pacts aren't perfect, but they are very important. At the very least, creating a Ulysses pact starts with acknowledging that you are fallible. That you can be tempted, and rationalize your way into taking bad action, even when you know better. Becoming an adult is a process of learning that your strength comes from seeing your weaknesses and protecting yourself and the people who trust you from them.

Which brings me to enshittification. Enshittification is the process by which platforms betray their users and their customers by siphoning value away from each until the platform is a pile of shit:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enshittification

Enshittification is a spectrum that can be applied to many companies' decay, but in its purest form, enshittification requires:

a) A platform: a two-sided market with business customers and end users who can be played off against each other; b) A digital back-end: a market that can be easily, rapidly and undetectably manipulated by its owners, who can alter search-rankings, prices and costs on a per-user, per-query basis; and c) A lack of constraint: the platform's owners must not fear a consequence for this cheating, be it from competitors, regulators, workforce resignations or rival technologists who use mods, alternative clients, blockers or other "adversarial interoperability" tools to disenshittify your product and sever your relationship with your users.

he founders of tech platforms don't generally set out to enshittify them. Rather, they are constantly seeking some equilibrium between delivering value to their shareholders and turning value over to end users, business customers, and their own workers. Founders are consummate rationalizers; like parenting, founding a company requires continuous, low-grade self-deception about the amount of work involved and the chances of success. A founder, confronted with the likelihood of failure, is absolutely capable of talking themselves into believing that nearly any compromise is superior to shuttering the business: "I'm one of the good guys, so the most important thing is for me to live to fight another day. Thus I can do any number of immoral things to my users, business customers or workers, because I can make it up to them when we survive this crisis. It's for their own good, even if they don't know it. Indeed, I'm doubly moral here, because I'm volunteering to look like the bad guy, just so I can save this business, which will make the world over for the better":

https://locusmag.com/2024/05/cory-doctorow-no-one-is-the-enshittifier-of-their-own-story/

(En)shit(tification) flows downhill, so tech workers grapple with their own version of this dilemma. Faced with constant pressure to increase the value flowing from their division to the company, they have to balance different, conflicting tactics, like "increasing the number of users or business customers, possibly by shifting value from the company to these stakeholders in the hopes of making it up in volume"; or "locking in my existing stakeholders and squeezing them harder, safe in the knowledge that they can't easily leave the service provided the abuse is subtle enough." The bigger a company gets, the harder it is for it to grow, so the biggest companies realize their gains by locking in and squeezing their users, not by improving their service::

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

That's where "twiddling" comes in. Digital platforms are extremely flexible, which comes with the territory: computers are the most flexible tools we have. This means that companies can automate high-speed, deceptive changes to the "business logic" of their platforms – what end users pay, how much of that goes to business customers, and how offers are presented to both:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

This kind of fraud isn't particularly sophisticated, but it doesn't have to be – it just has to be fast. In any shell-game, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/26/glitchbread/#electronic-shelf-tags

Under normal circumstances, this twiddling would be constrained by counterforces in society. Changing the business rules like this is fraud, so you'd hope that a regulator would step in and extinguish the conduct, fining the company that engaged in it so hard that they saw a net loss from the conduct. But when a sector gets very concentrated, its mega-firms capture their regulators, becoming "too big to jail":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

Thus the tendency among the giant tech companies to practice the one lesson of the Darth Vader MBA: dismissing your stakeholders' outrage by saying, "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

Where regulators fail, technology can step in. The flexibility of digital platforms cuts both ways: when the company enshittifies its products, you can disenshittify it with your own countertwiddling: third-party ink-cartridges, alternative app stores and clients, scrapers, browser automation and other forms of high-tech guerrilla warfare:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

But tech giants' regulatory capture have allowed them to expand "IP rights" to prevent this self-help. By carefully layering overlapping IP rights around their products, they can criminalize the technology that lets you wrestle back the value they've claimed for themselves, creating a new offense of "felony contempt of business model":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

A world where users must defer to platforms' moment-to-moment decisions about how the service operates, without the protection of rival technology or regulatory oversight is a world where companies face a powerful temptation to enshittify.

That's why we've seen so much enshittification in platforms that algorithmically rank their feeds, from Google and Amazon search to Facebook and Twitter feeds. A search engine is always going to be making a judgment call about what the best result for your search should be. If a search engine is generally good at predicting which results will please you best, you'll return to it, automatically clicking the first result ("I'm feeling lucky").

This means that if a search engine slips in the odd paid result at the top of the results, they can exploit your trusting habits to shift value from you to their investors. The congifurability of a digital service means that they can sprinkle these frauds into their services on a random schedule, making them hard to detect and easy to dismiss as lapses. Gradually, this acquires its own momentum, and the platform becomes addicted to lowering its own quality to raise its profits, and you get modern Google, which cynically lowered search quality to increase search volume:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan

And you get Amazon, which makes $38 billion every year, accepting bribes to replace its best search results with paid results for products that cost more and are of lower quality:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

Social media's enshittification followed a different path. In the beginning, social media presented a deterministic feed: after you told the platform who you wanted to follow, the platform simply gathered up the posts those users made and presented them to you, in reverse-chronological order.

This presented few opportunities for enshittification, but it wasn't perfect. For users who were well-established on a platform, a reverse-chrono feed was an ungovernable torrent, where high-frequency trivialities drowned out the important posts from people whose missives were buried ten screens down in the updates since your last login.

For new users who didn't yet follow many people, this presented the opposite problem: an empty feed, and the sense that you were all alone while everyone else was having a rollicking conversation down the hall, in a room you could never find.

The answer was the algorithmic feed: a feed of recommendations drawn from both the accounts you followed and strangers alike. Theoretically, this could solve both problems, by surfacing the most important materials from your friends while keeping you abreast of the most important and interesting activity beyond your filter bubble. For many of us, this promise was realized, and algorithmic feeds became a source of novelty and relevance.

But these feeds are a profoundly tempting enshittification target. The critique of these algorithms has largely focused on "addictiveness" and the idea that platforms would twiddle the knobs to increase the relevance of material in your feed to "hack your engagement":

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2018/mar/04/has-dopamine-got-us-hooked-on-tech-facebook-apps-addiction

Less noticed – and more important – was how platforms did the opposite: twiddling the knobs to remove things from your feed that you'd asked to see or that the algorithm predicted you'd enjoy, to make room for "boosted" content and advertisements:

https://www.reddit.com/r/Instagram/comments/z9j7uy/what_happened_to_instagram_only_ads_and_accounts/

Users were helpless before this kind of twiddling. On the one hand, they were locked into the platform – not because their dopamine had been hacked by evil tech-bro wizards – but because they loved the friends they had there more than they hated the way the service was run:

https://locusmag.com/2023/01/commentary-cory-doctorow-social-quitting/

On the other hand, the platforms had such an iron grip on their technology, and had deployed IP so cleverly, that any countertwiddling technology was instantaneously incinerated by legal death-rays:

https://techcrunch.com/2022/10/10/google-removes-the-og-app-from-the-play-store-as-founders-think-about-next-steps/

Newer social media platforms, notably Tiktok, dispensed entirely with deterministic feeds, defaulting every user into a feed that consisted entirely of algorithmic picks; the people you follow on these platforms are treated as mere suggestions by their algorithms. This is a perfect breeding-ground for enshittification: different parts of the business can twiddle the knobs to override the algorithm for their own parochial purposes, shifting the quality:shit ratio by unnoticeable increments, temporarily toggling the quality knob when your engagement drops off:

https://www.forbes.com/sites/emilybaker-white/2023/01/20/tiktoks-secret-heating-button-can-make-anyone-go-viral/

All social platforms want to be Tiktok: nominally, that's because Tiktok's algorithmic feed is so good at hooking new users and keeping established users hooked. But tech bosses also understand that a purely algorithmic feed is the kind of black box that can be plausibly and subtly enshittified without sparking user revolts:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

Back in 2004, when Mark Zuckerberg was coming to grips with Facebook's success, he boasted to a friend that he was sitting on a trove of emails, pictures and Social Security numbers for his fellow Harvard students, offering this up for his friend's idle snooping. The friend, surprised, asked "What? How'd you manage that one?"

Infamously, Zuck replied, "People just submitted it. I don't know why. They 'trust me.' Dumb fucks."

https://www.esquire.com/uk/latest-news/a19490586/mark-zuckerberg-called-people-who-handed-over-their-data-dumb-f/

This was a remarkable (and uncharacteristic) self-aware moment from the then-nineteen-year-old Zuck. Of course Zuck couldn't be trusted with that data. Whatever Jiminy Cricket voice told him to safeguard that trust was drowned out by his need to boast to pals, or participate in the creepy nonconsensual rating of the fuckability of their female classmates. Over and over again, Zuckerberg would promise to use his power wisely, then break that promise as soon as he could do so without consequence:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=3247362

Zuckerberg is a cautionary tale. Aware from the earliest moments that he was amassing power that he couldn't be trusted with, he nevertheless operated with only the weakest of Ulysses pacts, like a nonbinding promise never to spy on his users:

https://web.archive.org/web/20050107221705/http://www.thefacebook.com/policy.php

But the platforms have learned the wrong lesson from Zuckerberg. Rather than treating Facebook's enshittification as a cautionary tale, they've turned it into a roadmap. The Darth Vader MBA rules high-tech boardrooms.

Algorithmic feeds and other forms of "paternalistic" content presentation are necessary and even desirable in an information-rich environment. In many instances, decisions about what you see must be largely controlled by a third party whom you trust. The audience in a comedy club doesn't get to insist on knowing the punchline before the joke is told, just as RPG players don't get to order the Dungeon Master to present their preferred challenges during a campaign.

But this power is balanced against the ease of the players replacing the Dungeon Master or the audience walking out on the comic. When you've got more than a hundred dollars sunk into a video game and an online-only friend-group you raid with, the games company can do a lot of enshittification without losing your business, and they know it:

https://www.theverge.com/2024/5/10/24153809/ea-in-game-ads-redux

Even if they sometimes overreach and have to retreat:

https://www.eurogamer.net/sony-overturns-helldivers-2-psn-requirement-following-backlash

A tech company that seeks your trust for an algorithmic feed needs Ulysses pacts, or it will inevitably yield to the temptation to enshittify. From strongest to weakest, these are:

Not showing you an algorithmic feed at all;

https://joinmastodon.org/

"Composable moderation" that lets multiple parties provide feeds:

https://bsky.social/about/blog/4-13-2023-moderation

Offering an algorithmic "For You" feed alongside of a reverse-chrono "Friends" feed, defaulting to friends;

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

As above, but defaulting to "For You"

Maturity lies in being strong enough to know your weaknesses. Never trust someone who tells you that they will never yield to temptation! Instead, seek out people – and service providers – with the maturity and honesty to know how tempting temptation is, and who act before temptation strikes to make it easier to resist.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/11/for-you/#the-algorithm-tm

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

djhughman https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Modular_synthesizer_-_%22Control_Voltage%22_electronic_music_shop_in_Portland_OR_-_School_Photos_PCC_%282015-05-23_12.43.01_by_djhughman%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #twiddling #for you #enshittification #intermediation #the algorithm tm #moral hazard #end to end

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yuyinesque · 3 months

Text

everyone stfu rn — but… here me out. fyodor x yandere!rusalka reader (ft. nikolai). putting it in a language for you cunts to understand. because i am tired. ichor is tired. and i’m suffering through a case called “writer’s block”. (implied murder, blood, obsession, mythological figures).

Cacodemonic cackles and pale sage peers; Dostoyevsky has yet to discern the urgency of his given situation, though had no qualms with concluding the annoyances of it. His partner’s blustery and ominous roars of amusement plagued Fyodor’s ear canal as he proceeded to lour directly into the monitor before him, which was occupied by a retched face he has yet to rid of due to their superlunary expertise. A rusalka, funny, isn’t it? Such mythological mistake merely used to scare off ignorant children is the same concept that was occupying his line of sight on this hallowed midnight.

Your pretty gaze now converted into a glinting, baleful, unblinking green as your bloodied visage remained almost stuffed into one of Fyodor’s esoteric lenses that he was sure that no one would find. Then again, you are far from mortal. You were savage. Barbaric and supernatural, irritating and invasive. You’ve been following him even after your death, as you were a devotee during the two of your teenage years, but he grown tired of your clinginess, so he managed to set you up on a blind date between a large water tank with a sealant.

It was clear that you were out for vengeance, but after announcing that you wanted nothing more but his heart, you wanted it devoured as well. The only man who you couldn’t entice with your looks alone… It was anticipated that you would eventually take much more drastic measures. He hated that about you. He loathed everything about you.

This story here has his clownish partner beside him in fits! It’s not like Fyodor could kill you, either! You’re literally immortal! Nikolai hasn’t had a good laugh like this in years, but… The idea of allowing his kill to go to waste over a creature isn’t something he was very fond of, and Fyodor noticed such, which prompted him to come up with a few possibilities on instinct. If he were to encourage Nikolai to do the dirty work for him, somehow, very somehow, he’d be able to rid of you. But, he’d likely perish during the process, which is something he didn’t need about n—

“Darlin’~ hands away from the secret utility for just a moment. Now, listen close and don’t forget to nod~!” Nikolai of course, disrupted his train of thoughts by speaking into the speaker with his honeyed theatrics disguised as absolute sadism and neurotic raze. Still, considering how smoothly this was according to his given plan, he was sure that God desired nothing more than Fyodor’s win. That thought alone was all that mattered to him right now. “Your kill has already been marked, my dearest, dearest cassowary! But… if you want, I wouldn’t mind sharing the remains once I’m through. How does that sound, sugar?”

What an unnecessary delay of plans, and your devilish smile followed by the immediate blackout of the camera made him sigh softly to himself. Lord, forgive him for the bloodshed that will occur on this endearing Sunday…

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macgyvermedical · 6 months

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Do you know how our understanding and treatment of diabetes has changed through history?

Oooh good question, anon!

As you may guess, diabetes mellitus is not new.

We've known about it since at least the Ebers Papyrus (1550 BCE) when the disease and a treatment was first described. This treatment was: "a liquid extract of bones, grain, grit, wheat, green lead and earth." I did not look these up, but I would guess they did not do a whole lot for the treatment of diabetes.

Later during the 6th century BCE it was first given a name when it was described by Hindu physician Sushruta as madhumeh or "honey urine."

Honey urine is a very apt descriptor for diabetes. In any type, one of the most measurable symptoms is that the person urinates a lot, and the urine tastes sweet (or, if one didn't feel like tasting, that it ferments, or that it attracts ants). This was also the first test for diabetes.

The reason for the sweetness of the urine (as well as a lot of other general info about diabetes) is spelled out more clearly in my "Don't Be That Guy Who Wrote Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters" post.

A Greek physician Apolonius of Memphis named it Diabetes, meaning "to siphon" (referring to the large amount of urine lost).

Roman physician Aretaeus later made the first precise description of diabetes. This included the classic symptoms of incessant thirst, copious urination, and constant hunger leading to emaciation and death. He also notes that if deprived of water, the patient will continue to urinate until they become so dehydrated that they die.

The term "Mellitus" was not added until the 1600s by an English physician Thomas Willis. This was again due to the sweetness of the expressed urine. Willis prescribed a diet of "slimy vegetables, rice, and white starch. He also suggested a milk drink which was distilled with cypress tops and egg whites, two powders (a mixture of gum arabic and gum dragant), rhubarb and cinnamon". Supposedly his patients improved if they kept to this diet, though few managed it long term. I honestly don't know how it would have worked, even temporarily.

A major breakthrough came in 1889 when it was discovered that if you removed the pancreas from a dog, the dog would become diabetic (particularly, that it would urinate large quantities of sweet urine). Up until this point it was thought that diabetes stemmed from the kidneys and bladder, or perhaps the lungs. This was the first time it had been shown experimentally that the pancreas was the problem.

Speaking of this, this was also part of a series of experiments where an English physician named Merkowski implanted a small amount of pancreas in the pancreas-less dog's fat, which reversed the diabetes temporarily. This proved that the pancreas was making something that helped regulate blood (and thus urine) sugar.

What this was wasn't figured out until 1921, when Canadian scientists Banting and Best (with help from McLeod and Collip) isolated something they called insletin (after the islets of langerhans, where the substance was being produced). It's important to note that all of these scientists hated each other so much they almost refused a Nobel Prize over it. Later, Collip would refine the substance and McLeod would rename it insulin.

Prior to insulin existing there was basically 1 vaguely useful treatment for diabetes. Unfortunately, that was starvation. So you could either die a slow and painful death by diabetes or you could die a slightly less slow but still painful death due to eating about 500 calories per day. Either way, diabetes was fatal, usually within a couple of years of diagnosis.

By 1923, the first commercial insulin product, Iletin, had been developed. Iletin was a U10 insulin (10 units per 1 milliliter- less potent than today's U100 and U500 insulins) and was made from pork pancreases. It took nearly a ton of pork pancreas to make 1oz of insulin. Fortunately, as a byproduct of the meat industry, pancreases were readily available.

Now, you might be thinking- no one has mentioned type 1 or type 2 yet in this entire post!

Well, you would be right, because diabetes wouldn't be split into 2 forms (insulin-dependent and non-insulin dependent) until 1979, and wouldn't be classified as types 1 and 2 until 1995. That's right- some of you were alive when there was only one kind of diabetes out there.

Now, there's more about the types in the Hansel and Gretel post, but essentially type 1 diabetes occurs when the pancreas itself stops producing insulin, usually in childhood. When this happens, the body stops being able to use sugar (insulin, a hormone, acts as a "key" to let sugar into cells for use). Without replacing that insulin, the person dies because their cells starve.

Type 2 diabetes occurs when the pancreas still produces insulin, but the cells stop responding to it correctly. This causes high sugar levels in the blood, which causes longer-term complications (infections, ulcers, blindness, neuropathy, heart and kidney disease, hyperosmolar syndrome, etc..) which eventually lead to death.

We started discovering oral drugs that worked on what would later become type 2 in the 1950s. Particularly those that worked by increasing the insulin output of the pancreas, but only when the pancreas was still producing some insulin.

Predicting which diabetics would benefit from oral therapies was challenging, but it was recognized that when the onset of diabetes was slow and came on in adulthood, the oral agents would work, while if it came on suddenly in childhood, the oral agents wouldn't. Terms like "adult onset" and "maturity onset" were common:

(Side note: if you have ever read Alas, Babylon (1955) there is a diabetic character who by today's standards clearly has type 1 diabetes, but wants to switch to the "new oral pill" (called "orinase" in the book, though they are likely referring to diabinese pictured above).)

From 1923 into the 1980s, insulin was given once or twice per day, and not particularly titrated to blood sugar. This was probably just because we didn't have a great way to measure blood sugar in real time. Pre-1970s, there was no way to test blood sugar outside of a lab setting.

Urine testing was common starting in the 1940s, but was cumbersome as it required a flame for heating the urine. By the 1950s, a test had been developed that didn't require a flame, but was still not practical for home use. In the 1960s, paper strips were developed that changed color for different amounts of sugar in the urine. The problem with this was that the strips couldn't change color until there was sugar in the urine- a blood sugar level of over 200 by today's measurements. Low blood sugar readings were impossible at this time, and had to be treated based on symptoms.

In the 1970s, blood sugar could finally be measured by putting a drop of blood on a test strip, wiping it off, and matching the color of the test strip to a chart. While less cumbersome than urine tests, this was still something that would generally only be done at a doctor's office.

In 1983, the first home blood glucometer is developed. Finally, it was practical to take one's sugar multiple times per day, and it becomes possible to experiment with "sliding scale" insulin injections that keep tighter control of blood sugar. By the late 90s, continuous glucose monitors became available- though unlike today's CGMs that allow readings in real time on a smartphone or monitor, these had to be downloaded to a computer at regular intervals.

The 1980s were the first decade where insulin pumps become widely available. The very first pump was large and had to be carried in a backpack, but it represented a huge step forward in glucose control, as it more closely mimicked the function of a working pancreas than once-daily injections.

For the next 30 or so years you really had to work to qualify for an insulin pump, but recently it's been found that pumps greatly improve compliance with blood glucose control whether or not the person had good compliance before getting the pumps, and insurance has gotten better about covering them (though CGMs are still a pain to get insurance to cover).

The 1980s was also the decade that recombinant human insulin (insulin made by genetically modified bacteria) was first used. Up until that point the only insulins were pork and beef insulins, which some people had allergic reactions to. Recombinant insulin was closer to regular human insulin than beef or pork, and represented a big change in how insulin was made.

Today for people who take insulin to manage their diabetes, insulin is usually given as a single injection of a long-acting basal insulin, coupled with smaller doses of ultra-short-acting insulins with meals or snacks. This is the closest we've gotten to mimicking the way a pancreas would work in the wild, and keeps very tight control of blood sugar. This can be done by fingerstick blood sugar tests and individual injections of insulin, or it can be done with a CGM and pump- it just depends on the resources available to the person and their personal preference.

#writing reference #whump reference #diabetes #insulin #hospital life #nurblr

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waves-against-a-cliff · 6 months

Text

Buttercream Frosting - Gaz x Reader Bakery AU

Content Warnings - Mention of masterbation and sex, yearning, sexualization, domestic fluff.

Previous Part Series Masterlist Main Masterlist

A/N - Whoops, I put this off. Anyway, I'm taking up a small writing challenge in April and have 6 chapters (not including this one) planned.

Gaz can’t remember a time, at least in the last few years, that he’s ever been this excited to go over to someone’s place. Evening could not come fast enough despite the fact his small leaves always seemed to speed by. Gaz grunts as he lets the weights drop to the ground and grabs his water bottle, taking a big drink of it. It feels like his body was producing enough heat for it to roll off him in waves, sweat across his forehead and biceps. He glances at his watch again and has to stop himself from groaning. Gaz puts the weights away and wipes down the equipment he had used all while thinking about tonight. You had invited him over. For taste testing.

He wasn’t sure if that's your way of suggesting something or if you really want him to try a recipe. Gaz washes the sweat on his face away with the sinks in the gym locker room as he debates this in his head. He had listened to you get fucked and left high and dry by whoever it was who failed to use his damn dick right. He had jacked off to it on top of listening to it. And you weren’t really moaning. He groans and looks at himself in the mirror as he feels blood rush south fast. Was he a teen boy again? Sure fucking feels like it because any thought linked to you turns into something lewd.

His mind drifts to the bakery and cafe, to the idea of stopping by there if not to just get a look at those pants that seems determined to become your second skin. He decides not to. He’ll be seeing you later, in your own flat in whatever clothes you wear outside of work.

He knocks on the door an hour after he heard you arrive home. Enough time to shower and change he figured. He didn’t need to be tortured by your work uniform. He fears his self restraint might snap in half like a twig if you were still wearing it. You open the door and Gaz feels himself relax a little. Sweatpants and a baggy shirt. He could handle this. “Ready to taste my cupcakes?” You ask. Fuck.

For apparently your first time using this recipe, the cupcakes weren’t awful. Although that might just be his massive sweet tooth talking. You watched him with your bottom lip between your teeth, you’re trying to kill him, he concludes as he licks off stray frosting from his fingers. “How was it?” You ask eagerly and Gaz has to think about it for a second. “And don’t hold back.” You say firmly.

“The frosting could do with some more sugar and the cupcake itself was a little dry.” He says after thinking about it for a moment. You scrunch your nose, clearly in thought as you went through the steps in your head to see where you could have gone wrong to make the cupcake a little dry. You wander over to the piece of paper that was the recipe, you cross out a few things and add new measurements.

You turn to him with a grin, “Wanna help me make this batch?” You let out a laugh at how quickly he nods his head. He decides he would like to hear that laugh all the time. He helps with the measurements and lets you handle everything else, at your insistence of course. You hand him one of two frosting covered spoons and he’d have to be blind to realize you were staring as he licked the frosting off, yours untouched. Gaz stands there with you, looking like a deer in headlights before he moves in a little closer. He sets the now licked clean spoon to the side and tilts your head up with two fingers under your chin. You visibly swallow as he leans in, he can still taste the buttercream frosting on his tongue.

Then the timer goes off for the cupcakes in the oven. You practically jump away, “Better get them before they burn.” You sputter out as you rush to the oven and slip on the mitts set to the side. The batch of cupcakes turn out perfect.

#gaz call of duty #gaz x reader #gaz x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x you #cod mw2 #cod mwii #bakery au #gaz x y/n

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peachesofteal · 2 years

Text

Cupcakes

Maybe this will be a thing. Or maybe not. Either way, I've got the Pedro brain rot.

Joel Miller/female reader One shot - 1.1k words - AO3 Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, mentions of blood, violence, gore. Joel is bad at feelings. Descriptions of explicit sex. Joel doesn't understand you.

He doesn’t understand you. You smile. With your mouth, your pink lips curling above a deep scar on your chin.

“It’s my trophy.” You told him one night. “I got it from a crazy fucker who had a barn fulla clickers.” He’s not sure why any person would be penning up a bunch of those things, but you did say he was crazy. “Killed him though. Was one of my first ones.” He watches your face go dark with the memory, and he tries to imagine what you were like before all this. Soft, sweet. Probably someone’s wife. Maybe you stayed at home. Made dinner, made breakfast. Maybe you were the type that made cupcakes, real ones from scratch, with sweet spun sugar icing. Maybe you took care of someone.

He doesn’t understand the way you think. You’re always telling him to take it slow, take it easy, take his time. He can’t. He doesn’t know how. He has to move fast, quick, easy on his feet. He cannot slow down. You have no problem making pace, but it doesn’t keep you from voicing your opinion.

“You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack. Don’t the doctors usually start old men on baby aspirin at your age?” He’s not that old, for christ’s sake. He’s not even forty-five yet, he thinks. When you laugh at your own jab, it feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

He doesn’t understand the way you fight. You creep around like a god damn cat, brandishing a knife in your hand, another two slipped in your boots. You liked surprise, and you hated guns. The first time he had watched you put a blade in someone’s clavicle, he thought he was going to be sick. He didn’t like you having to get so close, no matter how many times you tried to assure him you were fine. And he hates how his head spins when he watches you put that same knife in the side of a clicker’s head, twisting it for good measure, before you’re shoving off of them and bashing their skull in.

“Can’t aim worth a shit.” You complained the day he took you out for practice. You couldn’t hit a single bottle, and he couldn’t fight the grimace that graced his face. When you saw it, your cheeks turned a different color, and guilt burned inside him.

He doesn’t understand why you’re so fucking stubborn. Why you don’t listen when he tells you to do something, when you blatantly ignore him when he tells you not to follow the crying little kid that’s begging for help.

“It’s not like it was life or death.” He turned on you so fast he watched your eyes go wide, his arms pulling your shoulders towards his chest. “It is life or death!” He had yelled. You had run into that building without a care after that kid, and he could hardly keep up. Turns out, the kid’s mom was already infected, and he didn’t understand. He was only five. You covered his eyes while Joel put her down. You had carried him all the way back to camp, even after Joel had offered to take him, arms wrapped tight around his back as he cried. So stubborn. But you let Joel hold you that night, for the first time. In the dark, your hand running up and down his spine, your whispered words repeating over and over. “I’m fine. I’m fine, Joel.”

He doesn’t understand your feelings. The way they shift from one day to the next. He doesn’t like how it feels when he catches you crying, drop of tears webbed in your pillowy lashes.

“What is it?” the words are gruff, and he wishes he was softer for a split second. You sniffle and shake your head. “It’s my dad’s birthday. Or would’ve been.” He gets it, he does. But he doesn’t know how to show you, so he just sits down on the step, his shoulder against yours. You wrap your hand around his knee after you’ve dried your tears, and he holds his breath while you turn your tear-stained face up towards him. “Thanks, Joel.” His name on your lips makes his blood sing.

He doesn’t understand the way you talk to people either. The way you make everyone feel like they’re some ray of sunshine in your life. Like they matter to you. You give everyone your smile, and your eyes, and your touch. You rub Rita on her back when she throws up every second week of the month, like clockwork. You braid the Marshall girl’s hair when her mom isn’t around to do it. You try to arm wrestle John when you both get a free moment, and he can hear your laugh clear across the yard when he lets you win.

“He gets a kick out of it.” You tell him one night. “Makes him feel good. Shitty world we live in, you know?”

He knows.

He wants to make you feel good.

He hasn’t had a woman under him in years. He’s all rough sandpaper, and he can’t imagine that scraping against your porcelain skin. But, that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it. He dreams about bending you back on one of those shitty mattresses, your skin rippling in goosebumps under the tips of his fingers. He imagines the way your mouth tastes, how your hand would feel wrapped around his cock. He thinks about how you’d sound, with his mouth on your cunt, his tongue licking up inside you, pulling an orgasm through your gritted teeth. He’d hold your hip in one hand and fuck his fingers into you with the other, feeling the way the walls of your cunt clenched down around him. He thinks about how he’d push your hips down onto his cock, your back arched in his arms, your mouth pressing into his shoulder as you moan. “Joel.” you’d whine, tongue darting out to lick your lips, hand gripping his forearm. “Fuck, Joel. Please.” He’d bite the skin of your neck, bringing it between his teeth, pulling the blood to the surface to brand you. You’d be his.

These things he wants, they’re just a fantasy. A gentle dream, like the memory of the world before. He knows that, he does. But it doesn’t stop him from wanting. From watching you when you’re on guard, hips swaying with every step you take. Doesn’t stop him from taking himself in his hand when he thinks about the curve of your waist, the prominent dips in your hips, the soft crease where your thigh bends when you sit, legs folded against each other. He wants to pin you beneath him until you’re shaking, wants to hold you to his chest while you sleep. He wants the sweet, soft spun sugar that melts in his mouth, the feeling of you in his arms. He wants the cupcakes, the real ones.

He wants it all. But it’s only a fantasy.

#joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #Joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou hbo #joel tlou #joel miller x oc #peaches writes #female reader #tlou fanfiction #Joel Miller

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scientia-rex · 10 months

Note

On the weight loss thing - how much does A1C matter, and what are you supposed to do about it, if not 'aggressive weight loss'? I've dug through some studies but ... there's so much fatphobia, and honestly, it's poking my own eating disordered history in the nose. My partner's terrified of becoming diabetic and I don't know how to support them on that.

A1c matters, but the thing is, the medical community dropped standards so “pre-diabetes” is now defined as an A1c of 5.7 or up in most settings I’ve worked in. (Hemoglobin A1c is a way to measure an estimated 3-month rolling average blood sugar based on glycosylation, which Autocorrect turned to “glucose Latinos,” which, no.) Diabetes is defined as an A1c at or above 6.5.

But like… the goal we’re told to set for diabetics is under 7.0.

So does tissue damage from high sugars start happening at 5.7? No. And I would argue that if we don’t say that medication is required until 7.0, then the DISEASE starts at 7.0.

There’s been attempts to medicate people with “prediabetes” to prevent the development of diabetes. It’s not effective. Lots of people in the “prediabetic” category never go on to develop diabetes. I just think it’s a bit of a garbage categorization scheme.

And you’re never gonna believe what I’m going to tell you about preventing diabetes… it’s eating right and exercise. Doesn’t matter whether you lose weight. Eating right and exercising will help even if you don’t lose a pound. Even if you gain weight. Stay active and eat lots of fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains, and your odds of developing complications from diabetes are quite low. Plus, if you DO get diabetes, we have highly effective medication options. Yes, insulin is still a mainstay, but the last 30 years have seen incredible advances in diabetes care.

Diabetes is neither a moral judgment nor a death sentence. Genetics has a whole lot to do with it, and it is highly manageable. Proper care of your body will help it live its longest and best life.

Eat well, move around, do things you love. Sleep right—that’s a huge component of blood sugar. Minimize stress. You do not have to hate your body to keep it in line. It’s part of your team.

#the attending dr. kristophine

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dinosaurcharcuterie · 3 days

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It still kind of blows my mind that it's 29 years ago since my grandfather, two aunts, my mom, my uncle, the pharmacist and her treating doctor had to harass state health insurance to testify that my great-aunt would benefit from an at-home blood sugar meter, even if she didn't have type 1, as opposed to going to the doctor 3-5 times a day to have it measured. The thing was the size and weight of a brick, took several drops of blood to read, and the test strips were the size of my grade schooler pinky. It was accurate...ish. Text was gray on Nintendo screen green, and about the size of Arial 10. Three people were schooled on how to use it, in case it was necessary while she was unconscious. She had to pay for it herself as a pensioner who had never worked, and the entire family chipped in to make it happen, before they got on more of a first name basis with the ambulance drivers than they already were, what with there being just-in-case pastries in the house daily to "make sure those boys ate lunch".

Today I have my own blood sugar meter that I bought for less than 10 bucks "just in case". I've lost test strips down the back of the sofs and never had to be horrified about how much money I'd just wasted. My doctor just read out my hb1c value from a pinprick of blood in less than 2 minutes. The second I need constant monitoring, I'll get CGM sensors that work with my phone, paid out by insurance.

Most millennials are older than the concept of all kinds of diabetes being able to be monitored reliably, easily and affordably at home. It feels kinda unreal.

#chronic illness #diabetes #blood sugar monitoring #technological advancements #medical advancements #like #whoa dude

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gothushi · 4 months

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sugar rush

pairing: charlie x f!reader

warnings: overstim, squirting, charlie smokes a cigarette, hurt/comfort if u squint, somno, one creampie

note: my chat with my charlie bot may be sweet and cute, but this idea is far from it:p took the opening from said bot as well! no outright reader descriptions other than ur shorter, and portrayed as a bit cutesy. reader also has chronic migraines bc i said so. also proofreading this at 3am.. sorry for any mistakes.

word count: 8.3k

———————♡

A shitty day. That’s what he’s had.

Charlie toes off his boots, rough hands pulling his coat off to hang it up, an annoyed huff leaving his lips. Moving into the kitchen, he finds you, his sweet little wife, a little apron on over your frilly outfit and a bowl of batter being mixed up before you.

He’s so tired, pissed, dried blood splattering his sweater, jeans, even his hands which he reveals by pulling his gloves off. Even his hair is a bit out of place, jaw clenched with a sigh coming through his nose.

“Hi!” Ever so happy to just see him coming home safe, you turn to glance at him. You have to do a double take, noting the blood all over him and frown, “Oh please don’t get anythin’ on the floor. I just mopped earlier.”

The oven beeps as it’s done preheating, turning back to pour the batter into a muffin tin, cupcake liners in the slots.

“Don’t be an annoyance,” his voice is rougher than he means for it to be. He knows he has no reason to have an attitude with you. Saying no apologies though, he pulls a cigarette from the pack in his hand as he empties his pockets onto the counter. Shoving it between his lips, he lights it inside and waits for your complaints. “..had a day,” he mutters.

“I don’t care how much of a day you’ve had, go over by the doors!” You complain with a sweet whine, waving a hand in the direction of the glass sliding doors across the living room that leads to the big backyard. You begin undoing your apron after setting the dirtied bowl in the sink.

“You really are a little thorn in my ass, aren’t you.” There’s no real bite to his words, following your instructions to head to the door to smoke, sliding one open as the cool night air filters in.

Leaning against the doorframe and closing his eyes, he sighs through his nose before inhaling, cigarette end fuming red before dispersing as he exhales the smoke. Once the timer is set, you shuffle over, frilly socks sliding along the wood floor. You lay a hand on his upper arm, getting on your tip toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“They’re your fav’rite. Strawberry cheesecake.” You smile a little. He can smell your perfume, a sweet scent, mixed up with the muffin batter.

This is his favorite part of the day - coming home to you. Charlie wraps an arm around your waist loosely, his thumb rubbing softly at the hem of your shirt, admiring your cuteness. He glances down, cigarette held between a couple fingers, “Do me a favor, love?”

You’d really like to fuss over the blood on his clothes, not ever wanting anywhere near the stuff when he’s all dirty in it, but decide it isn’t the time. “Mm. What?”

He chuckles at the little attempt you make to get closer, leaning up on your toes. Flicking some ashes outside, he tilts his head, his hand on your waist sliding down over the pleats of your skirt. “Be a darling and go fetch me a glass of whiskey, no ice.”

Smiling, you lean up on your toes again to steal another kiss, on the lips this time. “Okay.” One more against the corner of his lips for good measure, before you head off to the kitchen. Only a moment later do you come back, his request in hand, offering it to him. “Here y’go.”

He’d hum in approval as you kissed him, eyes raking over your body as you walk away. Thankful to have some affection after his shitty day. His hand finds your waist again, the one holding his cigarette taking the glass. He takes a generous sip, closing his eyes for a moment. He visibly relaxes, shoulders dropping some as he looks back down at you. “How was your day?”

That’s where you seem to falter for just a moment. You shrug, hands held behind your back, “Jus’ cleaned. Mopped, did the laundry, had to run a few errands. I read some too.”

He knows you too well. Charlie sees the signs, now that he’s really looking at you, the twinge of your eyebrows, the slight redness to your eyes. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head and setting the glass down on the small table against the wall by the door. Flicking his cigarette back outside, ashes falling to the deck, “Go lay down, love,” he mutters, hand sliding up to cup your cheek. No arguing.

You whine, tilting your head into his hand, “‘m okay.. I wanted to heat up your dinner for you.” You tend to fuss and push through a migraine, going and going until your nearly collapse or cry with the pain, often times doing it just because he isn’t home to stop you.

“No you aren’t, love.” He tsks again, leaning down some more, “You need to rest.” His tone is scolding, “I’ll heat it up myself. But I want you upstairs with a cold cloth over your pretty eyes, okay?”

“But.. I missed you.” You mumble, leaning a bit closer. Just the fact that you get near his bloodstained clothes is a testament to how much you’re craving his presence.

That tugs at his heartstrings, and his heart nearly melts into a puddle. His hand slides around to the small of your back, smiling, “I missed you too, doll,” he presses a kiss to the top of your head, “but it kills me more to know you’re in pain. So go lay down, yeah?”

Pouting a little, you peek up at him through your lashes. Sighing through your nose, you nod, “There’s a plate made f’you in the fridge. ‘Nd the muffins have to be taken out in fifteen minutes.” You hesitate before leaning your chin on his chest, even over the dried blood, “Come up after you’ve ate? I can run y’a bath…”

Charlie nods as he listens to your info. He can wash off the blood, get clean, snuggle up in bed with you. The last part has him chuckling, nodding, “A bath sounds lovely. Go lay down, my sweet.” He’ll give you one last squeeze before releasing you. There better be a cold washcloth on your head when he gets upstairs.

Listening with no more arguments, you grab some water from the kitchen before heading upstairs. In the bathroom you take a couple of your prescribed pain pills, swallowing them down with a gulp of water and turning the tap on in the tub. Sticking the stopper down, you hold a bottle of bubble bath under the running water and squeeze a little bit out, putting it back in its place on the shelf.

In the bedroom now, you lay down after taking your makeup off, curled up under the covers with a cold, wet washcloth over your forehead and eyes, reclined back into the pillows.

Charlie comes up fifteen minutes later, pushing the door the rest of the way open and smiling at you. There you are, laying prettily under the white comforter. He makes his way over, leaning down to press a small kiss to your lips.

A little noise escapes you, jolting, having almost dozed fully to sleep. Lifting a hand up, you peel the cloth off of one eye, looking up at him. He grins, brow raising a little, his now clean hand coming up to cradle your face. Must have washed most of the blood off in the downstairs bathroom.

“Relax, love. I’m gonna go wash up, okay?” He murmurs softly, giving your cheek a soft pat. A little smile and hum is all he receives whilst his fingers pull the cloth back over your eye.

Once he’s all clean of the grimy sweat and blood, towel wrapped round his waist, you’re fast asleep again, dozing off and on. That’s just adorable. Some water sticks to his skin, mainly dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. He can’t help but pause to admire you for just a moment, before heading to grab a clean pair of boxers. Rubbing the towel over his hair for a moment, he smooths it back and comes to crawl into bed, adjusting himself beside you and being careful not to jostle you in any way.

“Mmm.. smell good.” Well, you did pick out the bubble bath for him. You snuggle into him, keeping your face facing up so the cloth doesn’t slip off, hands hugging the arm he tosses over your front.

Charlie hums in approval, kissing your temple, lips feeling the cold edge of the fabric. His thumb rubs your hip, nosing at your hair to breathe your scent in until his lungs are full. There’s no where else he’d rather be than with you right here - away from his reality of work, no matter how much he enjoys it, in this sweet world of bliss with you.

“My sweet girl,” Charlie whispers.

“Did y’have a muffin? Did they turn out good?” You mumble softly, sounding half asleep. It’s still early for you both, but a nap won’t hurt either of you.

He chuckles, nodding against the side of your head, giving your hip a squeeze, “I had two, love. They were delicious.”

You exhale slowly, relaxing against him and smelling the body wash he used, faint shampoo smell that matches. The soft scent soothes your head, senses fuzzy.

He feels like this is the perfect scene to take advantage of, you being in a sleep, vulnerable state. He’ll have to keep you like this a little longer. His hand slides down to your thigh, giving the plump flesh a squeeze, cheeky smile pulling at his mouth.

“Mmm..” The hum escapes from your throat, shifting closer to him, legs parting naturally from his touch. His fingers slide over the smooth skin there, drawing lazy circles with his pointer. They find the hem of your skirt, reaching up under. He can’t help it, not when he’s got such a cute little thing all to himself.

Another noise, a small hum, tilting your head towards him a bit. “Charlie..” You mumble out his name just ‘cause you can, the touch feels nice. Even despite the consistent throb in your forehead, it feels good.

He loves your little noises so much. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the side of your head with a soft chuckle. His fingers wander up, moving until he finds the lacey waistband of your panties, soft as a little cloud under his touches.

Sighing through your nose, you tilt up some, “Mm.. be gentle..”

He gives a noise himself in acknowledgment to your request, head tilting to press a kiss to your temple. Gentle as ever, his fingers slip under the waistband. Pad of his middle finger finds already slick skin, his thumb rubbing over the lower half of your navel.

Gasping as he feels over your entrance, already aroused, your thighs part some more. The cotton fabric stretches over his knuckles, bruised, soft on his skin, “Mmmm..”

Another approving hum from him. His lips find your cheek as his fingers spread you, middle on swiping through slick to bring it up to your clit, moving in slow circles. He groans himself, kissing at the shell of your ear as he brings his other arm to fold under your head, a makeshift pillow.

“You’re doin’ good,” he whispers, “you’re so good.”

You whine again at the praise, tensing a little, pushing your head back into his arm and your hips up into his touch. Your own hands wander, trying to paw at him, his arm, wherever you can grab. “Charlie..”

He can’t help but love the way his name sounds out of those sweet lips. His head tilts, kissing the side of your face. Your fingers grab at his arm, his bicep. “Mmm,” he groans as you roll your hips down. Now two fingers, they swipe up more wetness, easing the way on your clit in tiny circular motions, “There we go. Just like that, sweetheart.”

Your head turns, wanting a kiss, mouthing at his cheek when you find it blindly. Painted nails dig into his bicep, just holding on, thighs spreading and helping your hips move as he plays with your pussy. More slick drools from you, soaking the fabric of your panties. Even the cloth over your eyes helps to make it feel more intense, as if you were blindfolded.

Charlies tongue darts out to lick his lips, dark eyes watching you yearn for a kiss but he won’t give it to you, keeping himself out of reach with a taunting smile on his lips. He wants to savor this moment like fine wine. “No no, love. Stay still,” he scolds you softly. His fingers slide down, more slick, back up to your swelling clit with quicker movements.

“Charlie-” Your breathing hitches, brows furrowing up in pleasure, knees bending a bit. There we go. He slides his fingers down, middle one rubbing a circle around your entrance, groaning at how wet you are, how hot.

“There we go, sweetheart. That feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Ah-.. yeah- yeah..” You’re gasping, lips parting. “Thank you,” you whine, still trying to lean up for a kiss, one hand pushing at the covers over you both.

He laughs again, loving to tease you as he tilts his head back out of reach again. That finger will press firmly against your entrance, then slide in slowly, stretching you out a little, “You’re gonna keep being good for me, aren’t you?”

Your jaw drops at the touch in a silent gasp, tensing up a little, accepting the breach. “Charlie!” You whimper, nodding even though you can’t see him, “Yes! Yes.”

He buries his face against your shoulder, watching what he can see of your pretty features, kissing at the exposed skin of your collarbone. His breath is hot and heavy, leaning up by your ear, pressing in to the knuckle. “There you go, feels sooo good..”

He goes slow to ease you into the sensation as you squirm, wiggling down onto that single finger. Your own fingers tighten on his bicep, lightly scratching. It feels so good, you’re so sensitive, pent up, easily pleasured.

He can’t resist another laugh at your writhing, shushing you, “Shh, just relax. Let me take care of you.”

That finger keeps pressing in and out, in and out, curling up on the in rhythmically until he slowly presses a second one along the first, slick covering his fingers and smearing against your panties. He curls them again, going deeper and deeper to find that sweet little spot.

The stretch has you whimpering, and he knows he’s found that spot when you jolt and cry out, trying to lean against him, “There-”

“There?”

He abuses the spot automatically, lips kissing at the underside of your jaw, giving a light suck.

You sound like you’re actually crying, panting softly as whimpers spill from your mouth with every rushed exhale. “Charlie-.. Charlie.” You can feel the embarrassing mess in your underwear, can hear the slick noises of his fingers fucking into you, face flushing. Your nails dig into his arm, leaving crescents at one hand drops down to grab at his wrist.

His teeth scrape over your skin. He knows you so well, knows what your sounds mean and can tell how close you are. “Mmm, that’s my girl. My good girl.”

He groans at the thought of seeing the mess all over your pussy, panties stained with slick and cum. His mouth sucks at another spot, sighing through his nose.

The heel of his palm keeps bumping against your clit, oh so sensitive, making your hips buck into the feeling. Huffing out a whiny moan, tossing your head to the side, the cold washcloth starts to slip off your head. Arching up, your legs squirm, “Charlie-! Feels- oh-”

You’re just adorable when you moan like that, writhing under his touches. He gives another groan. He wants to hear more, he’s addicted to your little whimpers and whines. “You gonna cum?”

His fingers pick up the pace a little, in and out, curling, massaging that spot whilst grinding the heel of his palm over your sticky clit. Your thighs clench together before spreading again, eyes rolling into the back of your skull with a soft cry, “Yeah- mhmm!”

“Shh,” he soothes softly, using the pressure of his forearm to try and ease you flat to the bed, halting your writhing. His head rests against your shoulder, watching, feeling. He’s never going to stop being addicted. Addicted to your body, your moans, your soft skin, your sweet pussy.

“Almost there, aren’t you?”

A few more bumps with his palm against your clit and you’re crying, real tears dripping down your temples into your hairline. Tilting your face towards him, gasping, nodding with a whiny noise. “Ye-ah! Yeah, g’na.. Charlie..” You’re pawing at his arm with both hands, leaving little red marks from your nails, watery eyes looking into his.

He’s so, so close to seeing you fall apart. The way your body responds to everything he does drives him mad, your back arching, head tilting. He loves the way your moans get higher and whinier, sweet noises until you’re sobbing.

“That’s my sweet girl,” he groans, grinning, nodding his head as he presses his palm down onto your clit more, fingers massaging that sweet spot in you. “You’re allowed to let go.”

You’re right there, so close, muscles tensing as the coil wounds up tighter and tiger, “Charlie- Charlie.. ‘m.. mmm! Can- please can I-“ You can’t even properly string words together, pleading.

Oh, he knows just what to do. He kisses the side of your mouth, giving you permission. “Cum for me, love,” he whispers hotly, almost gasping himself, “can’t you feel how close you are to the edge? You’re right there. Let go and I’ll catch you.”

You crumble into tears, crying out as a powerful orgasm crashes over you. Clenching tightly on his two fingers, being fucked through it slowly, he coos. Your legs writhe around, little moans escaping you as you pant. Your heart hammers in your chest, whimpering out little babbles that sound like his name. He just lives for the sound of your moans, continuing his movements albeit a bit slower, fingers soaked in your cum. He’s grinning against your ear, eager to hear more cries and sniffles from you.

Your hands are quickly grabbing at his wrist, hiking up your skirt further and you whimper and whine, “Charlie! Charlie, Charlie-” Your hips wriggle around and the pleasure turns into oversensitivity, aftershocks rolling through you like thunder.

Overstimulation gives him such a high, knowing it’s coming from the pleasure he’s inflicting. He gives a deep, pleased hum as you give another sweet cry, still rubbing against your swollen clit, wanting to hear his name again, “There we go.. ride it out.”

Charlie is relentless at you gasp and cry, nails scratching, leaving red marks in their wake. Whimpering again, you twist on your side towards him a little, legs like jelly. “Sto-ah! Stop, no more, sens-sensitive!”

He feels you struggle against his hand, humming lowly, “Mm mm..” His hand finally slows down more, fingers slipping from your hole and swiping up some cum. He presses a kiss to the side of your head, “So sweet and good for me. So good. Such a good girl.”

Panting hard, your thighs squeeze together, fabric of your panties sticky as you try to shield yourself from any more stimulation, whining. Charlie moans as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking your cum right off the digits. Hugging his bicep, you whimper, “Mm… hnng-..”

He groans at the taste of you, cleaning his fingers, “Sweetheart.. you taste amazing,” he mutters, giving you a little nuzzle against the side of your head, kissing your hair.

Whimpering softly again, your eyes flutter closed for a moment as you just breathe. Honestly.. your migraine feels better than it did before. You bring a hand up to wipe your tears, sniffling. He tugs you closer to his chest, a hand gently brushing hair from your eyes with the tenderest of touches, leaning down and kissing the salty tears away.

“Hey..” he murmurs, cooing, nuzzling down into the crook of your neck to press kisses to your skin, “You okay?”

“Mmm.. mhmm..” You nod, breathless, peeking down at him with lidded eyes, flushed, “Head.. feels better.” It comes out giggled, softly.

That’s what he was hoping to hear, elated. Always happy to hear his trick has done its job, he tilts up to kiss the tip of your nose, “See? That’s all y’needed, hmm?”

“Mhmm..” You’re giggling again, “‘m all sticky..” Your tone is complaining now, whiny.

Ah. Yeah. He should probably take care of that. He chuckles quietly, groaning as you nuzzle into his bare chest, “Poor girl.. let me clean you up. Can you lift your hips for me, love?”

“Mhmm.. yeah.” You’re all satisfied, sleepy, easily complying to his words.

Charlie nods, getting up on his knees and tugging your panties off your body. Tossed aside, his dark eyes greedily scan the mess of your pussy, shiny with cum and slick. There’s something so pleasing about seeing the mess left of you.

“So pretty like this, love.” He mutters, leaning down to suckle at a spot in your inner thigh.

“Charlie..” You’re whining again, a hand tangling into his damp hair. A thin layer of sweat coats your back and chest.

The way you whine in that sweet, sweet tone, hand in his hair, has him shuddering. His head dips lower, tongue sticking out and sliding over the mess he made of you, licking along the length of your pussy. He groans, eyes fluttering as his tongue flattens over your clit.

“Ah! Charlie!” You squeal, tightening the hold on his hair as your legs jerk and writhe around.

He groans again at the sound, the noise vibrating against you and making the overstimulation worse. His eyes fall shut as he continues, continuing to lick over your pussy, greedily taking in the mess of cum. His hands wrap under your thighs, holding onto the outsides of them to keep you still, as still as he can have you with how much you wriggle about.

You’re still fighting it though, whining. Your back arches and you’re sniffling, “Charlie- I can’t- can’t, feels so good!” The words are babbled, gasped.

That sweet voice. You just sound so cute with that breathy tone, your body squirming and writhing, twisting in the sheets. His tongue keeps flicking, teasing, tasting.

He knows he’s doing a good job with how you protest, knows he’s doing his job right. His hot tongue swipes over your clit, lips encapsulating as he suckles. You’re squealing out another cry, a heaved sob escaping you. You try to curl in on yourself, shaking, thighs pressing against his hold, trying to draw your knees up. “Charlie! I ca- mmm! I can’t, ‘m too sensitive- sensitive!”

He keeps his pace, fingertips digging into your plush skin, tongue swirling around your clit and flattening again, head bobbing up and down. The taste is just addictive. He finally pulls away for a moment, giving a breath of cool air against the swollen bud.

“Just a little more, love. You can do it, I know you can,” he dives back in, humming.

“Charlie,” You outright sob as his mouth meets your pussy again, slobbering all over and then licking the mess back up, sniffling and whining. Your hand leaves his hair, grabbing at the sheets beside you, sweat beading on your back as your eyes roll into your skull.

You sound so beautiful like this, he can’t get enough. So sweet, so soft and sensitive, all for him.

Your body twists onto your side, head burying into your pillow as you cry again. He manhandles your one leg up over his shoulder, hand finding your ass to keep you up. So good, so perfect. “Please,” he groans a little, mumbled against your clit between panting breaths, “love, c’mon..”

You actually hook one of your hands on the back of your thigh, as if trying to help keep yourself up to be tortured by his tongue. “Charlie! Fff- fingers, please!”

There we go. He pulls back enough to speak clearly, his other hand on your thigh reaching over to swipe his fingers over your clit, thumb rubbing down over your clenching hole, empty, desperate, “What do you need, honey?”

Twitching, you bring your face from the pillow and sniffle. “Fingers.. Please.. ‘nd your tongue again..” Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, skirt hiking up over your tummy, shirt twisted a bit from all your squirming.

You’re just so perfect, aren’t you? Crying out, babbling, begging for his touch. Such a pretty mess he’s left you. He grins, lips shiny with spit and cum. “Anything for my sweet girl,” he whispers, giving a chaste kiss to your clit, “how many fingers do you want?”

Whimpering, almost delirious. You never could handle multiple climaxes, especially not after so soon. “Mm.. mmmph.. two.. Please Charlie..”

Two? He couldn’t possibly say no to you. He gives another growly moan, head tilting to nip at your thigh as his hand slides from around your thigh, fingers already slick again as he rubs over your entrance. You’re throbbing, feeling your clit actually twitch with the stimulation, pussy clenching around nothing.

“You want my tongue again too?”

“Hnnng- both. Please.” You’re nodding eagerly, not even sure you can really handle it but you want it. Eyes lidded, unfocused, chest heaving with panting breaths.

“Pretty girl..” His fingers slide in, both at the same time, stretching you back out. You breathe deeply, gasping stuttered inhales, sniffling and whining. You want this so bad.. just one more.

“Mmmmph!”

Those fingers curl, finding that abused spot again, “So good.. perfect little girl..” His tongue darts out, giving little laps between his words before suckling on your clit again. “You’re doing so good, honey, that’s my good girl.”

You’re all sweaty, whining high in your throat like a wounded puppy, trembling all over. “Please- hard- harder, faster.. wan’ it.” You beg. You want to be overwhelmed, to be forced to take it.

That whine. He could listen to it on loop for hours. His tongue pulls away, leaving just his fingers fucking into you, pumping in and out harder, a bit quicker. “Is this what you want, doll?”

You’re squealing another cry, shaking all over as you muffle your noises into the pillow, hips grinding down into the touch, “Yes! Oh my God yes.”

He’s never seen anything better than this. Groaning praise against your clit, he goes back to licking and sucking, making out with your pussy as he curls his fingers up. He could keep you like this all day if your pretty body wasn’t so sensitive, make you cum over and over and over.

Not even fifteen seconds pass by before you’re whimpering again, gasping, muscles tensing up, babbling, “Charlie- wait I- nngh! Feels- funny.” Oh good God, he can’t stop now.

You’re right on the edge, coil tightening further, and his fingers are relentless as they fuck into you faster, abusing that little spot.

“You’re nearly there, c’mon, give me it. Just take it honey.”

“No- I feel-!” You’re whining, choppy and panicked. His lips press harder, sucking on your clit like a damn lollipop, noises vibrating against you, making you gasp with a loud sobbing noise. Another orgasm rattles through you, ripping you apart as your release squirts out of you. Heaving a cried sob, your feet kick and your thighs squeeze his head.

He pulls his mouth away, eyes shining with lust as he actually laughs, watching as you gush around his fingers, clamping down like a vice on him, “Oh- oh,” this is new.

It’s a gorgeous sight, watching you lose control of your body. He crawls up over you before you even notice, fingers suck clean as his non wet hand to smooth your hair from your face, easing you onto your back again. You’re flushed with heat, whimpering, pawing at him for comfort from the intense orgasm. That was the first time you’ve squirted, ever.

You’re just so damn cute, all needy, pining for him, “Look at you, doll..” he whispers, kissing your forehead, “So good for me..” He tilts his head down, nose nudging into yours affectionately, “You’ve never done that for me before, huh?”

“Done.. wha’?” You mumble, panting, thighs feeling like lead as your lidded eyes look up at him.

He cups your jaw, smiling, pressing another kiss to your forehead, “Tchh.. don’t worry your pretty little head about it, sweetheart. Just rest, I bet you’re tired.”

It’s adorable, really, how breathless you are, dazed, cum drunk. He takes a moment to go to the bathroom and wash his hands, grabbing a towel and wetting it.

He’s got quite the mess to clean up. He strips your skirt and shirt off, discarding all dirty clothes into the hamper before wiping away the mess you’ve made, all over his chest and your own thighs, cum drooling from your hole. He slips from fresh panties up your legs, one of his own t-shirts on you as he lifts you up and puts you on the other side of the bed. The sheets can wait until morning.

You feel him behind you, cuddling you as you’re curled on your side. His lips plant a soft kiss to your shoulder, humming in content as he relaxes.

But he’s so fucking hard though. His cock has been leaking in his boxers since your tears begun, surprised he didn’t cum on the spot when you squirted. Your hand reaches back, pawing, palming over the obvious bulge.

Charlie’s breath catches, chuckling softly. He knows you’re tired, catching your wrist with his pulling it up to his lips to kiss against your knuckles, “C’mon now, sweetheart. You’re worn out.. don’t worry about me.”

You twist a little, peeking at him, eyes sleepy. “Mmm.. wan’ y’to feel good too..” You slide your hand right back down over him, giving his cock a squeeze over the fabric of his boxers.

Another huffed laugh, shaking his head even as his eyes flutter. “You always want to make me feel good, just get some rest, huh doll?”

“Please.. even if y’do it yourself..” You use the puppy eyes on him, eyes shiny.

God he can’t resist you. “You sure, love?” His hand slides over your forearm, thumb rubbing.

You’re pushing your ass back, twisting back to lay halfway on your front with a knee drawing up, “Mhmmm.. yes please.”

You giggle all drowsy and he can’t say no at all. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

His hips rolling forward, even through the fabric of your underwear he feels so good, grinding against your ass with a sigh. His hand leaves your arm as you turn back, finding the side of your thigh, pulling you back against him firmly. You’re humming out softly, content, leaning further back. You know just how to drive him crazy. He’s huffing, small noises as his brows furrow, wishing he could just take his cock out and slide inside you, but he won’t torture you anymore with pleasure.

“Please.. wan’ you to.. take what y’need..” You’re pleading so sweet, so considerate. You’re always so caring towards him in every way, how could he deny any request you have?

He groans into your hair, eyes closed, panting. “You’re too good to me, doll…” He presses his cock against you harder, as if some horny teenager humping his pillow, leg hooking over your stretched out one.

Your back is arching, aiding the process as he ruts against you. “Mmm.. love you..”

That tired whine, it’s too much. So endearing, so sweet, he can’t help but be so close to cumming already. He nuzzles into your hair, moaning low in his throat. It’s so unbelievably hot, the fact that you’re just about asleep as he grinds against your plump ass, hand grabbing at you. It feels so sinful, he sighs into your hair with a whiny tone, fingertips digging into your skin.

His cock throbs as he moves, stomach tensing, and then he hears you plead, “Please.. cum.”

He gives another groan, biting down at your shoulder as his hips jerk down harder, an orgasm flowing over him as he makes a mess in his boxers, huffing panting breaths. Even after cumming and squirting, a dull throb of arousal floods your senses with the noises he makes.

He comes down easily, satisfied, kissing at the side of your neck as a thank you, “You’re perfect, love.” His hand roams over your bare thigh, massaging lightly. A breathless giggle leaves you, so sleepy, ready for a nap. You don’t even notice he leaves the bed to change, grumbling about the mess before climbing back in behind you, because you’re already asleep.

—

Hours later, the clock reads 12:14AM as you stir awake. Charlie’s arm is draped over you, cuddled into your back. He mumbles something quiet with your movement as you peek back at him, sleepy, bedtime now ruined from the nap you both took.

You turn around in his arms, facing him, admiring his handsome features. The scar on his forehead is prominent, from some accident whilst working that he didn’t detail on. His hair is swept back, soft, clean. Your hand nudges a little, leaning him onto his back, checking that he’s still asleep.

He is, laid back in the dim light of the streetlight outside the window. Still out cold, he breathes in deep. You sit up on your knees and then stretch your arms above your head, hearing something crack in your upper back with a sigh. There’s a soreness in your legs, a reminder of what happened earlier. Tucking hair behind your ears, you lean down and kiss at his stomach lightly, one hand finding his hip.

Charlie gives a sleepy grumble, though he stays dozed off. Even just having a reaction from him this way makes heat curl into your gut. You kiss down lower, finding the waistband of his boxers. You fear it might wake him up if you tug them off his legs, so your hand finds the opening in them and tug his cock out, kissing open mouthed at his navel.

His cock twitches, breath stuttering slightly as your fingers curl around his shaft, massaging lightly to get him hard. It doesn’t take much, his body responds so well just as yours does to his. You let spit drip from your mouth, slicking his cock up as your hands squeezes and moves up and down, slow. Your lips find his bare thigh, kissing and suckling to leave a mark. You want to take your time, careful to try and not wake him up right away.

His cock throbs against your hand, hardening rapidly with the slow touches. It’s obvious he’s starting to get worked up, shifting against the sheets a little, head turning to one side. You move up now, tongue lolling out to lick at the underside of his cock before sinking your mouth down, suckling at him.

Now he’s definitely squirming, hips shifting as he sighs in his sleep, “Hnnng..” he moans, eyes fluttering as his arm moves up by his head. Sucking slow, up and down halfway, you whine a little yourself just at the feeling. You force yourself down as far as you can go without gagging, tongue flat on his underside. Spit drools down to his balls, aiding the way as you suck him off.

He groans, rousing from sleep, tilting his head back against the pillows. His hand comes up to your head, no pressure, just tangling through your hair lightly, petting you.

You hum at the touch, the sound vibrating down his cock, senses fuzzy. You suckle at the head, making a mess of spit as you sink back down again, managing about halfway. You’re flushed with heat, knelt between his legs, back arched and ass high in the air.

“Swe-.. sweetheart.” He groans out, clutching harder at your hair. “Doll… mm- ah-” His voice cuts off as you sink down further, arching up into the touch as his thighs part a little. There’s a soft whine in his throat, barely coherent. “So good..”

Even though you should be absolutely exhausted from the orgasms he pulled from you hours prior, the noises he makes sends arousal shooting up your spine. Sucking harder, you relax your jaw with a whine, eyes fluttering. He’s groaning again, breath coming faster as you work over his cock, all messy and eager.

“Hey..” he rasps, gasping, “Slow down, love.. feels good..”

Obedient, you listen to what he says, slowing down your pace and relaxing some. Hair falls in your face, one hand tucking it back behind your ear, whining softly, noise muffled. You pant through your nose as you push down.. down… down.

The pace is torturously slow, but just the act of you listening to him has him shuddering. His hand tightens in your hair, gasping as he tilts his head down some to look at you. He gives a light tug on your hair, “Hnng- look at me,”

Obeying again, eyes watery from the intrusion near your throat, you peek up at him through your lashes. You gag with a little whimper, drool dripping from your mouth, hands clenching on his hips.

Seeing those pretty eyes looking up at him, it’s enough to force a moan out of him again. You whine again as you force yourself to endure the intrusion, He whines softly, brows furrowing up as color blooms over his cheekbones, breath hitching, “Look at- mm, y’don’t need to push.. that far love.”

You’re ignoring him though, determined, eyes fluttering as you go lower, slowly. Spit dribbles down his cock, wetting the fabric of his boxers. Another nudge as your nose is pressed into the fabric of his underwear, exhaling with a muffled, sighed whine, looking up at him again.

“Ah-” He gasps, body arching as he shifts against the bed. “Sweetheart..” His tone is thick with sleep, heavy with lust, “Please, need you up here.”

Whining, your expression turns as if you were the one being pleasured. You don’t want to stop though, you wanna keep going, make him feel good, protesting softly as your hands flatten on his hips, suckling again as you gag.

He groans again, eyes rolling back as he huffs, “God.. doll.. I need you.” He grabs your hair tighter, giving a slight tug, “Up.”

A whimper escapes you, roots being pulled at and being forced off his cock. You’re so desperate though, tongue laving over his length before you’re pulled away, a thin line of drool hung from your tongue. Hair being held like a cat grabbed by their scruff, lips parted to pant hoarsely.

He sits up with a slight groan, tugging you up as you crawl over his body. His lips crash against yours in a searing kiss, fingers tight in your hair as his tongue licks over yours. Whining a moan, the kiss deep and desperate, heated as you even struggle to kiss back properly, all messy with drool, throat hoarse.

The sound you make against his mouth has a shudder running up his spine, moaning himself as he other hand finds your thigh, tugging you up onto his lap. His hand urges you down, grinding against his exposed cock. Your own arousal surprises you, not realizing sucking him off turned you on that much even though it happens just about everytime. That same hand slips between your thighs, hooking into the front of your panties and tugging them to the side, bare pussy grinding on his cock.

You whine another noise, whimpering, “Charlie-!”

The sound of his name on your lips is damn near obscene. “Yes-.. yes,” he whines against you, hand trembling almost as he grabs the base of his cock, grinding up and pressing in finally.

So full, his cock reaches deep, stretches you out with the slightest burn. Whimpering his name again, you nearly fall forward. Another whine comes out of him, hand slipping from your hair to the base of your neck, teeth grazing your jaw.

Both hands now find themselves moving up under your-his shirt, grabbing at your tits as he lays back in bed again, grunting with the effort, “That’s it.. take it.”

You can feel the heat on your face, traveling over your ears and down your neck, hands on his chest for stability as he gropes at your body. Trying to lift up onto your knees proves too much for your sore thighs, dropping back down and opting for grinding back and forth with a whimpered noise. “Nnmgh! Ff-”

Charlie’s own breathing hitches, thumb flicking over one of your hardening nipples as he grins, “Mhmm.. there y’go, take it.”

The gentle praise has you whining, panting, rolling your hips down even if it hurts your overworked legs. His name falls from your lips again, his own breathing labored, “So pretty.. my sweet girl..”

“‘m .. sensitive.. please,” You don’t even know what you’re pleading for, hands flat on his chest, trying to roll forward.

“Shh..” His hands slip down to your thighs, rubbing over them and squeezing the flesh there, “S’okay, let me help.” His fingers dig in, rolling you forward with his own strength.

He’s forcing you to fuck down on him, your eyes falling shut as he jerks his hips up, “Charlie-!” Your knees dig into the bed, stomach tensing up.

“Easy..” He soothes, his own breath shaky. “Don’t push so hard, you’ll wear yourself out doll.”

He moves his hips up and knocks into just the right spot, making you whimper as your arms shake. Knees spreading a bit more, pressing into the bed, “‘m sore.. please help..”

The one little whiny moan of yours has a groan escaping him, breath hitching as he swallows. “You want something, sweetheart? Tell me.”

He rocks up again, knees bending, fingers pressing into your hips with a breathless laugh, “Yeah.. like that.”

“Mhm!” You’re nodding, muscles tensing as you keep yourself up on your knees so he can fuck up into you. A pathetic noise falls from your lips.

“Mine. My pretty girl..” he whispers, panting. He pushes up the hem of the shirt you wear, tossing the fabric aside. You drop to your elbows on either side of his head, whining in his face, gasping for air as his hips move.

“Mm- love when you make those sweet little noises..” His hands pull you up a little, tongue laving over one of your nipples, suckling. You can feel him twitch inside you, grinding up slow.

Whining again, oh so whiny, your hand cards through his hair and holds on tightly, “Mm! Fast-.. faster. Please Charlie.” You plead so nicely for him, skin heated.

He growls out a moan again, “Yes ma’am..” he mutters, before starting to move in earnest now, fucking up into you hard. It pulls a wounded cry from your throat, gasping for air as his lips move up to your neck. You’re getting the life fucked out of you, barely able to keep your eyes open as they roll back, watering, little uh uh uh’s being fucked out of you.

“Fuu-.. ah..” It’s his turn to whine now, breathing labored as he thrusts up into you. His mouth latches under your jaw, sucking a mark into the pretty skin, moaning, “Mmmph.. doll.”

He’s literally using you like a damn toy, gutteral groans of your name as he holds your hips still, fucking into you. The pace becomes messy and quick instantly, lips wandering to your shoulder.

“Charlie!” You cry again, gasping, desperate for air in your lungs. “I’m- ‘m g’na.. oh my God!” Your back arches further, twitching, right on the edge.

“I know.. I know,” he practically whines, panting as he moves. He can hear the slick noise of your pussy sucking him in, drooling down his cock and balls, making a mess of his boxers. “That’s my girl-.. come on..”

A loud cry is muffled against his neck, writhing around, hands grabbing at the pillow under his head, almost smacking against them. Eyes rolling back, you’re overwhelmed with pleasure as you orgasm, jolting ontop of him with your toes curling. “Oh- Charlie! Oh my- oh my Goood-”

He gives his own groan, just the sound of your whines, the feeling of you clamping down on his cock has him ready to cum, fucking up fast. “There you go.. c’mon..” His hands find the small of your back, wrapping around you, holding you close, “Ah-.. where do you-.. love?” He asks, desperate.

You don’t even think, “In.” you sob, “please, Charlie, wan’ it.” Oversensitivity settles in fast, shaking uncontrollably ontop of him, feeling like you’re being shocked with a fucking taser.

That does it for him. He swears he sees stars as he cums, grinding up hard and slow as it spurts inside you, growling a moan. You can feel him throbbing, trembling, held flush to his body. Whimpering, a less powerful orgasm crashes over you, legs shaking as your feet kick down onto the bed, “Charlie!”

A breathless groan leaves his lips, panting, “Fuu-ck.. you feel-” he can’t even finish his words, gasping.

He works you both through your orgasms, you swear you might black out for a moment, whimpering pathetically ontop of him. He gives a little hiss as your hips jolt up off of him, cum drooling out of your hole. “Shh shh.. easy,” his hands rub over your sides, up your back.

Flopping onto his front fully, legs stretching out along his, you whine. Four fucking orgasms within.. how many hours? Honestly a miracle. “Mmm… mmm.”

“Just lay still..” he murmurs, breathless as he strokes over your clammy skin. He turns his head and presses a kiss to your temple, another on your forehead. “Jesus.. think four’s your limit for the night, sweetheart.”

“Mmmmph..” Your lips part to pant, eyes closed, limp onto of his body besides your involuntarily shaking, “New record..” You giggle. Usually you can handle two with.. several hours of recovery between.

He gives a huff of a low laugh, chest heaving. “Yeah.. new record alright.” He sighs out a content noise, humming, “God.. what time is it, love?”

Tilting your head to look at the clock on the wall above your little bookshelf, you hum, “12:30.. guess we shouldn’t have napped.”

“God,” he chuckles, “guess not.” His hands wander down, rubbing over your ass, “You wanna get cleaned up, love?”

“I don’t think I can move.” You mumble, fatigued, worn the fuck out after all that. You legs feel like wet noodles, heart just now beginning to calm down to a normal place.

“Yeah.. thought as much.” He chuckles again, kissing your head once more, “Stay put.” He eases you off of him, getting up from the bed as he tugs his boxers off, using the fabric to roll it up and wipe himself off. “Want anything from the kitchen?”

“Mmmm..” you roll onto your back, stretching out, back arching as you press your knees together. “Water.. couple muffins.” You grin, hands wiping at the drying tears on your face.

Whilst he’s gone, you somehow manage to wobble to the bathroom, cleaning up and using the restroom before crawling right back into bed on the clean side.

He returns a few moments later, carrying a big glass of ice water, three strawberry cheesecake muffins on a little plate, clean t-shirt over his arm and fresh boxers on his body. Must have stopped in the laundry room. ”Sit up.”

Obeying, you sit up against the pillows, reaching out as he gives you the glass. Gulping down a third of it, you set it aside as he slips the shirt over your body, soft and clean. He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching out and cradling your cheek, “There you go.”

You lean into his touch, grinning lazily, skin flush with a pretty glow, “Hi..”

“Hi..” He repeats back, chuckling with a smile. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, to your nose, then lips, “How’re y’feeling?”

Accepting the affection and kisses, smiling like a happy puppy. “Mm.. ‘m okay.. I love you.”

He grins back, after a few more kisses he pulls back, “I love you, doll.”

Muffin in hand now, you narrow his eyes as he smirks mischievously, “What?”

“Oh, nothin’..” He shakes his head, shrugging as he takes the glass of water and takes some drinks of it. “Just thought a hot bath could be nice..”

That does sound so good, some fresh bedding and a hot bubble bath, maybe a movie after. But you hear the tone in his voice and whine around the bite in your mouth, “Charlie I cannot go again, I think I’ll faint.”

He barks a chuckle at that, reaching an arm around you, “Oh love, I know. I swear, we’d just soak.”

“Mmm.. movie after?”

“Mhm. We’ve got the whole weekend to relax too,” that makes you perk up, peeking up at him.

“Y’don’t have to work?” You mumble hopefully, tilting your head.

“No,” Charlie smiles, shaking his head, “Off call the rest of the weekend. Don’t suppose ya have any ideas for how we could spend that time, do you?” He raises a brow playfully, rubbing your bare thigh.

Swallowing the muffin bite in your mouth, savoring the sweet flavor, you seem to think. A silly little smile forms on your lips, giggling.

“We could try and break your record next.”

———————♡

#charlie the stomach #charlie the stomach x reader

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