#COFFIN REVEAL CHAPTER

[oldshrewsburyian]

Ah, midsummer: when we’re getting deeper and deeper into the “ohhh, this is a classic horror novel” stage of Dracula Daily. With my historian hat on, I have just one observation to make about our June 25 entry.

The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one corner—gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground. 

Huh, you may be saying to yourselves, that seems like a random assortment of coins. Why Roman and then British and then all the others? Why these coinages, specifically?

Empires. They’re all empires. The British Empire saw itself very specifically as the successor to Rome in the scope of its power and learning (but also with the culture of Greece, because they were, they were convinced, cool like that.) So we have Rome, master of the ancient world as imagined by Victorians. We have Britain, master of the modern world ditto, and it must be said they had a point. Austria and Hungary were, at the time of Jonathan’s writing, a single empire, and had been since 1867, but this was a temporary state of affairs linking two powerful monarchies of East-Central Europe. Greece we’ve covered. And then there is “Turkish money,” the currency of the Ottoman Empire, masters of enormous swathes of Central Asia and Southeastern Europe from the 15th century onward.

And all of this money? All of this power? The “chains and ornaments,” still more obvious signifiers of power? All of this is much more relevant to how the Count lives than furniture. And it tells us not only about his past, but, by implication, about his future ambitions. Dun dun dunnnnnn.

#dracula daily #dracula #COFFIN REVEAL CHAPTER #i had forgotten how deeply creepy all of this is #and how clearly dracula wants to -- uh -- establish a vampire empire #apparently #bram stoker

[jangmi-latte]

*waiting for a thesis on how vil it would be if he fell in love* "૮₍ •⤙•˶

OMW TO MAKE IT FOR YOU BBG 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️💨💨💨💨

#customer service #i'm gonna abuse all the canon information vil revealed about himself you can call me rook hunt himself #GAZAMN THE KISS IN CHAPTER 6 IS STILL DOING NUMBERS TO ME I CAN FUNERAL PARLOR MYSELF INTO THE COFFIN

[daz4i]

it doesn’t make sense for bram to appear in the anime this season besties i’m p sure he’s in the new op so sharp eyed anime onlys will see the “there are 5 doa members” and connect the dots

#like unless they for some reason decide to cram 30+ chapters into 10 episodes lol #which. given that the perfect crime arc gets 2 episodes for itself alone. makes even less sense #the season will probably end when the sky casino gets destroyed #it makes sense for them to tease with him rather than hint at kamui bc that's a way bigger reveal lol #but if they keep the doa at only 3 known members it'll leave ppl unsatisfied i think #so. give them something to expect. who is this mysterious weird looking individual in the op? #what's that coffin between sigma and nikolai? oh that must be another member #but wait aren't they 5? who could the fifth one be? is it someone we already met? #it raises the tension more. might get more people to check the manga even. it's good #doesn't mean bram will be in this season tho. but it'd be cool if more hints are littered throughout it maybe 👀

[cacoetheswriting]

honesty: the music video

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x popstar!fem!reader word count: 2.3k summary: after a long day on set, you can't wait to get it on with your costar.

content warnings: 18+, minors dni: mature themes, literally smut with a minor plot, established relationship, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, praise kink, dom-ish eddie, adult language, heavy use of pet names, mentions of aftercare — if i missed anything in this chapter, pls let me know!

celebrity skin. masterlist <- part of this lil' universe, but can totally be read as a stand-alone. timeline wise, this takes place somewhere after part 3 and before end part 5.

“We want it to be sexy.”

“But not too sexy.”

“Revealing.”

“But not too revealing.”

“Sounds like you guys don’t know what you want,” Eddie chimes in, interrupting the back and forth of your respective teams.

You stifle a giggle.

“That’s ‘cause of the two distinct styles,” someone from your team clarifies, “We wanna be respectful.”

“For sure,” one of the creatives on the Corroded Coffin side agrees. There’s a short pause. “We will have you two kiss at the end, though.”

At that, Eddie smirks. He looks at you from across the table and you could just about melt right there, blood rushing to your face, warming your cheeks.

“That won’t be a problem,” he says confidently and winks.

-

Honesty was a guaranteed hit. Top of the charts. Everybody that’s been so far involved in the project said it. They praised it. From the bass, drums, to the guitar and vocals. The production value was off the scale. A dream arrangement that would stand the test of time.

All the song needed was a music video equally as captivating.

A back and forth discourse began shortly after you first started recording with the band: whose style should the clip resemble more?

Corroded Coffin screamed all things dark, maybe a little gory. Their usual expression featured slightly melancholy undertones and a lot of references to all things Dungeons & Dragons. Imaginative, for sure. An artistry that had rarely been seen in the genre. 

Although it’s been an artistry vastly different from yours. 

The glitter hadn’t necessarily been your idea, but it certainly became a signature of sorts. Anything sparkly, always. And music videos that told a story. Most often one of love since that’s what you idolised ever since you were a kid — it obviously helped that love also sold millions of copies.

Eddie’s team argued that it’s the band’s song and you’re just a feature, therefore the accompanying video should lean into their style. Your management team was hesitant to agree. Calculating risk in case the lines get blurred a little too much and your pristine image shifts to the opposite end of the spectrum. Hours of arguments. Hours of negotiations. None of which you, or the rockstar were even mildly aware of. Too lost in each other's eyes and soft cotton sheets. 

Eventually, a compromise, of sorts, was found.

Ernest Hemingway’s The Killers influenced, in part, a 1946 film noir of the same title, with Ava Gardner and Burt Lancaster taking the lead. The movie, in turn, inspired the black and white music video.

Done up in flair of the characters, Kitty Collins and Ole Anderson (aka Swede), you recreated iconic scenes alongside the brown-eyed rockstar. The rest of the band was also dressed to the nines. Side characters that played their instruments in the background of main shots. They blended in well, while adding a unique spin to the known story. 

Overall, the Honesty shoot quickly became a big spectacle. Bigger than anything Eddie Munson and his band of closest friends has ever been lucky enough to be a part of.

Intricate sets. Glamourous. In front of cameras and bright lights, you and your scene partner, Eddie, mouthed along the lyrics to the song as if they were a script. And with every scene, as if the two of you were the only people actually there, no equipment and no crew, you got lost a tiny bit. Lost in the chocolate of the rockstar’s wide gaze. In the way he smelled. The style of that decade suited the brunette greatly, so you became lost in how he looked in this character. Dapper. Unlike you’ve ever witnessed him before. He committed to the role too. A certain swag in his movements. How he touched you so hesitantly, delicately because that’s what the video required.

By the end of the night, after the director yells, “Cut!” to signalise a wrap, a round of applause for all involved in this project, you’re feeling hot and bothered. Sweaty, though not because you just completed a full day’s work. No. Somehow, you found the Corroded Coffin frontman even more attractive than at the start of that day — something you didn’t think was possible. When you glance in his direction, he’s already staring you down, and you know he feels the same way.

Backstage, inside your trailer, you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch. Fingertips at your lips as you wait for that inevitable knock on your door. You know it’s only a matter of time considering the build up of tension throughout the shoot. From the lingering touches and that kiss the director had you two repeat over and over and over…

Logically, you could wait until the two of you were home. Back at Eddie’s Hidden Hills mansion, away from prying eyes and ears. In a bed that’s become all too familiar. Far from possible interruptions. Logic however, well, right now, logic was taking a back burner ‘cause you needed him now. Desperately. And without a doubt, Eddie needed you too.

A knock. Then again. But the rockstar doesn’t wait for you to answer. He lets himself in. 

“What happened to the wig?” You ask, raising a brow.

“It was itchy,” he replies with a slight laugh, then shakes his head. “I much prefer my natural locks.” 

“That’s too bad,” you say with a slight shrug, “You looked quite smart with that short hair.”

Eddie hangs his head with a smile, though his eyes don’t leave yours. Not even for a second. That’s when you notice the glimmer. That look, the reason he’s here, just like you predicted. So you return the expression. Only yours is a little more sly. Tempting him. Teasing. 

“I had fun today.”.

“Me too.”

There’s a lot that happens in the seconds after you stand up. A lot that happens quickly. 

Eddie reaches for your wrist, pulling you closer before wrapping his, for once, ringless hand around yours completely. He presses it to the middle of his chest, holding it against his heart. You can feel it beating and that’s enough to make you melt ‘cause it’s strong and you swear it skips at the contact. His other hand reaches for the base of your throat. He holds it gently, caressing upwards until he’s gripping your jaw. 

“Kissing you in front of all those other people kinda got me going,” he admits in a low tone.

Naughty, that’s what you want to say, but you don’t get the chance ‘cause his lips crash into yours. Hungry. Desperate. Rough. Heat rushes through your body at the sudden contact, no different than any other time his mouth found yours. You’re at his mercy, always, and he knows it well. 

His tongue glides along your top lip and you part your lips to accept him without hesitation. He wastes no time sliding into your mouth, letting this tongue work in tandem with yours as he tilts his head to further deepen the kiss. The hand holding yours lets go, instead finding home on the small of your back, pushing you as close to him as humanly possible. His other hand lets go of your jaw, albeit not completely. Ghosting along the side of your neck before you feel him wrap it around your throat, squeezing lightly. It’s nothing new for Eddie to be a little rougher with you, but there’s something about this moment, after a full day of moderate teasing and borderline foreplay, that causes a moan to burst through you when he squeezes again, only harder.

The rockstar pulls back, sporting a devilish grin. “Making such pretty noises for me and we haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

“Do your worst, Eds.” It’s a dare. Nothing sweet about it.

He smirks at the challenge and before you can register what exactly is happening, Eddie is lifting you up swiftly, hiking up your dress in the process, only to drop you down onto the sofa with a gentle thud. You’re wide-eyed as he unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other tugging at the pantyhose the wardrobe lady had you wear for the last scene of the video. He partially rips them off of you, then he hikes his index finger along the band of your underwear, eagerly pulling them down your legs until they’re wrapped around your ankles, with the reminisce of your stockings.

“The heels stay on,” the rockstar instructs, pushing your legs apart with force and positioning himself in between. All you can do is nod. Half-naked, half in costume. Same as him.

In the space of a heartbeat, his lips are on yours again. This time they don’t stay for long, instead moving downwards towards your chest. When he squeezes your breast through the silk material of your dress, he compliments how fucking good you looked, “I wanted to ravish you the second I saw you, baby.”

You whimper at his words, and at the fact that his now freed cock is gently brushing against your wet folds. Not quite breaching, just teasing you further. Only adding to the overall stimulation. 

“God, you’re so fucking hot. So fucking pretty. And all mine.” Eddie’s breathing into your bare chest ‘cause somehow in the moment your dress has slipped down ever so slightly and your tits made an appearance. Fingers from one hand are digging into your hip, holding you in place, while the other has you by the ribs. Thumb brushing your soft skin while his hot mouth is sucking on your hardened nipple.

Your eyes are closed. You’re not sure when you closed them. He’s invading your senses all at once. Just when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, when you want to whither and plead for him to touch you where you need him most, Eddie plunges himself into you without warning and your eyes snap open. 

“Oh God…” he groans, drawing his hips back only to slam them in again, making your body bounce against him. “Fuck, baby. Jesus.”

You sob in pleasure as Eddie knocks the wind out of you with each relentless thrust, still increasing his speed. Heavy panting and grunting fills the trailer, along with the sounds of where his cock slams against your sweet juices. He’s sitting straight now. Eyes are fixated on the mess you’re both making, where his length disappears in and out of you, while you admire the way his locks fall naturally in place. Although briefly, ‘cause you’re arching your back the next second, rolling your eyes to the back of your head when he hits that sweet spot.

“So. Fucking. Pretty.” He growls. “You’re so fucking pretty when you’re all stretched open like this, sweetheart. Your pussy was made for my cock, baby. You take it so well. You take this big dick so well, my good girl. Fucking made for me. Ain’t that right, dollface?”

“Made for you, Eds.” You just about whisper back, nodding your head feverishly.

Slap. His hand makes contact with your thigh and you practically wail. “That’s right,” he praises, “Made for me. So fucking tight for me.” Slap. Slap. Slap. 

Eddie’s cock starts to swell. You can feel it expand inside of you, then again when he thrusts back in. It has you heaving. The speed he’s established is close to becoming a little too much for the two of you and he drops his weight slightly, allowing you to wrap your arms around him, nails digging into his bare back. He can sense that you too are close and he’s trying hard to hold back, make this moment last longer, but his body refuses to slow down. Chasing the way your glistening pussy chokes his length. 

“Where do you want me baby?”

“Inside,” you croak out. “Cum in me, Eddie. Please. I need you to fill me up.”

“M’mph—” He chokes out, movements growing more and more erratic. The whole trailer is shaking at this point, that’s what it feels like to the two of you anyway. “Everybody out there will know what a good little slut you are. Not that innocent. Wanting me to fill you full of my cum, fuck.” 

Slap. Slap. Against your thigh. 

“Please, Eddie.” 

Slap.

“Shh… I’ll give you what you want, sweetheart.” He coos, “Gonna pump you full. Gonna make you see stars while my cum drips out of you.”

That’s when you shatter around him, uncontrollable desperate squeals making him groan louder as he continues. It’s sloppy, messy, and once you’ve completely unravelled underneath him, the rockstar can’t contain himself any longer. He lets out a broken moan as ropes and ropes of his warm spend start to throb into your hole.

His body gives up at the last spur and he drops flat on top of you, although not without a loose kiss placed to your jaw. His cock remains inside of your pussy. You can feel it pulsing until, after a few minutes, it no longer matches the beat of your heart.

Eddie lifts himself then. He kisses you softly and you smile against his mouth. When he eventually slips out and stands, he tells you not to move, that he’ll grab a towel from the small trailer bathroom and will help you get cleaned up.

“Wardrobe is going to kill us,” you call after him, balancing on your elbows as you sit up slowly. “Pretty sure these clothes can never be worn again. Purely for the fact that they reek of sex.”

“At least your wig stayed in place,” Eddie points out lightheartedly when he returns, his pants once again buckled, a towel in his hand. “That’s something the hair and makeup team should be proud of.”

“I’ll be sure to tell them,” you say, meaning it as a joke ‘cause there’s no way you would ever admit to what sins the two of you just committed.

Eddie smirks. “Pretty sure they already know,” he says as if it’s no big deal, “We weren’t exactly quiet, sweetheart.”

as always, thank you for reading! pls comment, reblog & support your creators.

celebrity skin. masterlist | the killers (1946) reference

& the celebrity skin. taglist: @eviethetheatrefreak , @thirddeadlysin , @haylaansmi , @nope-thanks , @tlclick73 , @vintagehellfire , @ashlynnkennedy , @avalon-wolf , @sidthedollface2 , @astheni-a , @bebe07011 , @aysheashea , @papillonoirsworld , @vol2eddie , @spideyanakin-interacts , @rogers-sweatbands , @mimsie95 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills - (if your user is crossed out, it means the tag isn’t working. pls check you’ve enabled tagging in your settings)

#this one is a little self indulgent ngl #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson filth #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie smut #stranger things #stranger things smut #celebrity skin.

[artingstarvist]

Chapter 4 / 15 "Reality"

Summary: Hua Cheng can’t get his God to eat; Xie Lian finally starts asking the right questions.

Additional Tags: Coffin Rescue, Coffin AU, AU - Canon Divergence, AU - Different First Meeting, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Identity Reveal, Revenge Plot, POV Alternating, Blood and Injury, Dream-Reality Confusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Hua Cheng AND Xie Lian have Self Esteem issues, Hua Cheng & Xie Lian Invented Love, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Hua Cheng bout to make it 34 gods

Chapter 4 is up! Thanks for reading!

Also oops now it's gonna be 15 chapters.

#tgcf #heaven official's blessing #tgcf fanfic #tgcf fanart #hualian #my fic #my art #y'all have been so awesome ty for all the kudos and comments so far! pure dopamine tbh

[sanyu-thewitch05]

Yandere Vampire X f! reader pt. 1

The Woods PT. 2

Tw: noncon, dubcon,manipulation, mind control, isolation, sexual attraction to blood, blood.

A/N: This chapter is a slow burn kind. Mainly because the second chapter is just going to be smut due to certain circumstances which are revealed at the end of the story.

Kofi: Wanna buy me a coffee?

🍒🍒🍒🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓

Your quiet gothic-themed village was never afraid of many things. Not even the bubonic plague scared the villagers. But, something that did scare them was the woods. They called it The Forest of Blood or El Bosque de Sangre. A long time ago, during the medieval ages, a family of wealthy nobles from Transylvania moved to your village. With their luggage were a human-sized coffin and a blanket with engravings of DC on them. They stayed in their castle surrounded by woods until the villager's livestock began to die. Cows and pigs as pale as ghosts with markings on their necks. The only clue was a trail of blood leading into the dark forest.

The villagers took their weapons and marched to the noble's castle, only to find the family in such a horrific condition, not even the graveyard thieves wanted them. Though, others say the family are beings of another name. Some called them Nosferatus, Draculas, Creatures of the Night, Demons, Bloodsuckers, anything but a human being. But that never worried you. What worries you were the girls going missing at the start of every winter, about a couple weeks before the first snowfall. No one knew who would be next, but no one dared to lock their daughters inside. For the last time they did, your village of Verano had mysteriously lost numerous amounts of harvest and livestock. And so here you are, walking to your grandmother's house to keep her company.

It didn't bother you that it's dark as you walk the dirt roads to your grandmother's house. You were used to the dark. It felt like home in a weird way. Even the predators that snatch livestock from the pens respect you as if you are one of their own. Although, it would lead to the villagers thinking you are a witch of some sort. But that didn't bother you either, for you always thought about flying high in the sky and doing witchy things with your friends, especially your friend, Nos, who you knew since that fateful day all those years ago.

"What are you doing behind that bush?"

The boy with pale skin and raven black hair looked at you with shock, fear, and surprise in his eyes.

"Come on, don't you want to play with the other children?"

The boy nodded and took your hand as you ran into the field to play with the village children. You put a flower crown on his head and held both his hands as you began to spin around.

"Nosferatu! Dracula! Demon and Creature of the Night! Everything you'll scream when they bite! Pure as snow! A virgin wearing a white wedding dress! Dye it red and rest in the forest! Be their bride in unholy matrimony!"

Your grandma walked up to you and said to say goodbye to the now-happy boy. You hugged him goodbye and skipped back to her cottage. When you got to her house, your grandma whispered in your ear.

"Nunca hables de los Nosferatus y sus novias. O de lo contrario desaparecerás en el bosque también."

"Bien, abuela."

That was fifteen years ago, and he's been your best friend ever since, even if you could never have adventures in the woods because you feared disappearing from the village.

"Nos, why do you insist on creeping behind me so much?" You ask, turning around to face a six foot three Nos.

"You shouldn't be walking out here so late at night. There are dangerous things in these woods," Nos says, putting his coat on your shoulders. "You should come back to my place and get warm."

"Sorry, grandma needs me to help with the pre-Christmas party," You reply, trying to move through the mud. "Did you hear about it supposedly snowing today?"

"Yes, I did, love. Are you going to start up about those girls going missing again?" Nos asks, walking side by side with you.

"How could I not?! It's supposed to be the first snowfall today, and not a single girl from the village has disappeared!" You exclaim, turning around to face Nos.

"Darling, those girls probably ran away from home. They found someone better in the world and left to explore it," Nos responds, taking you into his arms and dancing you around.

Snow begins to fall, and soon the roads become milky white. You made it to your grandma's house only to find she wasn't there. She had left on an emergency trip to Venice to help one of your cousins give birth. Your grandma had left a centuries-old family cookbook for you if you wished to cook something for dinner.

"It's snowing pretty heavy, darling. How about you stay at my place until it stops," Nos suggests, buttoning up the coat he put over you.

"That sounds fine, but what about you? Won't you be cold?" You ask, starting to shiver.

"I'll be fine. The cold doesn't affect me that much," Nos replies, taking the cookbook and carrying it in his bag. "Come, we can cook dinner and get warm by the fireplace."

You nod and follow his lead until he tries to enter the forest. The dark, snow-covered forest seemed to be staring back at you. Nothing made a sound, and nothing moved. You weren't sure if it was because of the snow absorbing the sound or because this forest was so terrifying that nobody dared enter it.

"It's ok. It's a shortcut to my manor. It's only a couple feet away, I promise," Nos promises, gently holding your hand. "If you feel safer, I'll hold you in my arms the whole time."

"Fine, but don't let me go," You whimper as Nos carries you like a princess.

Nos was known as a lady killer or a charming noble, depending on who you ask. Even though he only came into the village to meet you, he garnered attention from other girls. He got proposal after proposal but kept declining them. The girls eventually got over him, but the female elders couldn't help but notice how no boy or gentleman in the village would ask for your hand in marriage. Their husbands told them to pay no mind to it, but they stopped paying attention to you when predators acted like domesticated animals around them. Though others theorized you were the next Novia de Nosferatu.

"We're here! I'll get you some overnight clothes and make a fire. You can pick out a recipe if you want to," Nos says, handing you your family cookbook.

"I'll choose something yummy," You say, scurrying to the kitchen.

After fifteen minutes, Nos returned downstairs and saw you preparing to cook your family's calzone recipe. He wrapped his arms around your waist and asked if he could help.

"I'm fine, Nos. Why don't you get us something to drink?" You reply, putting the rolling pin away.

"Of course, darling. I'll be right back," Nos says, going to the cellar.

Dinner was ready, and Nos poured two glasses of wine. You brought the food to the table and began to eat with your friend.

"Sorry if the wine tastes bad. I know you're more accustomed to fruity alcoholic drinks," Nos comments, eating a piece of the calzone. "You're still not afraid of these woods, are you? My room has a pretty good view of the trees. It gets wonderful sun and moonlight as well."

"Don't you have a guest bedroom?" You ask, trying not to earn the title of village whore just for innocently sleeping with a guy.

"I'm afraid all the guest bedrooms are-oh fuck it. You've been the light of my life all the way into adulthood. Would you-would you please be mine?" Nos proposes, pulling out a box with a ring with a dark red gem.

The ring was silver with black markings going around it. It was something that only the richest of the rich could afford.

"Nos...of course I'll marry you!" You exclaim, kissing your now fiance.

"Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure? It's not the alcohol talking, right?" Nos questions, pouring you another glass of wine.

"It's not the alcohol talking. Besides, based on things are for me in the village, it seems you're the only guy who would willingly marry me," You respond, drinking the second glass of wine until it's half full. "What type of wine did you give me? It tastes so metallic."

Nos moves closer to you, eventually capturing you in an embrace. You can feel his muscles twitch, and he kisses the crook of your neck. Nos slips the ring onto the middle finger on your right hand.

"I'm glad you wanted this as much as I did, my unholy bride," Nos whispers, his voice becoming raspy and hissing towards the words of unholy bride.

"Wha-"

You have no time to react before he bites you full force. Your ring extends a needle or blade into your skin and shoots something into you. You couldn't break out of his arms and felt nothing but pain. Your nerves felt like they were on fire, your body began to shiver, and your eyes felt like they were about to explode.

"Sh, sh, sh, it's ok. You'll get through the transformation soon. It’ll be nothing but pleasure from here on out, my love,” Nos comforts, gently stroking your head. “Once you drink my blood, the transformation will be complete, and we can be together forever.”

“Nos…Nosfer…Nosferatu!” You scream, rage and fear flowing through your blood.

“No! Call me Nos. I’m still your sweet, Nos. I’m your wonderful fiancé!” Panic is in his voice as he realizes he’s starting to lose you.

You yowl in pain, and with the newly formed claws, you swipe at Nos. He jumps away from you as you run toward the library. Everything was black and red. There was no other color present. You see a book on a desk and fiercely open it, only to find out some things are better left as secrets.

“The son of the chief of Verano made a deal with the blood devils. One maiden will be the sacrifice for us all and be the devil's future mother. A sacrifice made before the first snowfall, or else we will pay for it all,” You read the page making more anger surface. “This year’s Blood bride is Y/N. Please note that the heir has chosen to court her and then ask for her hand in marriage.”

“Darling, no! Don’t read that book! You’ll get confused!” Nos yells, grabbing your shoulder. “ Your body is tired from the transformation. You need to rest!"

"Don't touch me! I can't believe I was ever your friend! How long?! How long did you plan on doing this to me?!" You rage, tears falling down your cheeks.

"I only- thirteen. I knew you were my bride at thirteen and have courted you ever since. You wanted to stay friends, and I still wanted a relationship, so I abided by your wishes and drove suitors away from you. I didn't want you to find out who I was through force like the other brides of my family. I wanted it to be a nice experience for you." Nos holds you in his arms as your claws swipe at him drawing slow-moving blood. "We can still have a wedding with your family. I'll invite them, and they'll know you're ok."

"Do you know what you've done?! Everyone in the village thinks I'm cursed or a witch!" You scream, trying to get out of his arms. "I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I FUCKING HATE YOU!"

"NO! You don't hate me! It's the vampire venom talking! You love me! You love me just like you did before!" He growls, slamming you onto the brick wall. "Clearly, we need a little couples therapy until that is gone from your system."

He bites your neck, and pleasure goes into your veins. Your legs wrap around his, and your hips unconsciously grind on his crotch. Nos is too strong from drinking your blood to try pushing him away. You can only try to keep your body still as he drinks from you. Your vision goes dark, and you let out a small moan.

When you wake up, your vision is dark, and your naked body feels cramped. You push open the padded ceiling, and something metal moves as light hits your face. Red liquid falls on you from above, making everything but your face smell metallic. You crawl out of the coffin, trying to head towards the backdoor facing the woods. Nos grabs you and licks your cheek, making you shiver.

"I think this will bring us closer together, don't you?" Nos asks, removing his red robes and putting his naked body against yours. "I won't take your virginity until the wedding night unless you want to lose your virginity before then."

"I will never marry you!" You scream, trying to break away but can't due to the wet blood.

"Oh, I love it that you're still stubborn. Let me treat and clean you up, my love," Nos kisses as his hands go straight to your crotch and breast.

He sticks his fingers in you and rubs your nipple as he makes out with you. Nos looks at you, and his brown eyes become bright red.

"Focus on the sensations. In and out," Nos whispers, kissing the previous bitemark he gave you.

You felt like you were losing your mind. You didn't want to follow his orders. Soon enough, you were begging for him to finish you off. He took out his fingers from inside you after you orgasmed. He sucked on his fingers covered in your juices and blood. Then, began to lick the blood on your body. You tried tugging at his pants from below, but he swatted your hands away. Nos licked and kissed his way down to your crotch, where he found that you were bleeding. His face lit up, and you were too euphoric and full of lust to care what would happen next.

"It seems your body has decided that we must have our wedding now," Nos says, taking you into his arms so he can put you in a bath. "We're going to have one bloody hell of a wedding, darling."

#yandere male #male yandere #yandere vampire #yandere x reader #vampire smut #smut #f! reader #slow burn #vampire #yandere noncon #yandere dubcon

[chaibewriting]

A DOLLAR MAKE 'IM HOLLER (pt. three)

yandere! gang leader! sanemi shinazugawa x chubby! black! fem! reader x yandere! gang leader! katsuki bakugou

masterlist. part one. part two.

-> NOTES: my bad y'all, didn't mean to take so long with this part, but life was happening, however, i'm somewhat pleased with the way that this turned out and I hope that this chapter was worth the wait, the next chapter will be even more of a conundrum. be on the look out for that one soon because I've already started writin' it. -> WARNINGS: threatening messages, unknown numbers, stalking, manipulation. -> WORD COUNT: 5.2k

FALLING asleep after such experiencing such a terrifying chain of events was no easy fret, however, you managed to somehow fall into a dreamless sleep. Perhaps you were outwardly glad to not be back alone at your apartment and your long time best friend sleeping beside you managed to put you at ease. You were grateful for her and Tanjiro, they had come rushing to your aid as soon as you’d called out for them. Asking for assistance or help of any kind was a bit of a struggle for you at times, especially considering how you were raised.

As the sun began to rise, revealing itself through the window of Nezuko’s bedroom, you stirred in your sleep and slowly opened your eyes, lids fluttering as they adjust to your surroundings. To your surprise and sudden realization, Nezuko had scooted closer to you in her sleep and wrapped an arm protectively around your waist with her cheek squished against your back, effectively spooning you from behind. Fortunately, it was a rather cold season so the extra warmth was welcomed, even if it was by surprise. Then again, Nezuko always had a tendency to be a bit of a cuddle bug in her sleep, you had learned to live with it, finding it somewhat endearing.

Carefully, you lifted her arm just a smidge, enough to slip from her hold and sit up, then carefully tucked the pillow you’d been laying your head on under her arm, which she immediately cuddled to her chest.

When your feet touched the floor on the side of the bed, you sighed, reaching up to rub at your temples for a moment of clarity. The memories of the previous day were coming back to you slowly, but still all equally frightening. Suddenly, you look towards the nearby dresser where you recently left your phone and something /told/ you to get up and look at it. Your intuition screamed for you to, and so, you do exactly that, relatively slowly but you still manage to stand up and shuffle towards the dresser. Sharply inhaling, you snatch up your phone, and thanks to oh-so-wonderful technology and its ability to detect motion, your screen flashed on and previews of notifications appeared, one new message waiting to be read. After unlocking your phone you hesitated for a moment's time, but your finger betrayed you as you opened the message to full-screen and nearly vomited after reading what you’d been sent. Squeezing the device in your hand, you were sure that if you were any stronger you would have crushed it in your hands.

Nothing had prepared you when there was a sudden blare of an alarm behind you, causing you to yelp and nearly jump a foot off the ground, dropping your phone in the process.

Fucking Apple alarms…

Rising like a vampire from a coffin, Nezuko sits up straight in her bed and yawns, scratching at the back of her neck and grunting when she realizes some hair had slipped from the bonnet she was wearing (something you had so graciously gifted her last Christmas). You were frozen, still processing the threatening message and calming your racing heartbeat after being frightened by Nezuko’s alarm, and when she finally turned it off, your shoulders drooped, followed by a silent sigh.

Once she finally took note of your standing form, your back still facing her, Nezuko squinted and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands before she said your name, voice laced with worry.

“Y/N…? What are you doing standing up? Did something happen?”

Her question brings you back down to reality enough for you to finally squat down and retrieve your unscathed phone from the floor, silently moving to her side of the bed to hand the device to her.

Fortunately, the screen hadn’t locked and the message in its entirety stayed clearly displayed and allowed for the brunette to read what you were showing her. There was nothing but silence on her end as she stared down at your phone, gripping it nearly as tightly as you had when you’d first read the text. The silence was deafening as she did nothing but stare at your phone for a few minutes, obviously deep in thought seeing how her brows were knitted in the middle of her forehead and her lips were pursued in a focused pout.

When she finally did something, she inhaled sharply and turned your phone screen off, setting it face down on the bed while she pinched and massaged the bridge of her nose.

“You’re staying with me until things blow over, and I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, Y/N. This has just gotten a whole lot creepier.” She finally said, dropping her hand and turning her head to look at you. Staring back at her, you pondered her words, rubbing at your arm in a moment of deep thought. Once again, you didn’t wish to be babied but right now, you were glad that she was offering for you to stay with her. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to step foot in your apartment right now, let alone go back to staying there /alone./

Nezuko promptly waited for you to start putting on a strong front, ready for a debate about your safety, but she was surprised when you slowly nodded your head, no words leaving your mouth. Your reaction caused a frown to appear on her face as she stood up and walked towards you, opening her arms and beckoning you to her. Carefully, you went to snake your arms around her waist and she hugged you back, squeezing you in a gentle way that always had the tendency to make you feel safe.

…

Thanks to this new development, you didn’t feel up to going to work today which led to you having to call your second-in-command at the restaurant— Pony. You didn’t give too much detail, knowing that she would start to worry for your safety, and instead said you just needed a couple days to break. Luckily, she understood and said to take all the time you needed to before the phone call had ended. Now, you were seated at the dining table in the kitchen of Nezuko’s house, slowly consuming the breakfast that she and you had conjured up together. You’d showered, done your hygiene routine, and got dressed before coming out to eat, even if your appetite was nowhere to be found. Nezuko soon joined you and took a seat across from you at the table, eager to start scarfing down the food in front of her, she always did have quite the appetite.

“Wanna come to work with me?”

Your friend suddenly asked, shifting some rice and rolled egg around on her plate. You looked up from your plate and thought about her suggestion. If she were to leave the house, you’d be left alone again. To your thoughts, to your fears, and to everything in-between. Such thoughts caused you to start chewing at your bottom lip, nearly ripping some skin off in doing so. It took a bit of arranging of said thoughts before you were able to exhale before nodding your head, finally speaking up for the first time since you’d woken up.

“Sure… I don’t think I’ll be able to stay here alone all-day, at least if I go to work with you I can help around and keep my mind busy.” It sounded more like you were trying to convince yourself than giving reason to her but she simply smiled and nodded at your words. But then a thought came to mind on your end once you realized a bit of an issue that made the hairs stand on the back of your neck. “I think— I’m gonna have to go back to my apartment to pick up some more clothes, I didn’t pack much.”

Such words caused Nezuko to pause and stare down at her plate for a moment, tapping the ends of her chopsticks against the porcelain while she thought. And then she seemed to have a plan come to fruition as she went back to eating nonchalantly.

“We can just call Mirko then, I’m sure she’ll come running if we tell her what’s going on.”

“Ugh, and she’ll probably come with a lecture about me missing her and Mitsuri’s self-defense classes.” You murmured, already hearing what the woman would say to you as soon as she caught wind of what was going on in your life currently.

This caused your best friend to only laugh and shake her head, deciding that she should finish off her breakfast before the day would continue on.

Nezuko was the one to make the call since you didn’t have any desire to touch your phone at the moment, still a bit spooked by the threatening message, rightfully so. The two of you had plopped down onto the couch in the living room as the phone rang, waiting for your enthusiastic friend to answer on her end.

“Nezu? What’s got you callin’ so early? Need me to come and do some heavy lifting at the shop?” Her somewhat raspy voice asked, nothing but energy in her tone, along with the sound of something in the background. It sounded like she was lifting weights. Typical.

“Hey Mir'! No no, there’s no need for that, but I do have another request, or I guess I should say /we/ have a request. Are you busy right now?”

The sound of movement on the other end, as well as a groan was heard before Mirko sighed out a reply. “Nope. Whatcha need?” The brunette then looked at you, silently urging you to go on and say something. With a gulp, you mentally prepared for whatever Mirko would say next, and with a shaky greeting you gave a brief summary of the things that happened and what ‘request’ you were making for her.

…

Once you were done, probably putting in a few more details than necessary, the other line was silent, almost as if the woman’s brain was processing all of what you’d said—- which was more than likely the truth.

And then, with a sharp inhale she spoke up.

“Y/N…” She started by saying your name in a scolding manner, making you freeze up and squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for what was to come next.

“Why did you keep this a secret for so long?! You should have told someone! That’s so goddamn creepy and weird! Of course I’ll come and escort you too! I swear to Bugz Bunny if I get my hands on that stalkery piece of shit I’ll grind 'em into protein power 'n make them into a motherfucking shake. I’m comin’ over right now.” Mirko rambled, you could already hear her moving around swiftly, you could even hear people calling out to her when she shoved them aside to get out of her way.

“Gimme like ten— no, fuck that, give me five minutes.” She stated before ending the call, you could only imagine what kind of laws she would probably break to get there.

Mirko was right, it didn't take her ten minutes to get to Nezuko's place, in fact, it took her a record breaking amount of three..that woman is a terrifying force to be reckoned with. That was something unspoken but her getting here in such a short time frame further solidifies that fact. And before you knew it, she was sitting at the table with you and Nezuko, finishing off whatever the two of you hadn't finished eating. You still don't know how it happened, it was almost like she'd teleported into the dining room, but you knew better not to question it and just go with the flow.

"So, do you think you know the stalker? Maybe it's an old classmate or something." Mirko began, enjoying a spoonful of rice as she glanced between you and Nezuko with curiosity. "Classmate? Huh. That would make a lot of sense, there were a couple of weirdos that used to smell your hair and stuff when you weren't looking." Nezuko added, starting to sip some tea from her mug. You glanced towards her with a baffled look, this was the first time you'd heard of this. "Eh!? Since when?! You never told me that???"

The woman coughed nervously and waved her hand around. "I didn't wanna worry you, plus they only did it once, then I told Tanjiro about what happened and he took care of the rest."

Both you and Mirko stopped everything you were doing and looked at your brunette friend, staring her down as she smiled and continued to nonchalantly enjoy her tea. Then, you looked at one another before giving each other a look that spoke millions of words.

"Scary..."

...

Fortunately, Mirko's presence aided in soothing you both, she was a tiny little thing but had the spitfire of at least one hundred great beasts with a smile that often set your worries aside. And in no time, with her help and Nezuko's, you'd packed up about a week's worth of clothes for your stay at Nezuko's. It'd been a while since you had a roommate, but at least you'd feel a little safer and less at the mercy of whoever was trying to 'sweep you off your feet'.

After dropping your bag off at Nezuko's place, Mirko escorted the two of you to Nezuko's Flower Shop and she was on her way, repeatedly telling you both to call or text her if anything seems out of the ordinary or if either of you feel unsafe about something. Then, she left with as much enthusiasm as usual, leaving you and Nezuko to busy yourselves with the daily tasks of running a flower shop. Nezuko was glad to have you to help her along, making it easier for her to open a little earlier than usual. If there was one thing you knew for sure about Nezuko and her work was that she was very serious about her craft and she was constantly busy, all for good reason. You were glad you had her to keep your mind busy and away from staying back to the immediate danger that was revealing it's ugly head every time you thought about it. You'd even made it a point to tuck your phone away into one of the desk drawer's in the little office Nezuko had in the back of the shop. One thing you hadn't expected was for the shop to be so busy with people, which you usually didn't have a problem with. But you couldn't help the feeling in the back of your mind, what if you're stalker knew where you were right now? What if they were one of the customers coming in today? The idea made you anxious but you tried to keep your nerves under wraps, helping Nezuko wrap bouquets and ringing up customers at the register. Everything would be alright, nothing out of the ordinary.

...

"I can't fucking BELIEVE she's friends with a goddamn cop. You sure we don't have him in our pocket?" The passionate, browless man asked as he paced around the carpeted floor in front of his partner's desk, clearly irritated about the build up of recent events involving their romantic life. His blond counterpart sighed from where he was, looking at him blankly through the lenses of his reading glasses. "How many times do I have to tell you that I already had shittyhair check? Stop gettin' freaked out. This ain't gonna change shit. It just means we gotta put the plan into motion a lil' earlier than we anticipated."

Sanemi stopped his pacing at that, turning to look at Katsuki with his permanent wide-eyed gaze. "And how the fuck are we gonna get the ball rollin'? D'you got some kinda masterplan you haven't told me about, man?"

The short answer was 'yes.' Katsuki made a show of explaining the bare minimum of the first step he decided to take and upon doing so, Sanemi gave his partner the side eye, clearly trying to see who would be the one to start off the man's plan. And since Sanemi's overwhelming presence was guaranteed to make their beloved piggy hightail it away, Katsuki decided upon himself to be the one to set things in motion. It was for the best with all things considered.

When would the plan start? That would depend on the one they currently have watching Y/N's every move at the moment.

If there was one thing you could appreciate about helping Nezuko out, it was the difference in smells; compared to wings and dipping sauces, the smell of flowers was a nice welcome. Alongside the calm and relaxing atmosphere, it seemed to put you at ease, even if just a little bit. It had put you in such a calmer space that when Nezuko suddenly ran out of the specific ribbon she used to tie up her special bouquets, you were quick to offer your services. But of course, Nezuko was a bit skeptical and protective.

"I could just close up for now and we can both head to the crafting store, shouldn't take too long if we speed walk—"

You cut her off with a shake of your head. "The least I can do is do this for you. It'll be fine, store's not even that far from here. Should take me just a few minutes to get there and back here, plus, I don't want to let some stalker make me become a recluse."

Naturally, Nezuko frowned at this, seeming to ponder your words as well as your safety, causing her to twirl a strand of hair around her finger. It was her way of fidgeting when she felt a deep sense of anxiety. Instinctively, you gently grabbed her hand, squeezing it with your own. She stopped fidgeting and looked at you with a pout, before sighing, her shoulders slumping as she accepted your offer. "Okay, okay... you're right, but, I don't want anything to happen to you, y'know?" She then let go of her own hair and huffed, pulling a hand away from yours before making a fist at the sky in a dorky movement. "That bastard's gonna pay when the time comes... Let me go get my purse."

Turning on her heels, she stepped away from you and went into the back of the shop, soon coming back with her wallet and a fistful of bills, as well as the tiniest bit of ribbon she had left to make it easier to find in the crafting store. And with that, you were off.

You almost felt like Dora with Nezuko making sure you had your phone and shit before she let you go out on your adventure. Where was Boots? The thought seemed to cheer you up a little as you stiffled a laugh, unknowing of a pair of electric yellow eyes and another set of onyx ones watching you from across the street over a cup of coffee they were nursing. They'd heard the entirety of you and Nezuko's conversation, thanks to the little bug they planted in the shop when the two of you were busy, and they were already informing their bosses of your movements.

Perhaps, walking to the crafting store was proving to take a little longer than you'd anticipated, but, at least you had a second to just wander around, and you felt a bit safe since the streets were somewhat busy with a sprinkle of traffic here and there, in the street and on the sidewalks. At least if your stalker *was* watching you right now they would be unable to do anything with all the witnesses around you, at least, you hoped that would be the case. Quickly, you shook your head, hoping a bit of physical deterrent would keep you out of falling into a pit in your mind, followed by a deep inhale and exhale.

With the crafting store in your sights, you picked up your pace, and much to your delight you were able to enter the store without any anxiety following in your footsteps. Entering, you chewed on your lip and debated on whether or not you wanted to spend a little time lollygagging in the holiday decorations or just go straight for the ribbons aisle. You chose the former, wandering over to the decorations to have a quick look around. It didn't hurt to start planning for decorating your franchise sometime soon, Halloween was coming up after all.

Perhaps... you got a little lost in the sauce as you were looking, giving a certain man ample time to speed his ass over to the crafting store you were located at and enter with a sense of determination in his stride.

How did you get caught in staring at a faux jack 'o lantern that lit up and sang a song from Night Before Christmas? You weren't sure exactly but it was mesmerizing enough for you to be oblivious to the threat that entered the store, clearly looking for something, looking out of place with his intimidating expression and permanent scowl. He began to slowly step forward, scanning the aisles as discreetly as he possibly could.

In that moment, you had finally tore your gaze away from the singing pumpkin and remembered your goal, you would come for decorations later. Stepping out of the aisle, you mindlessly started marching towards the general area of where the ribbon would most likely be, putting yourself in the sights of the man actively *hunting* you.

You had walked right past Katsuki and he instantly recognized you, his eyes following your every move as you made your way through the store. He soon followed in your strides, not even bothering to hide himself clearly following behind you and even turning to go down the same aisle as you. You'd yet to notice, too focused on getting the ribbon for Nezuko and then taking your leave.

As you headed down the aisle, you came across the section of ribbon and took out the sample Nezuko had given to you, making a quick scan around to try and find it as quickly as possible.

Now that Katsuki has found you, he paused, loitering about two yards away from you, staring at the abundance of yarn in front of him while still keeping you in his peripheral. He wasn't some acting fiend, but he knew how to speak to get things he wanted, usually with a bit of aggression but it always worked. Most times he would just swoop in and sink his claws into his desires, but he knew not to do that with you, he needed to truly think about this and not frighten you away.

After a moment of decision making, he plucked up some random skein of yarn and started casually approaching you, almost as if he was trying to get closer to get a better look at your features. Which wasn't hard to do considering the fact that there weren't many black people in this part of New Japan anyways.

“Knew I recognized ya. Long time no see, Miss /Hooters/.” The man says, standing behind you as you're squatted down and comparing the ribbon sample and another ribbon side by side. You paused what you were doing and narrowed your brows, obviously confused, before you stood up and turned to look at who was speaking to you. Soon, you came face to chest with the blond man who'd disrupted the peace at your restaurant some weeks ago. With a glance up, you were able to better recognize him, studying his striking features. It was difficult to forget his spikey, sharp hair and equally sharp carmine eyes, and you hated to admit it but he was attractive. You quickly raked your eyes over his form, taking note of his t-shirt, sweats, and sneakers. He was dressed casually this time around. Studying him further, you noticed the sleeve of tattoos on his right arm, along with the red yarn he had clenched in his hand, causing you to raise an eyebrow. He was watching you watch him, and you couldn't help but be suspicious.

"Is there a reason why you're talking to me right now? If you're looking for yarn recommendations, I can't help you. Sorry." You weren't really sorry, but you didn't know what this guy was capable of, something about him just screamed 'danger', not that you were the type to run away with your tail between your legs when threatened.

Even so, you looked away from him and glanced back down at the ribbons you were trying to compare. Nope. Wrong one. You huffed out of your nose and continued on your search, taking a few steps away from the man who'd decided to approach you. You plucked up another roll of ribbon and compared it to the sample, hoping to find it as quickly as possible so that you could leave and not be in the presence of this man anymore.

Katsuki continued to watch you, the gears turning in his head for a moment as he thought quickly on his feet. Slowly, he began to approach you again, keeping some needed distance between himself and you before he spoke again. "I know you'd rather continue with– whatever you're doin' but, I'm gonna use this coincidence to apologize on behalf of my friend. Didn't mean to disturb your place of work, he's just a piece of work and can be a little… *intense.*" He gruffly stated, watching as you kept up your search, back still turned towards him. That was one thing you weren't expecting from a man who looked angry all the time, an apology. Your brows furrowed as you looked back at him over your shoulder, thinking about what to do next. Then, you glanced back down at the yarn he was holding, deciding not to answer what he'd said, and instead changed the topic. Turning away, you nearly jumped for joy when you found the identical ribbon Nezuko used just in your sights, you grabbed the entire stock of them and sighed, standing up straight again.

"Do you knit or something?"

The question seemed to surprise him, and then he remembered what he'd grabbed as well as what aisle he was on. With quick thinking he answered.

"Nah, I'm more of a crocheter. Ran out of yarn so I came to stock up a little."

Glancing at him and then the singular skein, you looked back up at him and raised an eyebrow. "You came to buy just one skein? Hm. That's pretty goal-oriented, I respect your self-control."

He snickered at your comment (if only you knew) and then motioned to the numerous spools of ribbon you had in your hand. "Looks like you came to buy them out of their stock. You a ribbon dancer or somethin'?"

"Ha. Ha. No. I'm buying this for my friend's shop— which reminds me, I should probably get going before her hair turns grey from worrying." You'd stated, preparing to depart from the man and go pay for the ribbon. You commented and turned, beginning to head towards the check-out line, he fell in strides with you, not seeming to let you wander too far.

Noticing his presence, you look back at him and raise an eyebrow, with the spools of ribbon still in one hand, you put your free hand on your hip. “Is there a reason why you’re following me around like a puppy?”

“You should let me buy you dinner sometime. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’re both here. Might be fate.” He remarked, staring down at you with a gaze you couldn't read. The thought seemed to make you chuckle, raising an eyebrow at his cheesy words, though you somewhat admired his straightforward attitude. "If I didn't know any better it would sound like you're trying to ask me on a date even *after* you've already apologized. Is this how you usually pick up women?" Now, it was his turn to scoff and he flashed you a smile that regrettably caused your heart to flutter just a tad bit.

"Heh. Ya caught me. So… whaddya say?"

The person in front of you in the line stepped forward to start getting their things rung up and you stepped forward as well, pondering the man's offer before a realization came to mind. You were still on edge about having your apartment broken in, along with the weird messages, and this obvious gangster was flirting with you. Tanjiro was

going to do his job and you were safe for now, but what if… You looked at the unnamed man for a second, observing him a little closer as you thought things out. Maybe if you went on a date with this scary-looking gangster just once, the stalker would take a hint and go the fuck away. Then again, what if the stalker was possessive? That would mean, they would probably try and hurt this gangster guy in revenge, that would be a death sentence but it could work out in your favor, as dark and cold as that sounded. Perhaps the benefits outweigh the cons of going on a singular date with this guy.

"Next."

Snapped out of your whirl of thoughts by the voice of the cashier, you move to place the heap of ribbon onto the counter and the cashier starts ringing everything up. And just as you're about to use Nezuko's cash to pay, Mr. Carmine places his yarn down on the counter as well and holds his hand up to stop you from getting your cash. Instead, he inserts his debit card into the card reader before you can even protest. You could have stopped him, but you didn't, you simply tucked the cash away and gathered the ribbon after it'd been paid for. In silence, the two of you walked out of the crafting store side by side, and once outside, you finally broke the ice.

"Fine. Just one date though, and nothing else. And don't think I'll agree to anything else just because you paid for some ribbon." You shoved the spools into your pocket and then retrieved your phone from your other pocket. To your disdain, you had new messages from your stalker but you ignored them and opted for creating a new contact for him. "Give me your name and number. I'll text you later."

Your attempt to control the situation made Katsuki all the more infatuated with you but he simply agreed, giving you his full name, along with his number. Once you saved his information, you turned and walked away from him, heading back in the direction of Nezuko's shop, tucking your phone back into your pocket.

Katsuki Bakugou… seemed like a fitting name.

Katsuki watched as your figure became more and more distant before he chuckled, it seemed his plan was a success, and you were none the wiser. It was probably for the best that you remained ignorant, for now, that would just make things easier for everyone.

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[wheresarizona]

September Part 4

Jackson House of Worship, 2024

summary: Joel Miller didn’t get a chance to marry you twenty years ago, and now that you’re back together, he’s not wasting any more time—especially after you both bared your souls the night before, revealing your darkest secrets to make your bond unbreakable.

rating: Explicit (18+! No y/n, alternating POV, age gap (10 years), unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, dirty talk, praise kink (Joel gets called a good boy), spit mention, spanking, Joel should’ve stuck to missionary, flashback to the first meeting, handwavey medical jargon, mention of period typical sexism, emotions, tons of banter, LOTS of fluff, wedding, Ellie taking her best man duties seriously, Ellie’s handkersleeves, sweet Joel & Ellie father-daughter moments, Tommy being a little shit, Ellie giving Joel so much shit, dancing with Joel, Joel playing guitar, angst with a happy ending, confessions, emotional hurt/comfort, talk of pregnancy loss (stillbirth), talk of child loss, grief/mourning, talk of suicide attempt (Joel), TLOU tv/game spoilers)

pairing: Joel Miller/f!reader (reader is a doctor with no physical descriptions)

word count: 24.8k+ (This is who I am.)

a/n: I apologize for the delay in getting this done—March was not great for me. A lot of people wanted Joel to find out about the baby, and oh boy, does he. This chapter is emotional; you’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll feel all warm and fuzzy, you’ll swoon, and you’ll have a good time. Shoutout to the love of my life, @juletheghoul, for being by my side through this whole thing. This is unbeta'd all mistakes are my own.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

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July 2002 - Austin, Texas

The clinic wasn’t your first pick for where you wanted to do your residency to become a doctor; it wasn’t even your fifteenth choice. You applied to fifty programs across the entire country, hoping for a bustling hospital in a big city or a large clinic somewhere you could have the opportunity to explore different specialties—pediatrics calling to you, but also interested in internal medicine and surgery. And yet, out of fifty applications, the place that accepted you was a family medicine clinic in Austin, Texas.

But what had you expected? You weren’t a prime candidate due to being a lot younger than others fresh out of medical school, and the real nail in the coffin is you’re a woman; gender bias in the medical field is absolutely astounding.

So, here you are in this clinic with its beige walls and oak wood accents, sitting at a desk reading over the chart of a patient the attending physician said would be easy enough for you to handle on your own, with it only being your second week in the program.

The patient is Joel Miller, a thirty-four-year-old male complaining of knee pain. This is his follow-up appointment after he had scans done the previous week, and your job is to go over the treatment plan the physician has already decided on.

Your nose crinkles at the other doctor’s notes, seeing he isn’t offering a long-term solution but instead is basically shoving a band-aid over a gaping wound that will progressively get worse over time. That wouldn’t do; already figuring out better options in your mind that would have lasting effects and offer relief—that’s something that drew you to medicine in the first place, always having to solve puzzles, making your brain work to help people and save lives.

You’re interrupted by Janis, the nurse who you’re pretty sure hates you, though you don’t know why glaring as she lets you know the patient is ready to see you. Maybe she’s just one of those people with resting bitch face, and you shouldn’t take it personally, except she’s so cold towards you. There isn’t anything you can do about it. Shrugging it off as you get up from your chair, your white coat on and stethoscope hanging around your neck, making your way to room four with the chart in hand.

There are many facts you know about the man you’re seeing: his name, age, occupation, vitals, what the inside of both his knees look like—knocking softly on the door twice, you enter, closing it behind you for privacy—those details hadn’t prepared you for what he looks like. When your eyes land on him sitting on the edge of the exam table, you pause, struck by how handsome he is—brown waves of hair, big chocolate-colored eyes, plush lips, ridiculously broad shoulders that have the navy blue t-shirt he’s wearing hugging his chest sinfully.

You gulp, mentally berating yourself for finding a patient attractive, reminding yourself you’re here to do a job to help him feel better, quickly regaining your composure and offering your name.

“...I’ll be your doctor today,” you tell him.

His eyes round, mouth falling open before he catches himself and closes it, seeing that gorgeous throat of his work as he swallows.

You need to stop noticing his attractiveness—he’s a patient.

“Doctor…?” he asks slowly, with a drawl you’re becoming familiar with.

The surprise is clear on his face, which is something you’re used to, the walls rising inside you, readying yourself for a fight because either he’s going to be okay with you taking care of him, or he’ll be a dick and demand another, older, male, doctor—which has happened multiple times this week and is why you’ve only treated a dozen or so patients.

Your chin rises as you reply with a nod, “Yes. I’ll be handling your care.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just I can’t believe you’re a doctor.”

Your eyebrow quirks.

“Because I’m a woman? Young?”

He shakes his head as he speaks, “‘Cause you’re so beautiful.”

That’s an unexpected response that has you so taken aback that your breath hitches, trying to control the butterflies that are wildly fluttering around in your tummy.

His eyes get big, realizing what he said, quickly backtracking, flush staining his cheeks as he looks away. “I am so sorry, ma’am,” he says. “It’s rude of me to be commentin’ on your looks when you’re just doin’ your job. You probably think I’m some creep.”

This poor man is beating himself up about saying the nicest thing anyone’s said to you all week.

“I don’t think you’re a creep,” you reassure him. His eyes meet yours, him gauging if what you’re saying is true, so you smile. “You’re honestly very sweet. A lot of people have a hard time getting over my age or that I’m a female in a male-dominated profession, so you thinking I’m too beautiful is a lovely change and also wonderful for my self-esteem.” You laugh.

His lips curl up.

“Well, I’m happy you’re not kickin’ me out. You bein’ a young woman doesn’t bother me—wish my daughter was here so she could see that if she wanted, she could be like you one day.”

The sincerity of his words has your chest going tight. In med school, a doctor told your class to let the patient ramble at the start of the appointment for five minutes because you’ll learn quite a lot about them. Usually, it’s things about their lifestyle or what’s actually causing them issues. What you now know about Joel Miller is that he’s respectful, a sweetheart, and a caring father—you’re fucked, realizing your eyes are drifting to his left hand, happy that you don’t see a ring.

Not that it means anything to you. He’s your patient. You need to focus.

“How old is your daughter?” you ask.

That’s a safe question. It’s important to build rapport and trust, plus you’re genuinely curious and want to know more about him to ensure you give him the best care—at least, that’s what you’re telling yourself.

He visibly brightens, and it’s adorable.

“She’s twelve, turnin’ thirteen Saturday after next. Her name’s Sarah and I can’t believe how quickly she’s growin’—feels like just yesterday she was havin’ me check under her bed for monsters.” He has a fond expression on his face.

“Wow, you’re gonna have a teenager. Are you and your wife planning a big party for her?”

There’s no way he’s single, not that it matters to you.

“No wife, or girlfriend, for that matter. Sarah wanted a slumber party with her friends, so I’ll be hidin’ away in my room alone watchin’ a movie or somethin’.”

It shouldn’t excite you to hear he doesn’t have a partner, but there’s a thrill moving through you.

“Sounds like my ideal Saturday night—just relaxing watching tv or a movie.”

“Yeah?” He smiles. “We got somethin’ in common, then.” He scratches at the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish. “I, uh, wanna apologize again. You just caught me off guard, is all—was expectin’ Dr. Carlson with his bad combover.” There’s a smirk on his face when he continues, “But you’re a nice surprise.”

“Because I’m easier on the eyes?” you tease.

Don’t flirt with the patient!

“Yes,” he chuckles.

It’s time to focus on your job and not how his eyes twinkle, clearing your throat as you approach him.

“So, Mr. Miller—“

“Please call me Joel,” he interrupts.

You smile.

“Okay, Joel, I was looking over your chart, and you're having pain in both knees?”

“That’s correct.”

Pulling your pen from your pocket, you ask, “Has it gotten worse since last week? Feel any different?”

“No, ma’am.”

You jot down his answer.

“Well, that’s good.” Your eyes land on his. “May I take a look?” you ask, pointing your pen at his lower half.

“Of course.” He nods enthusiastically. “Look, touch, do anythin’ you want to me, I don’t mind.” He grimaces, whispering to himself, “Jesus, I’m embarrassin’.”

You can’t help the giggle that slips past your lips.

“You’re okay, Joel,” you say, putting away your pen and moving to set the chart down on the nearby counter opposite the exam table to wash your hands in the sink.

He lets out a long sigh.

“It’s been a while,” he says. “I’ve forgotten how to talk to women.”

“That’s gotta be a problem with fifty-one percent of the population being female,” you reply as you dry off your hands with a paper towel, tossing it in the trash when you’re done.

He snorts, you turning around and seeing the amused look on his face.

“I’ve forgotten how to talk to women I think are pretty.”

“Well, thank goodness we’re having no issue holding a conversation.”

“It’s taking a whole helluva lot of effort with your gorgeous eyes lookin’ at me.”

Heat is crawling up your neck to your face, focusing on getting your bearings back together. Taking a few steps, you’re close with a little bit of space, needing to get the appointment back on track.

“So, I’m going to examine your knees over your jeans. If I need to, can I push them up your legs?” you ask.

“Want me to take them off?” he asks eagerly.

It makes you laugh, him smiling.

“There’s no need for you to strip.”

“You sure?” he asks with a crooked smile.

“Positive,” you answer, winking.

What is wrong with you? You need to stop flirting with him. He’s a patient! You’re the embarrassing one here. It’s like something inside you shifts when you look down at his right knee, going into doctor mode, brain whirling as you gently touch it over his jeans. Joel tenses, a reaction that furrows your eyebrows, meeting his eyes.

“Does it hurt when I touch here?”

There shouldn’t be any pain based on the scans; if there is, you’ll need to have more imagining done.

“No.” He shakes his head.

“Okay. I need you to tell me if anywhere I touch hurts.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Your attention is back on what you’re doing, processing what you’re feeling under your fingertips, having him extend his leg so you can see his range of motion, Joel’s face pinching in pain, which you expected.

“I’m going to push up your jeans.”

“You go right ahead.”

Getting them up to his thigh, Joel shivers when you touch his warm skin.

“Sorry about my hands being cold,” you murmur, pressing into the back of his knee to feel his ligaments and tendons, comparing in your mind to what you saw on the scans with how it feels.

“Your hands are nice—soft,” he replies in a gentle tone.

The doctor-patient relationship is sacred and an essential part of healthcare, built on trust, respect, communication, and common understanding. You swore to follow certain ethical guidelines to ensure that your patient gets the highest level of care. Things might be flirty with Joel and you, but his health is your main priority—it’s your job, and you’re not going to cross a line, even if he’s tempting you like forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden. While he’s your patient, that’s all he’ll be and nothing more. You’re focused, being thorough, and checking for anything that’s out of the ordinary.

“You don’t have to answer,” he says, “I know it’s a personal question, but how old are you..?”

You’re busy working, answering distractedly, “Twenty-four.”

“Jesus,” he gasps. “And you’re already a doctor?”

There’s slight swelling but no tears that you can tell—everything matches the imaging.

“I have the degree,” you say. “This is the first year of my residency—basically, I’m a doctor in training, but I’ve treated people.”

There’s a curious expression on his face when you finally glance at him.

“I’m just thinkin’ about all the schoolin’. Are you a bit… younger?”

Smiling, you answer, “Yes. I did a lot of work to get my degree sooner—basically zero life outside of school for the past six years.”

He looks impressed.

“Christ, smart and beautiful, your boyfriend’s a lucky guy.”

“My boyfriend is non-existent—was too busy with school. Well, no changes in this knee from last week—” You pull his pant leg back down. “—so that’s good. Let me check the other.” You move, immediately pushing up his jeans this time. “Does one hurt worse than the other?” you ask, going through the same exam as you did on the other, checking his motion and behind his knee.

“Uh, nope. Both hurt the same. Sarah says it’s ‘cause I’m old,” he chuckles.

“Has Sarah thought about becoming a doctor?”

As you thought, this knee doesn’t have any changes either.

“No—she wants to be a singer.”

You finish, putting his pants back in place, straightening your spine as you look at him.

“Well, she’s got a knack for medicine—she diagnosed you.”

He frowns.

“The pain is because of my age…?”

“It’s a big contributing factor along with the wear and tear from the work you do.”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing loudly.

“You must think I’m an old man.”

“I don’t.” You shake your head. “You’re only a little older than me.”

He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Ten years is a lot.”

“Not really.” You shrug. “And you’re in excellent shape aside from your knees, but that’s bound to be an issue with your job.”

There’s a change in how he’s looking at you, and it has you gulping, watching him slide his thumb over his bottom lip like he wants your attention to go there, getting his wish, not able to stop yourself from wondering if his lips are as soft as they look.

“You, uh, think I’m in excellent shape?” His voice has gone deeper, ignoring the simmering heat in your belly.

“Ye-yes,” you stutter. He’s smirking, and you need to get back into safe territory, clearing your throat before you start speaking, “So, let me go over what we’re gonna do to help with the pain.”

From the look on his face, he’s disappointed, which confuses you, not understanding his reaction.

A tired sigh comes from him before he says, “I’m assumin’ medication, then?”

Oh, he thinks you’re going to give him a prescription for pain relief instead of actually treating him. It’s a common issue with doctors who are up to their ears in patients—instead of taking the time to figure out the root of the cause and treat it accordingly, they just write out a prescription to make the patient comfortable, a temporary solution, that has them coming back again, and again. Dr. Carlson’s plan was medication for Joel.

You’re moving to pick up his chart, your eyes scanning over the information, and turning the page, seeing that this is his sixth visit this year, and it’s only July—imaging wasn’t even ordered until last week.

“How long have you been dealing with this pain?” you ask.

“Last couple of years, I started gettin’ achy. Then in, uh, December of last year, there was a big job I was workin’ on—twelve-hour days for almost three weeks straight, and they started hurtin’ real bad.”

Your blood is boiling that he’s had to suffer for so long.

There’s a serious expression on your face when you look at him.

“There are other things we can do that will be long-term. With you being a single dad, the sole provider for Sarah, and working a manual labor job, I don’t think you’ll have time to commit to physical therapy, and I wouldn’t want to take away from your quality time with her.”

He looks surprised before his expression softens.

“What are you thinkin’, Doc?”

You smile warmly, jumping into what you planned that he can do at home, Joel listening intently as you explain each of the things in detail, him nodding along, seeming to like what you’re saying.

“You think it’ll work?” he asks when you finish.

“I do.” You nod. “It’s just keeping up on the exercises—we need to strengthen and stretch those muscles to assist with joint movement, and the other things I suggested will help with the swelling and give you some relief.”

He’s nodding. “I understand—do the exercises. Don’t wanna let you down.”

You pull a small notepad from your jacket pocket, placing it over the chart as you start writing out your treatment instructions, replying, “You shouldn’t be worrying about me.”

“Maybe I wanna worry about you. You’re the first doctor that’s actually cared about helpin’ me. Gonna have to come here more often to see you since you take such great care of me.”

“I’m not your primary physician.” You’re almost finished writing. “You’d end up seeing Dr. Carlson.”

“What if you became my primary doctor?”

Tearing off the page, you hold it out to him, his hand taking it.

There’s something here between you two, a connection you can feel, so you tell him truthfully, “Then all I could and would be is your doctor.”

Understanding dawns on him.

“Oh, is the appointment over?”

“Do you have any other concerns?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then the appointment is over. If you have any other issues or questions, please reach out to Dr. Carlson. It’s been a pleasure helping you today, and if there’s nothing else, you’re more than welcome to leave.”

He gets down from the table, groaning when he stands up straight, folding up your note and putting it in his pocket.

Thinking there’s nothing else he wants to say and not acknowledging the disappointment that feels like a stone in your belly, you make your way toward the door.

“Wait,” he says. You stop, turning around to face him. “I have a question.”

Taking a couple of steps closer to him, you ask, “What’s your question?”

He closes the distance, stopping when he’s taking up your vision, focusing on his big brown eyes, noticing his spicy cologne that has you feeling warm. He scratches at the back of his neck, looking nervous.

“Well,” he starts, “since I’m no longer your patient and you’re not my doctor, I’m not usually this forward, and I know I don’t have a chance in hell, but I’m wonderin’ if you’d wanna give an old guy like me a shot at takin’ you out?”

Happiness thrums in your veins that he asks, unable to help when a laugh sputters from you, quickly covering your mouth, his cheeks going red, looking unsure and embarrassed. You quickly apologize, “Sorry! I’m not laughing at you for asking me out—I want to go out with you.” That makes him perk up, rewarding you with a dimpled grin. “It’s just you said I was the first doctor to actually help you, and you’d rather date me than have me take care of you. It’s sweet but also hilarious.” You’re laughing again.

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair, the other perched on his hip, keeping his weight to one side.

“Yeah,” he says, “there are a lot more doctors out there—sure, I can find another, but I’ve only ever met one you, and I’m not gonna miss my opportunity to get to know you better.”

It feels like your skin is buzzing, so caught off guard by how genuine he is, seeing it in those dark eyes of his.

“How are you single?”

Is there something you’re missing? Some deep dark secret? He seems so perfect and adorable. It makes zero sense that he’s unattached.

There’s a sad smile on his face.

“Not a lot of women are into single dads.”

“That’s a lie—I’m very into single dads.”

He laughs, a beautiful flush crawling up his neck.

“I’m happy to hear that. Can I get your number?” he asks, pulling out a Nokia phone from his pocket and holding it out to you. “I just got this.”

“Of course.”

Taking it, you punch in the numbers, saving them to his contacts before giving it back. He looks at the little screen, hitting some buttons.

“‘Doc’?” he asks amusedly, meeting your eyes. “Why not your name?”

“Can’t take the risk of a handsome guy like you meeting another girl with my name—need to make sure I stand out,” you answer with a wink.

“No other woman is like you. I only want your number.”

“You’re really laying it on thick,” you tease. “I can assure you that you’ve successfully seduced me, and I really want to go out with you.”

He smiles.

“Good. I really wanna go out with you, too. What time are you off?”

“Seven.”

“Can I call you later?”

“I would like that very much.”

“Then I will.”

“I can’t wait.”

The joy is evident on his face, and you know you’re wearing a matching expression.

He holds out his hand as he says, “It’s been a pleasure meetin’ you today, Doc.” Holding his chart with one arm, you shake his offered palm that engulfs your smaller one. “You’re already a mighty fine doctor.” He winks, bringing your hand up to place a soft, chaste kiss on the back of it, his gaze staying on yours. Your skin tingles, and your body feels like it's burning from the inside out as your jaw goes slack.

Your voice is rough when you say, “You are a liar, Joel Miller.”

His eyebrows dip together, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand.

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“You said you’d forgotten how to talk to women, and that is not true—not even a little bit. Got me thinking about kissing your stupidly perfect face.”

He crookedly grins.

“Stupidly perfect?”

“Yes,” you groan.

“And you wanna kiss it?”

He gets closer, your bodies practically pressing together.

“Yes.”

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, leaning into his touch, his eyes moving from your own to your lips, the tension rising, thinking he might go for it and hoping he will.

His voice goes lower, “Then we better go out soon.” He takes a small step back, putting space between you, your heart pounding hard in your chest. “You busy tomorrow night?”

“No,” you breathe.

“Off at the same time?”

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s a half day.”

“Can I pick you up at seven?”

“Yes.” You nod.

He smiles brightly.

“It’s a date. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Bye, Doc.”

“Bye, Joel.”

He brings your hand up to kiss the back of it one more time and leaves you standing there in a daze, thankful that out of fifty applications across the entire United States, this was the clinic that accepted you, inadvertently introducing you to Joel Miller.

Spring 2024 - Jackson, Wyoming

For a cold night, the house is comfortably warm, the room illuminated in a soft glow by the bedside lamp, the sky outside dark and hidden by the closed blinds—Joel’s on his knees on the bed, your legs resting over his arms keeping them spread with his hands tightly gripping onto your hips, holding your ass up as he fucks into you hard.

The nap had lasted a couple of hours, the front of your body snug against his back, his fingers intertwined with yours over his heart, kissing his bare shoulders when you woke. Water was drunk, some food was eaten from the rations in your pack, and the next thing you knew, Joel’s face was buried between your legs.

Now, he’s grunting as he pounds into you, his thick cock pushing into that one heavenly spot that only he’s been able to find with his eyebrows furrowed and teeth bared—your head is dizzy with pleasure, fire burning so brightly in your belly that it’s going to explode at any second.

You’re gasping moans, your fingers digging into the bedspread, feeling so fucking close to coming, every thrust having the muscles in your stomach winding tighter and tighter.

“Come on, baby,” he says through gritted teeth. “Let me fuckin’ have it—you feel so fuckin’ good. Fuck, wanna feel you come.”

“Close,” you whine. “Oh, fuck.” Your body is starting to writhe, not able to control yourself. “You’re fucking me so good, Joel. Oh, god. Gonna come.”

The slap of his hips echoes in the room, the sound magnified by how wet you are, filling the air with the loud squelch of your cunt mixing with rough sounds coming from Joel’s throat and your breathy noises.

The heat builds in the pit of your stomach, growing hotter and thicker until stars are dancing at the edge of your vision, coming with a shout of his name.

“There it fuckin’ is,” he groans, “My good girl—I fuckin’ love you.”

Your body seizes up, the pleasure starting deep in your center and radiating out through your limbs, feeling it spread to the tips of your fingers and toes, your mind going hazy. Joel slows to a grind, letting you feel every ridge and vein of his throbbing dick, working you through your high.

The orgasm ebbs and your body continues to tremble—opening your eyes to meet his lust-blown gaze, a lazy smile on his lips.

“Feel good, baby?” he asks.

Smiling dreamily, you answer, “Yeah, babe. Feel fucking amazing. You’ve always known how I like to be fucked.”

“Yeah, I do,” he rasps, slowly thrusting, “and I know you got one more in ya.” He slaps your hip, making you gasp when he pulls out, letting your legs fall to the bed. “Hands and knees, baby,” he says, helping you get into position, your body thrumming in excitement, knowing what’s to come.

Your knees sink into the mattress, hips up, forearms resting against the pillow just how he wants you, looking over your shoulder to watch him grab onto the flesh of your ass, squeezing hard.

“So fuckin’ pretty like this,” he says, spreading open your asscheeks, the bed jostling as he moves. His face gets close, moaning when you feel him spit onto your entrance, the hot saliva mixing with your slick and come, your eyes closing, facing forward once more.

He straightens up, wasting no time to press back inside you in one smooth thrust, gasping at how he stretches you. It was something you’d never tire of, the way he fills you and how your body makes space to have him fitting all nice and snug, sliding perfectly along your sensitive walls.

His hands are grabbing onto your hips, digging in his fingers as he starts moving, soft sounds falling from your lips with each push and pull of his cock inside you. He sets a punishing pace, hearing the dull smack of your bodies colliding and his balls slapping into your clit, him grunting in exertion with how hard he’s slamming into you.

Your head falls forward, pressing it into the cushiony pillow, him turning you into a whimpering, drooling mess at how good it feels, the familiar heat in your core growing, expanding, as he fucks you into the mattress.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he grits out, his hand landing on your asscheek in a resounding smack that has your cunt clenching. “You’re so fuckin’ wet.”

He’s making your ass jiggle and thighs quiver with every hard thrust, whining in reply, “Yes, Joel. So good.”

You have to push back to keep him from fucking you into the headboard, your arms trembling, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to your end.

His hand leaves your hip to massage your clit, making you keen, the jolts of electricity ramping you up and setting every nerve in your body ablaze, clawing at the pillow for something to hold onto.

You’re so close—everything he’s doing to you builds you up until you fall over the edge, chanting his name as the waves of euphoria spread through you.

“My good fuckin’ girl,” Joel groans, grabbing your hips once more to fuck you through your climax, going harder to extend it—snapping into you with abandon. It makes your head spin, and feels like the pleasure just keeps going and going—

He comes to a sudden stop with a hiss—pulling out, the bed jostles as he falls onto it beside you on his back. You’re coming down from your high, turning your head to see his chest heaving as he catches his breath with his eyes closed. Reaching over, you pat his flushed, sweaty chest.

“Tire yourself out?” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he pants.

“Shoulda listened to Tommy and stuck to missionary, you old man.”

His head turns a fraction toward you, opening one eye with a grumpy expression on his face, grumbling, “Don’t be fuckin’ mean.” You laugh when he pinches your hip, your body crumpling flat onto the mattress.

“I’m sorry, babe,” you giggle, scooting over to him to throw your arm over his stomach and rest your head over his heart, leaning up to kiss his chin.

“Liar,” he replies.

“I’m not lying,” you say into his skin. “I am a little sorry.”

“Good—did I, uh, tire you out?” he asks.

You snort.

“Need me to get on top and finish you off?”

His cock is still hard and resting on his belly, wetting his skin in your slick.

He lets out a long sigh. “...Yeah.”

“Say no more,” you reply, kissing his stubble.

With a groan, you’re moving to straddle his hips, one hand on his chest to hold yourself up, the other moving to grab his dick to notch him at your opening, him twitching in your palm. It’s a reflex when his big hands land on your waist, his thumbs rubbing circles into your soft skin.

“Fuckin’ love when you’re on top,” he rasps, his glazed-over gaze on yours.

“‘Cause you like watching my tits bounce.”

He’s unable to reply, his mouth falling open as you sink down on him, your eyes fluttering closed at how he feels so much bigger like this, your thighs meeting when you bottom out.

“God, I love your dick,” you moan, both hands on his chest, rolling your hips, adjusting to the fullness.

His voice is strained when he replies, “I know you do—always hungry for my dick.”

“Says the guy who can’t keep his face out of my pussy—fuck,” you gasp, tilting your hips to have him press into something divine.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Gotta make up for lost time.” One of his hands moves to your center, pressing his thumb to your clit it making pleasure spark in your belly. “You wanna come again?” he asks.

Meeting his eyes, you shake your head, “No,” you answer. “I’m spent. Another, and I know I’ll pass the fuck out.”

He smirks. “Nothin’ wrong with that.”

Your eyebrow raises.

“Except that you’d have to get yourself off with your hand—I’m good, babe. It’s your turn.”

“Okay.”

His hand goes back to your hip, your inner walls fluttering around him, starting to move up and down, rising on your knees and falling over and over, his eyes locking on your chest with his jaw slack.

“Fuck,” he groans. “So fuckin’ beautiful. Lean down, baby.”

It makes you grin. Of course, he wants you to lean down.

Your hands move to either side of his head to hold yourself up, riding him in earnest, not surprised when he palms your breasts. His fingers tease your stiff nipples, rolling and pinching them, causing electricity to shiver down your spine, breathily moaning as you work him over, feeling the sheen of sweat coating your skin and your thighs beginning to burn. There’s a beautiful flush covering him, his golden skin glistening in the lamplight, wanting to lick the drops of perspiration along the column of his throat. He feels so good inside of you, his cock moving in and out of you, going at a rhythm he likes, his face screwed up like he’s in pain, knowing he’s getting close with the rough noises he’s making.

“Kiss me,” he pants.

Lowering your face, you hover your lips over his. “Aren’t you needy,” you say between heavy breaths, nudging his nose with your own. “You want me to kiss you?”

“Please,” he croaks out, looking absolutely wrecked.

“My good boy asking so nicely.” He moans loudly, feeling his cock jerk. You give him what he wants, capturing his mouth in a kiss, pressing your lips forcefully to his while you keep rutting against him, his hands squeezing your breasts.

It’s loud between your legs, hearing the wet sounds of you moving on him.

“‘M close,” he murmurs into your lips, making you go harder, your heart pounding in your chest.

It doesn’t take much more for his big hands to finally grab onto your hips, pulling you down all the way to be flush with him, a dirty, low groan spilling from his throat as he comes—his dick twitching, the warmth of his spend filling your inner depths.

You’re wrung out, your head falling into the crook of his neck, panting hot breaths into his skin, Joel sounding just as winded, hugging his arms around you to hold you close.

Minutes you lay wrapped up in each other, your heartbeats slowing together, comfortable, happy, neither of you wanting to move.

Exhaustion is creeping up on you, afraid you’ll fall asleep. Your voice is muffled when you say, “Joel?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m old.”

He swats your ass. “Stop that. You’re not old.”

“Joel, I want to sleep—I’m old,” you sigh. “I’m too tired to fuck.”

He sighs, too, replying, “Fuck, I’m tired, too—bone fuckin’ tired. That doesn’t mean we’re old.”

A memory comes to you. “Remember that one weekend Tommy watched Sarah? You’d been swamped with work the week before, and according to him, you were an absolute asshole because you needed to get laid, so when the job was done, he told you to stay with me all weekend, and we literally fucked the entire time?”

You’d barely left your bed.

“That was a good weekend.” You can hear him smiling.

“It was. We barely slept and fucked like rabbits. Joel, we didn’t even last all of tonight. Face it, babe, we’re old.”

“We just need a good night’s rest, and we could easily go all night.”

“Sure, babe—“ You lightly pat his cheek “—just some sleep, and we can go all night like we’re twenty years younger.”

“That’s what I said, and I know I’m right.”

“You’re cute,” you say, moving to kiss his jaw. “I gotta get up and go to the bathroom—I’ll grab us some water.”

“Mmkay.”

Unwrapping his arms, you carefully got up with a groan, the bed squeaking as you maneuvered off of it.

Your first stop was the en suite to take care of your needs and clean yourself up, relishing in the delicious ache between your legs at being thoroughly fucked. Next was doing the same walk of shame that Joel had taken earlier, not bothering to put on any clothes as you padded down to the first floor to refill your cups, returning with them full of water.

Your eyebrows dip together when you get back into the bedroom, finding Joel in the same spot you left him—his head is cushioned on a pillow, his eyes closed, completely still, seeing his chest's steady rise and fall.

Normally, he would’ve gotten up to clean himself up and use the bathroom.

Did he pass out?

You set the glasses on the bedside table next to him. “Joel?” you whisper. “Did you fall asleep?”

You’re afraid that if you touch him, you might startle him.

“No.” He says the word clearly.

Stepping closer to the bed, you push his messy hair away from his face.

“You just comfortable?” you ask.

“...no.”

Well, the slight pause has alarm bells ringing in your head.

“What do you mean?” You stroke your hand over his cheek. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

He lets out a really long breath, finally blinking open his eyes to look at you, a frown on his lips.

“Don’t make fun of me…”

Oh, god, he’s hurt. Immediately you’re looking over his body for any sign of injury, noting that his breaths are even, your fingers moving against his neck to feel the steady thump of his pulse.

“What’s wrong?” you ask again.

“I… can’t move,” he answers, grimacing.

That narrows things down. “Jesus Christ, Joel. Hips or back?”

“Back—pulled somethin’. Fuckin’ hurts to move.”

Your brain is making quick work on how you will treat him, remembering you saw some ice in the freezer.

“Well, at least you didn’t break a hip,” you murmur. “Tommy and Ellie would’ve never let you live it down.”

That grumpy expression comes over his face.

“My hips are fuckin’ fine,” he grouses. “Just gotta lay here for a bit, and I’ll be okay.”

“Um, no,” you reply. “You’re not laying here and suffering.” Grabbing a glass of water, you ask, “First, I need you to drink something. Does it hurt to lift your neck?”

His frown becomes more pronounced, him lifting up as much as he can, and your hand immediately going behind his head to help him up, the other bringing the cup to his lips and tilting it for him to drink. Once he’d drunk the whole thing, he laid back against the pillow again.

“Thank you, baby.” He looks so sad, and it has you putting the glass back onto the table before cupping his cheeks and leaning down to kiss him softly.

Breaking it, you look him in the eyes, smiling. “You’re welcome, and don’t be upset. I believe you said it was sexy that I could treat your sex injuries, and I’ll have you feeling better in no time.”

His eyes are big. “I know you will,” he says softly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now, I gotta flip you over to make sure it is a pulled muscle and you didn’t slip a disk or something worse.”

“Okay,” he sighs.

Helping him get onto his stomach involves him making a lot of pained sounds and muttering ‘fuck,’ repeatedly. Luckily, after a quick exam, you confirmed it was just lower back strain.

Earlier in the evening, Tommy had dropped off a bag filled with clothes. Rummaging through it, you found a white t-shirt that was clearly meant for Joel that you put on before going downstairs to grab some ice that you wrapped in a small towel.

When you got back to your injured fiancé, you applied the cold compress to help reduce the pain and swelling.

You’re lying beside him, your hand holding the ice to where his pain is, his head turned toward you.

“I refilled the ice tray,” you say. “We just need to do this every three or four hours over the next couple of days, and you’ll have to take it easy. No strenuous activity.”

“Yes, Doc,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“You wanted to fuck for a couple of days.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” you reassure. “I was dreaming big and did not account for the fact that I am no longer an energetic twenty-something. Honestly, I am so fucking exhausted. I think everything is catching up to me—saving Ellie, finding you, us walking here to Jackson. I want to sleep for days. Then there’s the fact you fucked me so good, I’m gonna need some time to recover—I’m sore.”

“We overdid it.” He lets out a breath.

“We overdid it.” You nodded.

“But it was good..?” He looks hopeful.

You smile. “So fucking good—worth the pain.”

“Yeah?” He smirks.

“Yeah.”

“I reckon it was worth the pain.”

Once his back is iced, he’s able to get up, and you both take a quick shower together, deciding to call it a night. Joel’s protective instincts have him sleeping closest to the door with a gun and knife on the bedside table, you nestled into his left side, your leg hitched up on his thigh, resting your head over his heart, the strong beats so calming that it has you relaxing. There’s no doubt that you’ll sleep more than a few hours—you’re beyond tired and sated, so comfortable and happy that your mind is already beginning to drift. Add in Joel’s fingers sliding along the bare skin over your ribs, the shirt you’re wearing pushed up under your breasts, and you’re in heaven.

It’s the early hours of the morning, the room is dark and quiet, save for your even breaths filling the air.

His voice is gentle and barely above a whisper, “Baby?”

“Hmmm?”

“In the shower, you asked about my scar?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s one below your belly button that I don’t think is from bein’ stabbed. How’d you get it?”

His question has your eyes flying open, the sleepiness now replaced with panic as your mind races and heart pounds, knowing exactly what scar he’s talking about—it’s surgical, a cut made by a scalpel that’d been hurriedly stitched up after the doctor sterilized you.

It’s an easy enough answer to give him since he’s aware you can’t get pregnant. But it feels like a lie; it’s not the whole truth that you’ve buried so deep down inside your conscious because of the pain of remembering.

You’d been adamant about wanting to protect Joel from the anguish of discovering the extent of all he lost twenty years ago. You didn’t see the point in upsetting him and knew without a doubt he’d blame himself. Yet, there’s a part of you that feels he deserves to know, that he needs to know, and that this isn’t something you should have to carry by yourself. He’s the love of your life, the man you’re going to spend whatever days you have left on this earth with, and it feels wrong to keep a secret like this from him. If he found out later, he’d be even more devastated, and you don’t want to betray his trust like that—you don’t want to keep anything from him, like how you hope he doesn’t keep anything from you. You’re partners, you’ve always shared everything, and this is no different.

The resolve hits you that you’re going to tell him the truth, the whole truth.

“We don’t have to talk about it…” he says when you’re silent for too long. “It’s late anyway.” The last word turns into a yawn.

“No, I’ll tell you,” you reply. Moving, you get on top of him, your thighs bracketing his naked hips, leaning over to turn on the lamp. His eyes squint from the light, looking uneasy, your body pressing into his to hover your face over his, holding yourself up on your elbows beside his head, stroking your fingers through his damp grey hair. His arms automatically wrap around your back to rub his hands along your shirt-covered spine.

“I’m not gonna like what you’re about to tell me, am I?” he asks with a frown.

“No, Joel,” you answer softly. “It’s gonna hurt like a bitch, so take a deep breath for me.”

The expression on his face turns serious, clenching his jaw, his hands stopping their movements.

His voice is low, “How’d you get the scar?”

“We’ll get to that in a second. First, I need you to understand that everything that happened to me is not your fault, okay?”

“Just fuckin’ tell me.”

“You tell me first that you understand what I just said.”

“Yes—not my fault,” he says impatiently. “Tell me.”

One of the things they teach you in medical school is how to give a person bad news. There are times when you have to tell someone they’re dying or have an incurable illness; a patient dies in surgery, and you’re having to inform the next of kin. It’s a step-by-step process, starting with finding out the person's understanding of the situation for a place to begin and build upon. Next is the warning shot, which you delivered by telling Joel that what you’re about to tell him is going to hurt. Then you present the news in plain words to avoid any misunderstandings. It’s common for there to be silence, so you wait for them to make the next move and validate any emotional responses. It’s a little fucked up that this is the process you’re going to use to tell him, but it’s the best way to ease him into it and not cause too much emotional distress all at once.

“Good,” you reply. “Remember in the truck when I told you I took measures to ensure I couldn’t have children?”

“Yes. The scar’s from that? Surgery?”

“Yes.”

“Okay… what aren’t you tellin’ me?”

Taking a deep breath, you answer, “The reason I had it done.”

His eyebrows crease together, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“But you said—”

That you had a fellow doctor help you out.

“Yes,” you cut him off, “except after the Outbreak, especially right at the beginning, doctors weren’t doing elective surgeries, and still aren’t with the lack of supplies. They only do sterilization at the time of childbirth or in conjunction with another abdominal surgery.”

“Please, for the love of God, say surgery,” he says desperately, and it makes your chest ache, hating that you’re putting him through this.

Cupping his cheeks, you give another warning shot, saying as gently as possible, “Joel, I’m sorry I have to tell you this, but I was pregnant.”

His eyes go wide. “When?” he breathes, but you can tell he already knows the answer.

“2003.”

He looks like he’s just been punched, his face pinching in pain, squeezing his eyes shut as he absorbs the blow and processes what you said.

There’s a roughness to his voice when he speaks again, hearing the hurt when he whispers, “The baby?”

“Didn’t survive the pregnancy.” Swallowing hard, your eyes are burning at remembering all that’d happened, knowing something was wrong, and discovering the worse when an ultrasound was done. “I, uh, lost her in December of that year. I was a little over five months along.”

The devastation is clear on his face when his gaze meets yours, seeing how hard he’s trying not to cry with the tears brimming his eyes and his bottom lip trembling.

His throat bobs, the word cracking when it leaves his mouth, “Her?”

“Yes.”

“Five months? Five? You were… you were…” He can’t even say the whole sentence. “Before? On my, my… On my birthday?” Tears start falling down his cheeks.

Your throat is so tight that it’s hard to speak, answering morosely, “Yes.” Wiping at the wetness on his face, continuing, “I found out a few days before.” The next part, you say so quietly, “I was going to surprise you—it was your gift.”

You can see his heart break, and it makes your own squeeze so tight it steals your breath. It was the right thing to tell him—he deserved to know, but it comes at such a great cost, feeling terrible that you’re causing him so much distress. A pained noise comes from him as he crushes you in a hug, pressing your face into his neck, his body shaking as he cries hard, giving in to your own sadness.

“I’m so sorry, Joel,” you sob.

He’s in agony. It hurts. The pain is gut-wrenching, the sadness so deep inside of him he can feel it twisting him in knots, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. It’s like someone is trying to skin him from the inside out. What he’s feeling is unbearable, and he is unsure if he will survive.

Getting stabbed felt better than this. He’d rather get stabbed because that’s something that heals and scars over, but this? It’s a gaping wound that’s going to stick with him just like Sarah’s death had.

There was nothing he’d wanted more than to have a baby with you all those years ago, and now knowing how close he got to his dream—that he lost two daughters without even knowing, he’s at an utter loss, the anguish consuming him, and overflowing into the tears he can’t hold back, letting it all out as he holds you close, needing your comfort.

His body is trembling uncontrollably, wracking with sobs. “We lost our baby,” he chokes out. “Our baby girl—I lost my babies.”

It feels like his chest is caving in, his heart getting crushed under the weight of his sadness, and he’s thankful you’re here with him—you’re keeping him grounded, your presence stopping him from simply checking out, and he’s allowing himself to feel the emotions, and grieve, something he couldn’t do with Sarah.

He can’t even imagine what you went through alone—losing the baby, him, and Sarah. At least he still had Tommy, but you had no one, having to deal with it all by yourself. Joel feels like shit that he wasn’t there for you in your time of need, wondering if he had been, would the baby have survived? Did another of his kids die because he failed to protect them again? Maybe he wasn’t meant to be a father—he’s not supposed to outlive his children, and he has with two of them, fucking delivering the third to people who wanted to take her from him, too, and barely saving her. He’s a failure as a father, unable to keep his kids safe, and now he’s very aware of how much stronger you are than him. After all the loss you went through alone, and you kept going? He’s weak in comparison, a coward; he barely survived—a failure of a father, partner, and human.

Your words are muffled, your tears hot on his skin, “I’m sorry,” you cry. “I did everything I could to give her the best chance, and it wasn’t enough.”

It’s not right that you’re blaming yourself, and he’s so angry at himself that he’s stopped crying, needing to make you understand it wasn’t your fault—if anyone’s to blame, it’s him.

He pulls you up to look you in the eyes, seeing your face is wet, his large palms caressing your cheeks. “I know you did all you could.” He speaks the words clearly, making sure you can hear the truth. “It’s not your fault, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I… I,” he stutters, “failed you both.”

Your eyebrows dip down, going serious. “I told you everything that happened to me isn’t your fault, Joel. You can’t blame yourself for what happened to the baby, or Sarah, for that matter. I’m the one who fucked up and got a flat tire. I’m the one who became a doctor for the army and had to deal with the stress of treating people caught in the blasts when they tried to stop the spread of infection by bombing Alberquerque, which didn’t even work. The city was lost, the army cut their losses and sent us to Phoenix, we just…” You pause, sounding ashamed when you say, “We abandoned the survivors—left people in the medical camp who’d die without treatment, and as a doctor, I was horrified, but as an expectant mother? I was one of the first people on the truck because the baby was all I cared about.” Taking a deep breath, you continue, “I figured having the protection of the military and access to medical supplies was the best option I had to safely bring her into the world, even at the cost of my morals—she was all I had left of you, and I was willing to do anything to protect her, and in the end, she didn’t make it, and none of it was your fault.”

“There’s a chance she would’ve survived if I was with you.” Pain cuts through him like a hot knife, the regret stinging. “They both might’ve survived if I’d been with you.”

It’s weighing on him how things could’ve been different, feeling like it was all his fault for not finding you sooner. After Sarah’s death, he doesn’t remember much about the days or weeks that followed—he’d completely disconnected from everything and wasn’t himself, simply an emotionless shell of a person that did whatever he needed to keep Tommy safe, looking for you in every QZ, settlement, or army camp they entered. That night everything went down, they should’ve checked the route you took, they should’ve tried harder to find you. His mind is whirling with all of the different choices he could’ve made.

Your hand cups his cheek. “Hey,” you say softly. “Don’t think about the what ifs. I know it’s hard, but all it will do is drive you crazy. What happened, happened, and you don’t need to torture yourself over it by thinking of how you could’ve changed things. So, stop blaming yourself. I don’t blame you. I’ve never blamed you. It gave me the strength to keep searching for you, thinking that you and Sarah were out there looking for me, too. We can’t go back in time, so we focus on the present and the fact that after everything we’ve been through, we still managed to find each other again.”

Hearing that your grief spurred you on to keep looking for him makes guilt roil in his stomach over how weak he’d been and that, by his own hand, he’d almost made your search pointless.

There’s no sugarcoating it, and you should know after all you’ve revealed to him, so he just says it, “I tried to kill myself.”

It makes you flinch, shock coming over your face. “What?” you whisper. “Joel, when? Why?”

Taking a deep breath, he lets it out slowly, his eyes darting away because he feels so much shame.

“Second day,” he answers. Swallowing thickly, he continues, the emotion making his voice rough, “Sarah died in my arms, and after all the shit I saw, I thought you were gone, too, and that was why you never made it to my house. I lost you both and couldn’t see the point anymore.” He takes a second to figure out his next words. “I’m, uh, not as strong as you are. The two people I love most were taken from me, and I didn’t want to keep living. Simple as that. Wasn’t even scared,” he admits. “I was ready—more than ready.” He pauses, his jaw flexing as the memory of holding the gun and feeling so calm comes back to him. “When I…” He has to swallow again, a lump forming in his throat, it just as hard telling you as it was with Ellie. “When I went to pull the trigger, I flinched.” His gaze meets yours, seeing the sadness in your eyes. “I, uh, told Ellie this story the other day, and I said I don’t know why I flinched, but some part of me likes to think it was Sarah tellin’ me to keep goin’ and not give up.” A sad smile turns up on his lips. “You know how she was always bossin’ me around.”

You sniffle, sharing the same look as him, both thinking fond memories about his daughter. “Because you’re a fucking disaster, Joel,” you reply. “You need someone bossing you around.”

He’s not going to deny the truth. “That I do, and I’m so fuckin’ happy I did keep goin’ ‘cause I found you, and there’s Ellie.”

The only kid he has left.

If he was protective of her before, he doesn’t know what he is now, a little afraid he might become one of those annoying helicopter parents. He can’t risk anything happening to her. He needs to keep her safe, ignoring the sudden urge to jump out of bed to go over to Tommy’s to check up on her.

After the resort town, and what she’d gone through, he’d been so worried about her change in demeanor—how quiet she became, closed off, distracted, aloof. She wouldn’t talk about it, but from the look in her eyes and the blood that’d been on her clothes when he found her, she’d had to kill a person or people, and Joel felt like he’d let her down by not being able to keep her safe.

He hated when she had to shoot the guy in Kansas City to save him, and he hated even more that she had to kill when he wasn’t there to do it for her—she’s still just a kid, his kid, and he knew it’d be traumatic for her, even if she tried to put on a brave face, and sure enough, it’d fucked her up, Joel worried sick that he’d lost his upbeat, chatterbox, bad pun telling Ellie forever.

He’d done everything he could think of to cheer her up and get her out of her head as she’d always done to him, pretty sure he said more words to her on their trip to Salt Lake City than he’d said in the past twenty years combined.

Then she met you, and he knows it was you who brought her back to him—you’d literally taken him to her, helped save her life, and given her hope that everything she’d been through, the good and bad, all meant something, freeing her conscious of the guilt she’s held over those who’d died for her.

And since Joel and Ellie are cut from the same cloth and terrible with emotional shit, now that she’s better, they’re pretending like it hadn’t happened.

Thank Christ you were there to call him out on his lie about the Fireflies finding someone else and telling her the truth—she never would’ve forgiven him.

“I’m happy you kept going, too,” you say, “so you could be there for her. Ellie needs a parent, someone to love her unconditionally, and I know you love her like she’s your own kid.”

“I do.”

“Have you told her?”

He looks away. “...no. We’re, uh, not very good at that kinda thing.”

“I figured as much. You’ll have to tell her one day. I think it’d make her happy.”

“Maybe…” He looks at you again, frowning. “That little girl has been alone her whole life. No parents—abandoned with FEDRA when she was born. I reckon she’s never been loved or cared about, and she isn’t quite sure what to do now that she’s got a… a…”

What is he to her?

“Dad,” you finish for him. “You’re her father, and she’s your daughter. You’re still a dad, Joel. You’ve got another teenager to raise or at least guide. She’s no longer alone and now has people to love and care about her, all thanks to you.” You poke his nose.

“She’d hate me sayin’ I’m her dad…”

“Because it’s so foreign to her. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have one, and I think she’ll warm up to the idea after some time.”

He couldn’t help feeling hopeful. “It’d be nice,” he replies. “Easier way to explain our relationship, and I do know she loves me.”

She’d never had to say it. Her actions and how she said she’d follow him anywhere were enough for him to know. That’s how their relationship has always been—doing their damnedest to talk around their feelings because they’re both just so fucking awkward. He told Ellie it wasn’t time that healed him, and she’d understood what he meant: I love you, and you’re the reason I’m better. When she responded that she was glad the attempt on his life didn’t work out, he heard: I love you, too.

They get each other.

“Good,” you say. “I know she loves you, too.”

It’s an understatement to say life has been unkind to him. Frankly, it feels like all he’s gone through was some kind of sadistic test of his resolve to live, it getting harder and harder with every passing year.

Joel thinks he’s finally catching a break or at least hopes.

He’s got you, Ellie, and Tommy all together someplace safe.

It still hurts like hell everything he lost to get here, unable to stop himself from imagining what it’d be like if his other two daughters had survived—all of you settling in Jackson, him and you taking care of Ellie, Sarah in her thirties with her own home and a family, and then there’s the girl who would’ve recently turned twenty that looks like a mix of you both; he pictures a face with your gorgeous eyes, his mouth, your chin, and he’d feel awful that she got his nose, but she’s beautiful just like her mom.

What would she have been like? Would she have looked how he’s imagining? The thoughts have his chest squeezing so tight, feeling like he’s lost another piece of his heart after he just put it back together again.

His eyes are watery, his voice wobbly when he asks, “Did she have a name?”

Your face goes soft, sadness gleaming in your eyes, your fingers sliding through the hair above his ear. “Yes,” you answer.

“I’d like to know it,” he says softly.

“When I first found out, she was Jellybean.” There’s a fond expression on your face. “Then, after everything, I started calling her Hope? Didn’t even know if she was a girl, but to steal from Star Wars, she was my only hope and kept me going, so that’s what I referred to her as. If she’d ended up being a boy, I would’ve named her Joel.” That makes his breath catch in his throat. “Then I found out the gender, and Hope just stuck.”

“Hope was perfect.”

“Hope Miller.”

Tears are rolling down his cheeks. “Hope Miller,” he says, the name ending on a sob, Joel crying once more.

He hugs you close to him, breathing in your hair while he breaks down, your body shaking as you let go, too, needing each other at this moment, mourning together, sharing in the sadness.

It could’ve been minutes or hours later that there were no more tears to shed, both of you overly exhausted, feeling like your bodies had been wrung out of everything inside of them.

You lean over him to turn off the lamp on the bedside table, and with a hand on the back of your head, he brings you down for a tender kiss.

“Thank you for tellin’ me,” he murmurs into your lips.

“Thank you for telling me,” you reply.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, no matter what.”

“No matter what,” he agrees.

It’s comforting when you end up half on top of him, your leg thrown over his waist, your head on his chest, your arm across his belly. He holds you, everything that happened tonight, making him fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He turned onto his left side as he slept, and It’s the bed jostling, you sitting up quickly beside him, that has him waking abruptly, adrenaline pumping in his veins over not hearing the intruder enter the room. You’re in danger, his heart pounding, breathing hard, and he’s out of the bed immediately, needing to neutralize the threat, not seeing any weapons, his hand grabbing the unarmed man by the throat.

He’s being shouted at by you, it finally registering in his brain, “Joel, it’s Tommy!”

His brother’s eyes are wide, his hands clawing at Joel’s arm, using what little air he has to repeat, “It’s me, it’s me…”

It breaks him from the spell, letting go of the other man, who starts coughing.

“Jesus Christ, Tommy,” Joel growls. “I coulda fuckin’ killed you!”

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes. “I knocked, and nobody answered.”

“So, you broke in while we were sleepin’? You got a fuckin’ death wish?”

Tommy catches his breath. “I wasn’t thinkin’.” He looks sheepish. “Doc’s here, and I thought it’d be funny, like back in the day when I’d barge into your room when she was at the house.”

Joel’s hand is on his naked hip, the other pressing to his face.

One of Tommy’s favorite past times, back in Austin, was showing up at his house on Saturday mornings when he knew you’d be staying over and annoying the fuck out of you both until you got out of bed to go have breakfast at the diner with Sarah—after the first time, you started sleeping in a shirt much to Joel’s chagrin.

“You’re fuckin’ stupid, Tommy,” Joel sighs. “You can’t be doin’ that anymore. There’s a real chance I’d end up murderin’ ya, and I don’t need Maria hatin’ me more than she already does.”

“Maria doesn’t hate you.”

He moves his hand from his face to narrow his eyes at his brother. “Maria hates my fuckin’ guts,” he replies.

“Wait,” you say, Joel stepping to turn his body toward you, confusion on your face. “Why does Tommy’s wife hate you?”

There’s a thrill running through him because he knows that as soon as you find out, you’re gonna rip into his brother. He looks at the younger man, nodding his head toward you, “Tell her why Maria hates me.”

Tommy looks uneasy. “Well, like I said, she doesn’t hate you. She’s just gotta warm up to you, is all,” his brother says.

“Uh-huh.” Joel doesn’t sound convinced. “Stop beatin’ around the bush, and tell her.”

“I told her the truth of all we did in order to survive,” Tommy says quickly. “How we fuckin’ murdered innocent people and all that fucked up shit. I didn’t leave out anythin’ ‘cause she’s my wife, and I tell her everythin’.”

“Tommy,” your voice has gone low and serious, and Joel can’t help his smirk. “Did you blame everything you did on Joel and make him sound like a fucking monster?”

Tommy looks mad. “You don’t know what we did—all the people we killed. We could’ve done things differently. It was Joel’s fault.”

“For keeping you alive, Tommy?” she asks, Joel glancing her way to see her looking just as angry. “His daughter died in his arms. His daughter. He lost me that night, too, thinking I was dead, and you’re fucking blaming him for doing fucked up shit to keep the only person he had left alive? Are you fucking kidding me, Tommy? If anyone has survived to today, they’ve had to do horrible shit to get here—I’ve done horrible shit that I’m not proud of, but I’m still breathing, and that’s all that fucking matters.”

“There were other ways we could’ve survived,” Tommy says. “Maria—”

“Maria,” you interrupt, “wasn’t in the same situation as you and Joel. You make her sound like a goddamn saint, but I have no doubts she’s had to do fucked up shit, too. Get off your fucking high horse, Thomas. You were the last person Joel had, and after the shit that happened to him, you’re gonna bet your ass that he would do anything, no matter how shitty, to keep you alive. Frankly, you should be thanking him that you survived long enough to make it here.”

The other man breathes in deeply before replying, “Look, it’s in the past, and I get it now that he was just desperate to keep me livin’. I still feel pretty fuckin’ guilty about the shit that went down, but I understand why he did it. I’ll, uh, talk to Maria.”

“Yeah,” you say. “You better.”

“I will.” He nods.

“Did ya come over just to annoy us?” Joel asks his brother.

“No,” Tommy replies. “Brought y’all breakfast, like I said I would. It’s in the kitchen, and I’m also here to find out what the fuck happened ‘cause Ellie is a goddamn liar.”

Joel’s stomach twists. “What’d she say?”

“I know I said I tell everythin’ to Maria, but I kept my word to you and didn’t mention Ellie’s… condition. She thought you were takin’ the girl to find her family.”

“Thank you.”

“Ellie said y’all found the campus in Colorado abandoned and that you ended up in Utah at a hospital the Fireflies were usin’, and that’s where you found Doc. She said the place got hit by raiders, and you had to fight your way out.”

“I did find Doc at the hospital in Salt Lake City, and Colorado was abandoned,” he says. Scratching at the back of his neck, he looks away. “We got to Utah, found the Fireflies, but they’d wanted to kill Ellie in order to try and make a cure…”

“What the fuck did you do, Joel?” his brother asks through his teeth.

“Joel and I killed them all,” you answer for him, Tommy’s attention moving to you. “I was a doctor there and have been researching a cure for the last five years. Ellie was our key, but Marlene and the head of the facility wanted to murder her instead of doing a procedure that she would’ve survived. It was fucked up, so I helped Joel save the girl, and we took out the Fireflies in the process.” You shrug.

“You saved her instead of everyone else on the entire fuckin’ planet?” Tommy sounds like he can’t believe what he’s saying.

“I couldn’t let her die,” Joel replies, his eyes meeting his brother’s. “Not after Sarah—she’s my kid, Tommy.”

His brother sighs. “Yeah,” he replies. “I get why you’d do it. It’s just fucked that there coulda been a cure, and now what the fuck are we gonna do?”

“Well,” you start. “If I can get my hands on the right equipment, I can do the biopsy and work on developing it myself, but I’d basically need a lab.”

“You could do it?” Surprise is in Tommy’s tone.

“Yeah? The assumption is that Ellie has had Cordyceps growing inside her since she was born—my theory is that her mom was bit while pregnant and somehow gave birth before turning.” That has Joel’s stomach falling through the floor at the thought of Ellie’s mother making sure her baby survived even after being handed a death sentence, not knowing if the child was infected, too. He understands, though, if he’d been in her shoes, he would’ve done the same thing to ensure his kid was safe—hell, he murdered an entire hospital, risking the lives of millions for Ellie, and he thinks her mother would’ve approved. “Anyways,” you continue, “what we think happens is when Ellie gets bit, the normal Cordyceps think she’s Cordyceps or that she’s already turned, making her immune. If I biopsy some of her mutated Cordyceps, I can multiply the cells to make a vaccine to give people that will cause the same immunity, or at least that’s what I’m hoping. There’s no guarantee it will work.”

“Fuckin’ A, Doc!” Tommy’s grinning. “I always said you were too fuckin’ smart to be with this fucker.” He points his thumb at Joel. “We got a clinic, nothin’ fancy, but I’m thinkin’ I could probably convince Maria that we need more medical shit. The town’s gettin’ bigger, anyway. It’d make sense. We can send raiding parties to nearby towns and cities to gather whatever they can find—you give me a list, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I can do that,” you reply. “Does Jackson have a doctor?”

“Yeah, Dr. Jones is an old, ornery motherfucker. We could use some new blood if you’re up for it.”

You smile. “I’d love to.”

“Great! The other reason I’m here—” he focuses back on Joel “—is findin’ out when you wanted to get hitched.”

Joel looks at you. “You got a preference, baby?”

“The sooner, the better?” You shrug.

He smiles, thinking the same thing as he nods his head, facing Tommy again. “You heard the lady. The sooner, the better.”

His brother’s smiling big, looking delighted. “In that case, be at the House of Worship in two hours.” He holds up two fingers.

“Will do. How’d Ellie sleep?” Joel asks. “You fed her, right? Let her take a shower?”

The younger man’s eyebrows are up to his hairline. “Jesus, you really care about this kid.”

“Congratulations, Tommy,” you say with a smile. “You’re an uncle again.”

“I guess I am—missed it.” He’s smiling softly. “She had no complaints when she woke this mornin’, and, of course, I fuckin’ fed her. Couldn’t believe how much food she scarfed down. I should be askin’ if you’ve been feedin’ her,” Tommy tells Joel as he pokes him in his bare chest. “She showered first thing at the house, and Maria got her more clothes.”

“Thank you for takin’ care of her. You didn’t have to,” Joel replies.

Tommy smirks, saying, “Based on all those fuckin’ hickies coverin’ your naked ass—” He points at Joel’s torso “—it’s safe to say it was better she stayed at mine last night.”

Joel’s cheeks heat, having not realized that he is, in fact, completely nude. Walking over to the bed, he groans as he sits down on the edge, pulling a blanket over his thighs to cover himself up, his back twinging in pain.

He sighs. “Yeah, yeah,” Joel says. “Thanks again for watchin’ her. Can you make sure she’s at the weddin’? You, too.”

“We’d really like you both there,” you add. “It’s important to us.”

“What about Maria?” Tommy asks, looking unsure.

“Like you said last time I was here,” Joel starts. “She’s family and allowin’ us to stay here, so she can come.”

You speak behind him, “But, if she isn’t civil and ruins my wedding, I get to kick her ass.”

Joel snorts, and Tommy puts his hands up in a placating gesture. “Woah, Doc,” his brother says. “Maria isn’t gonna start shit—she’s seven months pregnant, for Christ’s sake, she’s got enough on her plate.”

The blood leaves Joel’s face, feeling like he’s been kicked in the gut with all the air leaving his lungs.

He’d forgotten about his brother having a baby, or maybe he’d pushed the thought away because he didn’t like to think about it. It wasn’t his proudest moment how he acted when Tommy first told him the news. He’d been jealous and resented his brother for living his dream of being married with a kid on the way. Tommy was getting to live this happy, idyllic life, and Joel, at the time, was struggling with his fears of failing Ellie and getting her killed. It’d been too much to hear his brother had a kid on the way, making Joel dwell on the fact that Tommy had been right, his life had stopped all those years ago, and he couldn’t stand how his brother and everyone else in this town were living like the world hadn’t ended.

It didn’t feel fair to him, not with all he’d been through.

Of course, he wants to be happy for Tommy. He really does. He wants to be able to share in his joy, but it hurts so fucking bad being reminded of how close he’d gotten to having what his brother has now.

He lets air fill his lungs and slowly lets it out.

At least he’s got you back. And Ellie.

He’d started living again the moment Ellie had forgiven him, shoving her bag into his arms the last time they were in Jackson and telling him, ‘Let’s go.’ They went, and the journey wasn’t easy, both coming far too close to death to be comfortable. He found you, or you found him as it were, and now he’s getting his chance to live a happy, idyllic life married to you, and together, you’ll care for Ellie.

That sounds pretty fucking perfect to him.

A wife and a kid. Wouldn't have even crossed his mind a year ago—a fever dream.

“Someone married you,” you say in disbelief, taking Joel from his thoughts, “and is having your baby? I know the apocalypse happened, but did hell freeze over, too?”

“I forgot how fuckin’ mean you are, Doc,” Tommy chuckles.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Joel whispers, receiving a playful swat to his shoulder from you.

“I’m not mean,” you grumble.

He has to hold in his groan as he twists his body to pat your thigh. “No, you’re not,” he tells you. “You’re perfect.”

“Stop lyin’ to her,” Tommy says. “And I’ll have you know that I’ve matured, Doc, now that I’m older.”

Joel turns back, squinting his eyes at the other man. “You almost got yourself killed by bein’ dumb…” Joel replies.

“It was for old time’s sake.”

“Well, congrats, Tommy,” you tell him. “You were always so good with Sarah. I know you’ll be a great dad.”

Tommy smiles. “Thanks, Doc. I’m nervous but excited. Put together the nursery myself.”

“That’s so sweet.”

“Well, I’ll get out of your hair and see y’all in a bit. Joel?”

Their eyes meet. “Yeah?”

“For all that’s holy, put on some fuckin’ clothes. We don’t need you bein’ our first prisoner in the town jail for public indecency.”

Joel glares at his brother. “You’re right,” Joel replies. “It’s time for you to get the fuck out. We’ll see you at the church.

Tommy laughs as he leaves, hearing his footsteps thudding down the stairs and the slam of the front door.

He presses his hands to his face, “Fuckin’ asshole,” he mumbles into them.

There’s movement as you crawl up behind him, wrapping your arms around his front and resting your chin on his shoulder.

“You okay, babe?”

His arms go over yours to keep you in place, turning his head to look at you. “Yeah,” he answers. “I’m fine. Had a rude awakenin’, is all.”

“Do you wanna talk about becoming an uncle?”

He lets out a long sigh. “There’s nothin’ to talk about—I’m happy for Tommy.”

“Joel, you don’t have to lie to me. It would be reasonable if you were feeling hurt that your brother is living such a great life and having a baby. I’m…” you pause, chewing on your lip. Your voice is small when you keep speaking, “I’m sorry I can’t give you children, and I’d understand if you wanted to find someone else you could have a family with.”

Hissing in pain, he’s standing quickly and turning around to face you, getting back onto the bed on his knees, not understanding why you’d even say such a thing—not after everything you’ve both been through to find each other again.

Is this you getting cold feet? Do you not want to marry him? Did he rush things?

His hands cup your face, making sure you’re looking him in the eyes.

“What?” he asks. “Are you second guessin’ marryin’ me? Was it ‘cause of how I woke up?”

He’s scared.

“What?” You look confused, your hands rubbing up his bare chest. “I want to marry you. Your reaction this morning was warranted.” Letting out a slow sigh, you continue, “Just, I know how much you’d wanted kids, how we wanted kids, and I wouldn’t blame you, now that you’re in a place like this, if you wanted to settle down and start a family.”

His face pinches in confusion, saying slowly, “Baby, we have a family… You, me, Ellie, we’re a family, and you’re all I need. You’re the only woman I want to be with.” He swallows hard. “I can’t stomach bringin’ any more children into this world—I’ve lost too many.” He inhales deeply, letting it out slowly. “I… uh, struggle with my need to keep Ellie safe. It’s always on my mind, and it scares me that I’ll end up gettin’ her killed like… like…”

“Sarah?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Like Sarah. I know Ellie isn’t her. I’m very aware. They’re so… different.”

You smile softly. “But they would’ve loved each other.”

He smiles, “Yeah. I reckon they would. Sarah would’ve found Ellie funny.”

“Oh, yeah.” You grin. “Would’ve loved Ellie’s terrible puns.”

He’s fondly thinking about it as he says, “She had a book full of ‘em. They were fuckin’ awful—if you think my jokes are bad, these were worse.”

Laughing, you reply, “I love your dad jokes. They would’ve enjoyed music together, too.”

“That they would. Both would’ve given me shit if I played guitar for them.”

“Affectionately, because they can’t reveal how much they actually love it to avoid seeming uncool. I miss your singing. Remember the first time you played for me?”

“Sarah’s thirteenth birthday party.” He nods. “We were hidin’ away in my bedroom while the livin’ room was overrun with teen girls, and I was tryin’ my damndest to woo you by playin’ some Ben E. King.”

“Oh, you wooed me.” You smirk. “Stand by Me was always my favorite.”

“I know.” He smiles. “I’ll have to see about findin’ a guitar.” He’s gotta play for Ellie and you. “What we were discussion’,” he says. “Ellie’s different, and I know it. She can shoot a gun and protect herself—has protected herself when I wasn’t there.” He frowns. ”I worry about her constantly. Somethin’ inside me needs to know she’s okay. If I’m like this with a girl capable of killin’, how would I be with a baby? It honest to god frightens me, and I’m sure I’d end up worryin’ myself to death.”

Your arms loop around his neck, a tender expression on your face. “As a doctor, I can tell you it makes sense that you’re overprotective of your living child. Hopefully, being here in Jackson and not constantly on guard will ease some of the worries. Just know I’m here if you ever wanna talk.”

“Thank you, baby,” he replies, leaning in to kiss you. When he pulls back, he looks you in the eyes. “I’m happy with all we have,” he says truthfully, “and there’s nothin’ for you to be sorry about—Ellie is more than plenty.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” There’s something he can tell you to ease your mind, and it makes him smile crookedly. “As a matter of fact, me bein’ able to fuck you full of my come with no risk of knockin’ you up really riles me up—gets me harder than a fuckin’ rock. I’m happy as a fuckin’ clam, baby.”

Your eyes go a little wide. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “You’ve got whatever the opposite of a breeding kink is.” You looked away, eyebrows creasing as you thought aloud, “Would it just be a creampie kink? No, ‘cause it turns you on that, there’s no risk of pregnancy. Wait, a birth control kink. You’ve got a birth control kink.” Your gazes meet, a grin on your face looking beyond delighted, as you playfully slap his chest. “I thought I knew all your kinks and fetishes, and look at you keeping me on my toes.” Leaning forward, you kiss him, Joel moaning when you shove your tongue into his mouth to tangle with his own, his hands holding your face, meeting your energy until you both need to breathe and separate. “I feel better knowing you’re happy with what we have because I’m happy, too,” you pant.

“Good,” he replies, smiling. Joel kisses you quickly. “We better get ready,” he says when he pulls back, a grin on his lips. “We got a date with an officiant.”

You’re smiling just as brightly, and it has butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He almost can’t believe this is happening, that you’re here, and in—he looks over at the clock on the bedside table—an hour and a half, you’ll be his wife, something you should’ve been twenty years ago. He’s missed too much time with you and won’t waste any more.

“It’s about damn time,” you reply.

“Don’t I know it.”

It’s obvious you’re both excited with how quickly you’re getting off the bed. Turns are taken in the bathroom, then it’s going through the bag of clothes Tommy had brought over. Neither of you expected to look like a traditional bride and groom; wedding dress stores no longer existed, and there definitely weren’t places to buy a suit. He asked your opinion on what he should wear, settling on a black and charcoal-colored plaid shirt with some dark wash jeans that were a tad tighter than he was used to. You did the same, showing him potential outfits and trying things on before you went with a cream-colored cable knit sweater over a white tank top and some light blue jeans that hugged your hips perfectly, but were too long in the legs, having to bunch them over the top of your boots.

Once dressed, you’d made your way down to the kitchen to eat the breakfast Tommy had left. Sitting at the kitchen table, you’re across from each other, barely coming up for air as the two of you eat your plates of eggs and bacon, the best fucking thing Joel has eaten since the last time he was in Jackson. You’re setting your water down after taking a gulp, a thoughtful expression on your face.

“You know what would’ve made today perfect?” you ask him.

“Hmm?” Joel hums around a bite, his eyes on yours.

“If Sarah were here.”

The sadness hits him like a truck, taking him off balance with how it slams into him.

He swallows his food, setting down his fork, frowning as he looks at you. “I wish she were here, too,” he says sadly.

A small smile appears on your lips. “I’d been so nervous the first time I met her because I didn’t want her to hate me.”

“There’s no way in hell she would’ve hated you.”

“Kids are really protective of their parents, and you’re the only one she had since birth,” you point out. “Then, for the first time in her life, you started dating. The cards were stacked against me—there were a ton of reasons for her to hate me.”

“She, uh—” he scratched at the back of his neck “—was always tellin’ me I needed to find someone, and then I met you and told her about meetin’ you. When our first date went so well, she was beggin’ me to meet you. I’d tell her about you, and she approved. You had nothin’ to worry about.”

“That makes me happy. You know, almost a year in, she said she hoped you’d marry me.”

He smiles. “Oh, she was tryin’ real hard to get me to pop the question—kept suggestin’ romantic places, she even said I should take you to Paris,” he chuckles, “and I’d have to remind her that I was waitin’ for the first year of your residency to end so you wouldn’t be stressed about a weddin’. Then there was the hiccup with you gettin’ fired—”

“Forcibly relocated,” you interrupt.

“Right.” He smiles. “There was the hiccup of you bein’ forcibly relocated and out of work for those few months, just didn’t seem right at the time, which was dumb, I know. So, by the time you’d started makin’ up your time at the clinic, I was done waitin’. I asked Sarah’s permission a week before my birthday, and she’d wanted to help me pick out a ring.” He frowns. “I’d been busy with that job, and well...” He sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair, leaving it unsaid because you two were very aware of what happened. “What I’m tryin’ to say is—” your eyes were on his “—Sarah loved you from the very beginnin’, and she would be so fuckin’ happy that we’re finally gettin’ married.”

You sniffle, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “I miss her so fucking much, Joel.”

His throat was closing up, having to clear it before he could speak. “I miss her, too, baby—every fuckin’ day.” He has to wipe at his eyes, something coming to him suddenly. “Last time I was here in Jackson, Tommy tried givin’ me a picture of her and me—one of the Polaroids that’d been on the fridge.” Sarah had been obsessed with the Polaroid camera you got her for her thirteenth birthday, the refrigerator littered with pictures of her with Joel, you, and Tommy, some a combination of the four of you. “I didn’t take it, couldn’t, not when I was thinkin’ if Ellie stayed with me, she’d end up like her. I didn’t want the reminder.”

There’s sadness on your face. “Oh, babe,” you say, “we’ll have to get it from him. Maybe put together a little memorial for her somewhere in the house.”

“I’d like that.” He nodded. “We could do somthin’ for Hope, too.”

“I’d like that,” you reply softly.

He nods. “We better finish eatin’” He points at your plate. “They’ll be expectin’ us.”

You smile. “Yes, they will.”

It’s a beautiful spring day, the sun shining high above in the clear sky.

It caught him off guard when you took his hand as you exited the house. Normally he wouldn’t want to be without his dominant hand in case he needed to use a weapon, but then your fingers intertwined with his, reminding him of times spent walking around the mall or the park, and the little smile on his face said that he didn’t mind, he actually quite liked it. Hand in hand, the stroll to the House of Worship has you taking in more of the town. It throws him a bit how people smile as they pass or offer quick greetings, it feeling foreign when Joel tries to politely smile back.

“I can’t believe it’s an actual functioning town,” you marvel beside him. “Electricity, water, sewer. I wonder how they found people to get things working again. They’d need engineers, electricians, and plumbers, too. Add in the fact they’re producing enough food to feed hundreds of people, and that’d require people with ample husbandry knowledge. They really got lucky.”

“Probably found people with backgrounds,” he replies. “I did construction, but I know my way around some electrical and plumbin’. Don’t know if I could get a dam workin’—if I had a manual, I’m sure I could figure it out.” He shrugs.

You glance at him. “It’s true you can learn a lot just from reading—don’t need fancy degrees anymore.”

“I reckon you’re a much better doctor than anyone who learned after the outbreak. Your fancy degree still means somthin’.”

“I guess.”

“I know it does, baby,” he says, leaning over to kiss the top of your head.

The House of Worship is an old church along the main street, the wooden siding of the building painted a deep red, with the entrance coated in white. It’s traditional looking, with the tall steeple containing a bell and its gabled roof that made the front look like an ‘A.’ The inside had the vaulted ceilings that you’d expect and rows of pews that led to the front where a plain podium stood, no holy symbols anywhere since it was multifaith. The place was empty, the tall windows along the walls letting in light from outside and illuminating everything.

“Five bucks says Tommy’s late,” your voice echoes in the large room, turning your head to look at Joel, his hand still engulfing your own.

“That’s easy money, baby.” He meets your eyes, looking amused.

“Wanna walk me down the aisle?” you ask.

Letting go of your hand, he straightens his back, it aching a little as he offers you his arm with a grin, answering, “Gladly.”

You hook your arm through his. “Ready?” you ask.

“Born ready,” he responds.

It doesn’t feel right that there’s no music, imagining that if this was before the outbreak, you probably would’ve walked down the aisle to the “Bridal Chorus.” Now, though, you’re thinking it needs to be something different, wracking your brain for the perfect song when it hits you, your lips turning up when you both face forward.

As you slowly start walking, you start humming loud enough for Joel to hear. He’s silent for a second, and you know with how much he loves music, he’ll recognize it.

“Etta James?” he asks, glancing at you with a curious expression.

“It felt fitting,” you reply, not feeling any embarrassment when you do your best impression of the singer, singing the opening line of “At Last.”

He huffs out an amused breath.

There’s a reason you studied sciences instead of the arts, and it’s because you’re not very talented in any of them; your singing voice is pretty lousy. Warmth spreads through your body when Joel jumps in on the second verse, sounding a bit rusty as he softly sings with you, making your way down the aisle.

The song isn’t finished when you get to the front of the church, both of you stopping on the same line. There’s a pause where you’re standing in silence, a circular window high above behind the podium showing the blue sky.

There are nerves swirling in your belly, even though you know you have nothing to worry about. Marrying Joel felt so right and was always what you’d wanted, now getting to make your dream come true. You’ve been alone for so long and lost so much in the past that you’re nervous about having people in your life to love and care about again, knowing they could be taken from you in the blink of an eye. You’re not sure how you’d survive if you lost Joel again; hell, it’d fuck you up if something happened to Ellie or even Tommy. These are your people, they’re all you have left, and you can’t worry about the morbid possibilities. You just need to focus on the right now and enjoy what you have, living every day to the fullest.

There’s something else you know without a doubt that Joel is feeling, too, and it’s the sadness weighing on your chest that Sarah is missing today.

Joel clears his throat beside you, his voice rough with emotion when he says, “You know, she’s here with us.”

“I know,” you reply truthfully.

Unhooking his arm from yours, he undoes the button on his left cuff, carefully rolling up the sleeve to his forearm, doing the same with his right. He turns to face you, and you do the same to look him in the eyes, seeing that sadness in the dark depths.

Gently, he grabs your left hand, bringing it up to softly kiss each knuckle, lowering it after a moment, his thumb rubbing over what he kissed. “It’s silly,” he says, looking a little sheepish. “She, uh, fixed this watch and gave it to me as a gift?” He holds up his left arm to show you his favorite watch that had broken, the glass now splintered. “It broke again when she died. The time it stopped on, well…” Your heart squeezes, feeling your eyes burn. “It’s,” the word cracks. He takes a deep breath, trying again, “It’s all I’ve had left of her. I keep it to keep her with me. She’s here.”

You cradle his cheek with your right hand, replying, “She is.” You nod. “She’ll always be with us, Joel.”

The door at the back of the church opens, both of you tensing, and looking toward it, the emotions dispersing as you go on high alert.

“It’s so much bigger than it looks outside,” Ellie’s voice echoes while walking quickly down the center aisle, looking around at everything, a visibly pregnant woman waddling slowly behind her. Ellie’s nose crinkles. “Smells fucking weird.”

“It’s an old buildin’,” the woman replies. “Old buildin’s smell.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Ellie’s finally made it to you, her attention on Joel as you both turn toward her. “Well, you’re not in a wheelchair, so your hips—”

“Are fuckin’ fine,” he grumbles.

The amusement is clear on the young girl’s face.

“Thank god for that,” she says. “Imagine traveling across the fucking country and almost dying multiple times, only to get to your destination where you cripple yourself from not being able to keep it in your pants. That’d be so fucking embarrassing,” she laughs.

“Well, that didn’t happen, so there’s nothin’ for me to be embarrassed about,” he retorts.

“Oh, there’s plenty for your old ass to be embarrassed about, Joel,” she replies. “You couldn’t even make it to the top floor of that building in KC. There was that time you couldn’t find the shit you stashed or, oh my god, how fucking smelly you get—which good on you, cleaning up for Doc.”

He lets out a long sigh, his hands on his hips. “You done?” he asks.

“I’m sure I’ll think of other shit, but for now? Yeah.” She nods.

“Thank you for bein’ here,” he tells her.

“Like I’d fucking miss you assholes getting your happily ever after, or whatever. Plus, I’ve never been to a wedding. Read about them, though. Wanna see what the fuss is all about, you know?”

“This should be pretty straightforward,” you respond, Joel and Ellie looking at you. “Just someone leading the ceremony and us saying vows to each other. Back in ye olden times, some people had crazy long ceremonies with a lot of speeches, but that’s not really us. We’re doing this more traditionally.”

“Yeah,” Joel agrees. “We’re not needin’ no sermons or someone waxin’ poetic about the sanctity of marriage.”

“Weddings sound exhausting,” Ellie replies.

“Oh, they could be,” you say. “Super boring, too.”

The woman spoke up, standing beside Ellie, “Tommy and I just did a small ceremony, like what y’all are doin’ with some close friends, and we exchanged our rings.”

“You must be Maria,” you say, sticking out your hand and introducing yourself, wanting to be cordial. “Most people call me Doc, and it’s kinda stuck.” You shrug as she shakes your hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she replies, letting go of your hand.

“Are you guys gonna get rings?” Ellie asks, pointing between you and Joel.

“Rings are hard to find…” you answer.

“Not when you live here,” Maria responds, smiling. “We’ve got a smith in town who can make you some—she does it for all newlyweds as a gift.”

Your eyes widen.

“Oh, I’d love a ring,” you say. Looking at Joel, you ask, “Joel?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I’d like one, too. Thank you, ma’am.”

“You can call me Maria, Joel, and there’s no need to thank me,” she says. “It’s Valerie who makes ‘em, and I’ll let her know you’ll be stoppin’ by to get sized.”

“Well, thank you for doin’ that,” he responds.

“You’re welcome, Joel.” She nods.

You can tell Maria doesn’t particularly love Joel, but there’s nothing about how she’s looking at him, speaking to him, or her body language that says she hates him. If anything, it’s more indifference, her coming to terms with him being her brother-in-law and now a part of her life, so she has to make some kind of effort for things not to be awkward. Joel’s doing the same thing. It's almost like they’ve silently agreed that this is how things will be—civil and nothing more.

“Thank you for giving us a place to stay, Maria,” you tell her. “The house is lovely, and Jackson is so wonderful.”

“Y’all are more than welcome to stay as long as you’d like,” she says. “Joel’s family, and you’re about to be family, too. I know Tommy’s excited to have all of you here.”

“Speakin’ of my brother,” Joel cuts in. “Where is he…? And whoever's officiating, for that matter.”

As if on cue, the door to the church opens, and Tommy comes striding in. He’s in jeans, a light blue button-up tucked into them, with the ugliest brown and mustard yellow striped tie around his neck, and a navy blue suit jacket about a size too big for him—he even slicked back his hair. “Sorry, I’m late,” he announces. “Had the worst fuckin’ time findin’ a goddamn tie.”

“Going without one would look better than whatever that abomination is,” you reply, pointing.

He frowns. “This is a tie-wearin’ occasion, so I’m wearin’ one.”

“You didn’t wear a tie when we got married…” Maria says slowly.

“‘Cause I love ya and wouldn’t want you havin’ to look at this eyesore.” He replies, holding up the tie.

“So, you don’t love us?” you ask him. “What are we, chopped liver?”

“Liver and onions ain’t too bad,” he answers. “And, of course, I fuckin’ love y’all, too.”

He makes it to your group, going over to Maria, his hand on her swollen stomach as he kisses her sweetly. “Hey, honey.” He smiles at her, and she grins back. He looks toward you and Joel. “I’ll take it introductions were made? Doc, you met my wife—” He’s rubbing her belly. “—and mother of my kid?”

“Yep,” you answer. “We met.”

“Good. Well, everybody’s here, so we can start.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Joel asks. “Where’s the minister or whoever the fuck you got to do the ceremony?” His arms cross over his chest.

A shit-eating grin appears on Tommy’s face, the one that means he’s up to no good and is about to say something that is going to aggravate Joel. “You’re lookin’ at him.”

Joel’s eyes squint. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” he grits out. “You’re not marryin’ us—the towns gotta have someone ordained or somethin’.”

“It just so happens Jackson does: Me.”

“This ain’t funny, Tommy.”

“Remember when you told me you were gonna marry her?” Tommy nods his head toward you.

“Yeah..?”

“Well, I went ahead and got myself ordained to do your weddin’—ain’t no skin off my back. I did it on the computer.” He looks proud of himself.

“What?” Joel sounds like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Why on God’s green earth would you think we’d have you do our weddin’? We probably would’ve had the minister at the church ma, and pop went to do it.”

“That man was older than sin and long dead now.”

“You’re not marryin’ us.”

Tommy matched Joel’s pose, crossing his arms over his own chest and staring his brother down.

“Then I guess you’re not gettin’ married.”

Joel scoffed. “We’re gettin’ married. We can do it ourselves.”

“Joel?” you said, putting your hand on his arm.

He met your eyes, the angry look on his face immediately disappearing. “Yeah, baby?”

“I don’t have a problem with Tommy marrying us. I think it’s sweet he got ordained.” You pointedly look at Tommy, saying in a tone that brokers no argument. “And I know Tommy would be very serious about the whole thing because he knows how important this is to us.”

Tommy’s hands go up in defense. “Hey, now, I’m not takin’ this job lightly,” he says.

Looking back at Joel, you say, “See, he means well, and I kinda like the idea of him doing it. We’ve got our whole family here—him, Ellie, Maria. Why not let him be involved?” You shrug.

He’s frowning, sighing out, “Fine.” He glares at his brother. “Don’t say anythin’ stupid—this is a big day for us. Keep it simple.”

“I can do that.”

“Okay.” Joel nods. His face softens when he looks over at Ellie. “Would you, uh, care to be my best man or woman, as it were?”

Surprise is on her face. “You want me to be your best man?” She points at herself.

“Well, yeah?” He sounds unsure as he keeps talking, eyes darting away, “Or, if you’d rather be the maid of honor, I’m sure Doc would be happy to have ya by her side.”

Ellie makes a face, meeting your eyes. “No offense, Doc, but I’m not feeling, ‘maid of honor.’” Her attention moves back to Joel, grinning. “But best man sounds fucking cool. What do I do?”

Joel’s smiling, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Just gotta stand next to me and be my moral support. Unfortunately, I don’t have a ring for you to hold.”

“That’s fine,” she replies. “I can stand beside you—catch you if you faint, make sure you say your lines, oh! Offer you a handkerchief when you start crying like a baby.”

“You don’t have a handkerchief…”

“Or do I?”

“Do you?”

“Of course not. Where the fuck would I get a handkerchief? My plan if you become a blubbering mess is to just, like, wipe at your face with the sleeves of my sweater.” She holds up her arms to show her maroon zip-up hoodie that’s a little baggy on her.

“I’m not gonna cry…”

There’s a shift, her playful expression melting away, replaced with a soft look showing earnestness and trust, her voice a little quieter like she’s trying not to scare him away, “You know it’s okay if you do, right?” she asks. “I won’t think any less of you, Joel. This whole thing is really fucking exciting, and I’d expect some tears, so don’t worry about me, okay?”

“Okay,” he replies, the word coming out rougher.

“So,” she starts, looking around at the adults. “How is this going down? In the books I’ve read, there’s music and people walking down the aisle and shit.”

Tommy walks around everyone to stand in front of the podium, everyone turning to look at him. “They’ll be over here and stand in front of me, you next to Joel, and I’ll get this show on the road.”

“I’m sitting,” Maria says, taking a seat in the first pew, her hand resting on her belly.

Your head turns toward Joel, him meeting your eyes. “You ready?” he asks.

The nerves you felt earlier had disappeared, and now you’re just excited. Sure, you hadn’t envisioned Tommy Miller doing your wedding ceremony, but you know, without a doubt, he’ll do his best. Even with him being a pain in the ass sometimes, he’s always been a sweetheart who loves his brother dearly—loved his niece a whole lot, too—and he’ll go out of his way to make this special.

You smile, taking his hand. “Let’s get married,” you answer.

He gives you a beaming smile, and quickly you’re moving to where Tommy had indicated, you on his left and Joel on his right.

Ellie pats Joel on the back, hearing her whisper, ‘You got this,’ him twisting a little to say back, ‘Thanks, Ellie.

Tommy pulls out a piece of notebook paper from his back pocket with writing on both sides, unfolding it to read from, and you’re impressed that he put in so much thought. Your hands are in front of you, Joel holding them, his thumbs rubbing over your knuckles, him smiling softly.

“Welcome, everyone,” Tommy starts, looking between you all and glancing at his notes. “Now, I’ve been to my fair share of weddings. They were all before everythin’ went to hell, and a lotta them started with how gettin’ married was the beginnin’ of some remarkable journey, yadda yadda yadda, you get the picture. That don’t quite work for Joel and Doc. No, their remarkable journey started in the summer of 2002, and I remember the day they met ‘cause Joel called me askin’ if I could come over the next day to hang out with Sarah since he asked his doctor out on a date—let me just tell y'all, I was confused as all get out ‘cause our doctor was a man in his 60s, with a bad combover, that was happily married, and I was under the impression, Joel was only attracted to women. My brother and I were raised that you love who you love—skin color, gender, none of that shit matters, which was pretty progressive for Texas. So, Joel tellin’ me he was goin’ on a date with his doctor, I thought he was comin’ out to me, and Joel, do you remember what I said?”

Joel snorts, replying, “‘Dr. Carlson’s a great guy. Where ya fellas goin’?”

You remember what Dr. Carlson looked like, which has you laughing hard with everyone else.

“That’s what I said,” Tommy continues, amused. “I was just happy my brother was goin’ on a date, didn’t care who with. He’d corrected me that it was a new doctor, and I’m not jokin’ when I say that Joel jabbered on and on about her for a solid hour, and I knew he had it bad. That was only the beginnin’ and after their first date? I knew he’d found the one.” Tommy looks at Joel. “I apologize for airin’ your personal business—” he went back to addressing everyone “—but Joel had bad luck with women, mostly ‘cause he went out with the wrong ones who didn’t much care for him havin’ a kid. But then he met Doc, who loved him, and his daughter, and I can tell y’all that Sarah—” Emotion is thick in his voice, already feeling tears starting to form in your eyes. “—woulda been happier than a hog in mud that they’re finally gettin’ hitched.” He’s fondly smiling. “I think her exact words would be, ‘Oh, thank god, took ya long enough.’” You and Joel chuckle, a tear falling down your cheek, his eyes watery, knowing he was hearing in his mind her saying those exact words just as you were. “Seein’ these two together,” Tommy kept speaking, “they just make sense. Aside from my wife, and I, I’ve never seen a more perfect couple—they complement and balance each other, and honestly, couldn’t have picked better partners. I only saw their relationship from the outside, but boy, could I feel their love; I can still feel it, and that love is what’s brought them here today. I don’t know that remarkable is the right word to describe their journey to get here—impossible seems more fittin’, and if there’s one thing they’ve shown me, it’s that soulmates exist.” Ellie scoffs, Tommy looking at her with a smile. “I know it’s cheesy, but hear me out. You familiar with Greek mythology?”

“No…?” she answers, and you’re wondering where he’s going with this.

“Myths are stories passed on by people that explain things about the world, like how it was created and such. Pretty much just people makin’ shit up and tellin’ each other until they thought it was true, but there’s this one I heard once about soulmates. It goes that when humans were created by Gods—the Greeks had more than one,” he clarifies, “they had four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. They weren’t fragile like we are now, they were pretty freakin’ powerful, and it made them fearless enough to challenge the Gods, and they sure didn’t care for that, so to take the humans down a peg, they were split into two, and were forced to spend their lives searchin’ for their other half. Sounds kinda familiar, right?” he asks her.

“Holy shit,” she breathes.

“Right? You’ve got these two who had a happy life together and were torn apart. I, uh—” Tommy audibly gulps “—didn’t know if Joel could live without her if I’m honest. They kept searchin’, ‘cause that’s how deep their love goes, just never stoppin’, and it took twenty goddamn years for them to find each other again, but they did—found their other halves, ‘cause they're meant to be together. So, us bein’ in this church today? It’s been a long time comin’ and marks the beginnin’ of a new chapter in their lives—one where they’re back together and finally gettin’ to live as husband and wife.” Tommy looks between you and Joel. “Before we get into it, I gotta thank you both. Even though I was jealous of what you have, it gave me a blueprint for what I wanted in a relationship.” He smiles softly. “Our story isn’t as crazy as yours, but I found it with Maria—she’s my soulmate.”

His wife starts booing from her seat, and everyone erupts in laughter. “This ain’t about us,” Maria teases. “You’re embarrassin’ me.”

“Sorry, honey, was just tellin’ the truth.”

“You can tell it later. Keep goin’.”

“Gotta listen to my wife,” he chuckles, looking at his paper quickly. “Does anyone object to this union? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Do people actually object?” Ellie asks. “What happens if they do?”

“Nothin’,” Joel answers, looking over his shoulder at her. “The person gets kicked out.”

You lean to the side to meet her eyes. “The objection part was for back before there were public records, so if there was a legitimate reason for the couple not to wed, like one of them was already married, someone with the knowledge would object, and the wedding would stop. In modern days, people who objected usually wanted to proclaim their love to the bride or groom.”

“That sounds really fucking awkward.”

“It was.”

You straighten, your attention back on Tommy as he starts speaking, “We are gathered here today to join these two in the union of marriage and celebrate their love. We all know the seriousness of the commitment bein’ entered and recognize that they have a truly special bond. Go ahead and look at each other; you’re gonna wanna remember this.”

Looking into Joel’s eyes, you take in the rich chocolate color and how they’re gleaming with unshed tears. There’s a pink tint to his cheeks, those grey waves of his combed back from his face, and his pouty lips turned up in a happy little smile, him looking so unbelievably handsome. There may be more lines on his face, signs that he’s aged, but staring at him in this moment, he still looks like the man you fell in love with all of those years ago, and you can see him, can perfectly picture that Joel having this same expression on his face.

“And now,” Tommy begins reading from what he’d written, “Joel, do you take this woman to be your wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, to honor her, to protect her, to comfort her, to share in the good times and the bad, in sickness and in health, and whatever life might throw your way?”

“I do,” he answers so clearly, hearing how much he means the two words, and it makes you sniffle.

Tommy says your name, addressing you, “Do you take this man to be your husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, to honor him, to protect him, to comfort him, to share in the good times and the bad, in sickness and in health, and whatever life might throw your way?”

“I do,” you reply with the same conviction as Joel, and he smiles, a tear falling down his face.

The other man’s attention is on Joel, “Joel, repeat after me, I, Joel Miller, take you—” He says your full name, “—to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and protect always, holdin’ unto you forevermore.”

Joel’s gaze is locked on yours, his voice thick as he repeats what Tommy told him to. Your lip is trembling, feeling so happy you want to cry.

“Doc, repeat after me,” Tommy starts, “I—” He uses your full name, “—take you, Joel Miller, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and protect always, holdin’ unto you forevermore.”

“—take you, Joel Miller, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and protect always, holding unto you forevermore.” He can hear the truth in every word you speak, knowing you mean them all, and it has warmth spreading through his veins, feeling like he might be floating with how happy he is.

You’re on the verge of tears, smiling at him, and looking so beautiful that he’s saving it to memory how you look at this very second, wanting to remember it always.

Tommy’s grinning. “By the power vested in me by some online church, I forgot the name of and the town of Jackson, I now pronounce you husband and wife!” He looks at Joel, clapping his hand on his shoulder. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Joel doesn’t need to be told twice, his hands moving up to cradle your jaw while he moves in, fusing his lips to yours in a searing kiss, ignoring the tears falling down both your cheeks. It’s a little wet, but he puts everything he’s got into kissing his wife for the first time.

His wife. He got you back, and now he’s married to you, and nothing else has felt more right in the world. You’re his wife.

He’s deepening the kiss, wanting you to feel his love, his happiness, his devotion, that the vows you made to each other are the real deal, and he meant every single one—he will live as your husband until the end of his days, following you even in death, loving you forever, doing everything he can to honor you, protecting you with his life, being there when you need comfort, happy to share whatever good times await you and be with you through the bad, knowing he’ll never leave your side in sickness and in health, and that you’re stuck with him no matter what life throws in your way, because like Tommy said, you’re meant to be together—went through literal hell to find each other, and he never wants to lose you again.

There might be some credence to the stuff his brother said about soulmates. When Joel lost you, it felt like he’d lost a chunk of himself, and having you back has filled that void.

“Is the kiss supposed last this long?” Ellie whispers to Tommy. “It’s like he’s eating her face.”

You must hear her with how you snort, breaking the kiss so you can giggle, Joel sighing, Tommy and Maria laughing.

“Sorry,” you apologize to him.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” he replies, leaning in to give you a quick kiss.

“Let’s all hit the bar to celebrate,” Tommy says.

Joel nods at his brother, who starts walking over to his pregnant wife to help her up from her seat.

It just seems like the natural thing, Joel taking your hand as you both turn around toward the door, his attention moving to Ellie beside him.

“What’d ya think?” he asks her.

She smiles. “Disgustingly sappy, but I liked it. That soulmate shit was cool. I gotta do my best man duties—can you get down a little? You’re too fucking tall.”

Confused by her request, his eyebrows crease, but he slightly bends his knees. Ellie covers her hand with her maroon sleeve, pressing it to his left cheek, and it feels like his throat is going to close up that she’s wiping away the tear tracks. Her tongue is peeking out in concentration as she gets one cheek, then the other, giving him a once over and moving her head to get different angles, ensuring she gets all the wetness.

“Done!” she says, her arm dropping to her side. “How’s Doc’s face? Does she need me to help her out, too?”

He stands to his full height, his head swiveling your way and finding you’ve used your own sleeve to clean your face.

You lean past him to look at her. “I’m good, Ellie,” you reply with a smile. “Thank you, though.”

“No problem.”

The young girl is next to him as you leave the church, Tommy and Maria leading. His brother has an arm around his wife’s waist as they walk, and Joel’s holding your hand.

“So,” Ellie begins. “If we’re going to the bar, does that mean I get to have a celebratory drink, too..?”

“No,” all four of the adults say simultaneously.

“Geez, you guys are no fun.”

“There’s juice for you and me,” Maria replies, looking over her shoulder at the teen.

“Great,” Ellie grumbles, and it makes Joel smile.

The bar is how he remembers it from the last time he was here, except the mood is lighter this go around, and the place is just as empty as before.

“Holy shit!” Ellie exclaims, beelining for a corner. “Mortal Kombat?!”

He remembers how excited she’d been seeing the old arcade game when they’d stopped on their way to Bill and Frank’s. She said her friend knew everything about it, and Ellie seemed to love the character Mileena. She’s pressing the buttons and jerking the joystick. “Does it work?” she twists her body to ask.

You and Joel are standing with her while Tommy goes behind the bar, Maria taking a seat at a table near her husband.

“No,” Tommy replies, frowning. “Sorry, kid. We tried gettin’ it to run, but somethin’ in its fried. The jukebox works, though.” He points to the opposite corner where the machine sits. It was one from the 80s modeled after jukeboxes from the forties and fifties but updated to play CDs, with colorful lights glowing on the front. “There should be quarters in the bucket on that table by it.”

Ellie immediately went to it, the arcade game forgotten, hearing her clicking the button to flip through the track listings. The two of you headed for the bar, Tommy having set five glasses onto the bartop and was currently using an ice pick to break ice from a block.

“Tommy?” Maria calls.

“Yes, dear?” he answers, putting ice into each cup.

“Can you show ‘em what we got?”

“Yeah.” Tommy moves a few steps away to grab something, then sets it up next to the glasses.

On a plate sits a small round cake covered in white icing.

His brother is smiling. “She says ‘we,’ but it was really her,” Tommy confides in you both. “An olive branch, if you will.”

You’re turning to tell Maria, “Thank you. This was very thoughtful of you.”

The other woman waves away your words, replying, “It was nothin’. Can’t have a weddin’ without cake.”

“Well, thank you. We appreciate it.” You’re hugging Joel’s arm, looking up at him. “Right, Joel? We appreciate it very much.”

“That we do,” he responds, his head moving to look at the other woman. “Thank you, Maria.”

“You’re welcome, Joel.” She nods.

He doesn’t think they’ll ever be best friends, but she’s been friendlier this time around.

“I’ve never heard this song,” Ellie’s voice is loud as she speaks. “But based on the title, I’m pretty sure it’s how Joel feels about Doc.”

“What song?” he asks, both of you turning in place, looking in her direction.

“Gimme a second. I’m trying to figure out how to work this fuckin’ thing.” There’s the sound of her struggling, and before he can go help her, you’re already heading her way.

There’s a pull for him to walk over there, too, and he has to fight it to stay back, resting his side against the bartop with his arms crossed, watching from afar.

He glances at his brother to see him pouring drinks, putting what looks to be apple juice in two of them.

His attention goes back to you and Ellie, her pointing at what he assumes is a song, which makes you laugh, and him frown because he’s dying to know which one it is.

“You’re right on the money, squirt,” you tell Ellie as you show her how to use the jukebox.

A second later, the opening to “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” by The Police starts playing, Joel snorting and shaking his head as the lyrics run through his head, seeing how they are pretty accurate—every little thing you do is magic, and you’re always turning him on.

Something inside him soothes when you beckon him over, Joel quickly walking across the bar.

He’s in front of you, and you lean in so your lips are close to his ear, asking in a whisper for only him to hear, “Is your back okay?”

You’re pulling back, searching his face. His back isn’t bothering him at the moment, and he’s able to move around fine. “Yeah,” he answers.

A toothy smile appears on your face. “Dance with me, then,” you say. “Please.”

There’s an empty space in front of the jukebox that you’re standing in that must’ve been used as a small dancefloor. He feels heat licking up his neck because he hasn’t danced in years, and there’s an audience—Ellie watching off to the side with an amused look, Tommy with a matching expression over at the bar.

“Yeah, Joel,” Ellie ribs. “Dance with her.”

“Remember, Joel,” Tommy yells. “Happy wife, happy life!”

He sighs, gulping at your hopeful expression, not wanting to disappoint you. “Apologies in advance if I step on your toes, ma’am,” he says as he pulls you into his arms—a hand around your waist, the other holding your hand, while you’re grabbing his shoulder. He goes the safe route, starting to move you both in a swaying shuffle, you grinning at him with stars in your eyes that make his heart pick up in speed.

It’s not really a slow-dancing song. It’s too upbeat and moves too quickly. His heart is in his throat when the steps come back to him as if he’s riding a bicycle, you laughing softly when he begins leading you in quicker movements around the small space. He’s smiling at your glee when he throws in a spin here and there, knowing it amuses you, always pulling you back into his arms.

Ellie is standing by the jukebox with an expression on her face like she can’t believe what she’s seeing but is delighted by it anyway.

It’s reminding him of going out with you to the bar in Austin that did live music, having a few drinks, and you pulling him onto the dancefloor with the rest of the couples. With how happy you look, he thinks you’re remembering the same thing, the both of you just letting loose and having fun.

Fun.

When was the last time he got to have carefree fun like this? Sure, he and Ellie had some fun on the road, but he was always on alert and couldn’t let his guard down. Christ, he sure as hell wasn’t having any fun before the teenager came into his life.

That means the last time he got to enjoy himself like this was on his birthday, watching his favorite movie with Sarah while waiting for you to get off work. He hadn’t found it odd you were working at such a late hour that night since your clinic in the big city was open twenty-four hours, and there were times it was so busy you couldn’t call him until the end of your shift.

And here he is, having the best time dancing with you.

He’s taken aback by how normal this all feels. He woke up that morning with you beside him, in the new house you share, got married in a church, and is now celebrating in a bar with a cake, having drinks, and dancing to music as if outside the town walls, there isn’t desolation and unimaginable horrors.

How long can Jackson remain being this little oasis amongst the apocalyptic hellscape? How much time will he get in this bliss? Too many things have happened to him to think this will last—it’s too good to be true.

The song comes to an end, and he lowers you in a dip, causing you to giggle while Ellie claps.

Pulling you back up, you grab his face and kiss him, Joel losing himself in the sensation of your lips on his, feeling you smiling.

He focuses on you in his arms and your mouth on his, grounding him and pulling him from the darkness of his thoughts, giving him hope.

Joel will do whatever he can to help keep this town safe. It’s a new beginning for the three of you; Ellie can have a somewhat normal life and get to be a kid, you can relax, and the two of you can settle down together, hopefully living out the rest of your many years here.

“Thank you for dancing with me,” you say when you pull back, taking him from his thoughts.

“Any time,” he replies, smiling.

There’s a possibility you might explode from how happy you are.

You’re married to Joel. He’s your husband.

Staring into those big brown eyes of his, a sweet smile on his lips, you start speaking, “I need you to do something for me.”

His eyebrows dip together. “Anythin’,” he responds, rubbing his big hands over your arms.

“I need you to pinch me—I’ve gotta make sure I’m not dreaming and you’re really here with me.”

The expression on his face melts into something soft. His hand dips down to pinch your hip, his other one caressing the side of your face. “There,” he says. “Believe I’m here now, baby?”

Tears spring to your eyes, grinning as you crash your mouth to his, kissing him desperately, your hands wrapping around his neck.

“I suddenly want juice,” Ellie announces to no one in particular. “So, I’m gonna go get some, so I don’t have to see this. Seriously, guys. Gross.”

Her comment has you breaking apart from Joel, giggling as you face her.

“Sorry, Ellie,” you tell her, seeing her face pinched in disgust. “We did warn you about the excessive PDA.”

“Yeah,” she replies. “Still gross. I mean, who wants to see their… their… their.”

“Dad?” you finish for her.

“He’s not my dad.” It’s said almost like a reflex, and you can see fear in her eyes.

She’s like a wounded animal, and you’re going to need to be careful. You close the distance slowly; it’s only a couple of steps.

Joel’s moved beside you, and you’re surprised when he speaks, his voice low so only the three of you can hear. “It’s okay,” he says, her gaze on him. It takes him a second to figure out his next words, and he looks away with his hands perched on his hips. “That shit I said last time we were here? I was lyin’.” He sighs. “Thought if I said it out loud, it’d be true.” He meets her eyes. “You can, uh, call me whatever you’d like—caretaker, guardian, ward, Dad. ‘Cause—” he audibly swallows. “—I think of you as my kid,” he says softly. “You’re not cargo. Never were. You’re family. My family.”

“You’re my family, too.” Her voice is quiet, looking hopeful. “Feels weird calling you, Dad, though—” She points at him “—you’re Joel.”

He smiles. “Then keep callin’ me, Joel,” he reassures. “If people ask, can I say you’re my…?”

“Daughter?” she finishes for him, smiling. “Sure.” Ellie shrugs. “And you’re my father, but—” She looks around like she’s making sure no one is listening, saying conspiratorially, “—I’m pretty sure I’m adopted.”

He snorts. “That was stupid.”

She grins. “I thought it was pretty funny, Dad.” She makes a face. “Oh, yeah, that’s fucking weird—no offense,” she adds quickly.

“None taken.”

Her eyes dart away. “I’m glad you brought me here,” she says. “And that I’ve got you—both of you now.”

“Yeah, I’m happy you’re here, too, and Ellie?”

“Yeah, Joel?” They look at each other.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere. Okay?”

“Okay.” She nods. “That juice sure sounds good,” she says a bit louder, making you smile because Joel hadn’t been lying that they’re both terrible at expressing their feelings to one another.

“Let’s go, kid,” he replies.

She’s already moving toward the bar, and you take his hand, both of you mosying your way over.

“Congratulations, Joel,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“It’s a fourteen-year-old girl.”

He chuckles. “What can I say?” he whispers back. “I’m a girl Dad.”

“Yes, you are.”

Taking seats at the bartop, Joel is between you and Ellie, Tommy placing drinks in front of each of you before walking out from behind the bar to take Maria her juice, holding his own glass.

“To Mr. and Mrs. Joel Miller!” Tommy toasts.

Everyone raises their glasses before taking a drink.

It’s whiskey—actual facts whiskey, and not moonshine, it sliding down your throat smoothly, relishing the burn. This was quality shit from before the outbreak that was extremely hard to find.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, staring at the glass. “This is the real fucking deal.”

“We save it for special occasions,” Tommy replies. “But we also have shit we’ve made.”

“Thank you for letting us have some,” you say, turning your head to look at him. “I haven’t had a decent drink in years.”

“You’re welcome, Doc.” He holds his cup up to you.

Joel sets his glass down, you taking another drink.

His arm goes around your waist, his other hand scratching at the back of his neck, and you can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say.

He keeps his eyes forward. “I just wanna thank y’all for makin’ today real special for us,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear. “It means a lot to us havin’ ya here.”

“Psh—” Ellie playfully punches his arm. “—like I’d miss my chance at seeing you so happy it makes you cry, and I wasn’t disappointed.”

“Yeah…”

“We ain’t done celebratin’!” Tommy exclaims. “There are gifts.”

You and Joel are turning in your seats to look at his brother.

“What are you talking about?” you ask. “You’ve done more than enough. The house, the beautiful ceremony, the cake, this booze. We can’t accept anything else.”

“Yeah, Tommy,” Joel adds. “We don’t need anythin’ else.”

“Oh, quit it,” he replies, walking back behind the bar. “Let us spoil ya today. You sure as fuck deserve it.” He’s leaning down to grab something behind the bar and coming back up, keeping his hands low so you can’t see what he’s got. “This first gift is from Maria and me.”

“Why are you lyin’ to them?” his wife asks. “That gift is all you—I got the cake.”

“‘Cause we’re married.” He sounds exasperated.

“That one’s too damn special, it’s solely from Tommy, and I had nothin’ to do with it.”

He sighs.

“This first gift is from me,” he says, the last word a little louder. “And only me.”

“We read you loud and clear,” you reply. “I am dying to know what it is.”

He looks a little unsure as he speaks, “Well, now that y’all are here together, I’m hopin’ you’ll want them.” Two Polaroid pictures are placed between you and Joel, both having faded a little over time, your breath catching in your throat, covering your mouth with a hand.

The first one is of Joel and Sarah making silly faces at the camera—him with his hair still brown and his face less worn from age. You’ve worried that over time your memory of what Sarah looks like had decayed, but here she is with her dad’s eyes, her beautiful smile, and her head full of curly hair, just as you remember.

You’re reaching out to touch the second photo of the three of you on her fourteenth birthday at Joel’s house. You’ve got your arms around her, Sarah resting her head on your shoulder, Joel hugging you both from behind, all three of you smiling at the camera.

“I, uh, told Joel this last time I saw him,” Tommy starts. “But I went back to the house some years ago. Place was picked clean—found those, though.” He points at them. “Kept one of her and me—hope that’s alright.”

Joel’s voice is thicker from emotion, “Of course it’s alright,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you, Tommy,” you add.

“You’re welcome.”

“Look at her,” you murmur.

“Just like I remember,” he whispers. “God, I miss that smile.”

“I do, too.”

“Can I see this one?” he asks, pointing at the one with the three of you.

“Yeah.” You move your hand to pick up the other, him taking the one he wanted gingerly between his fingers.

He stares at it for a second before showing it to Ellie. “This is Sarah,” he says to her. “My other daughter. I just know she would’ve liked you. Not that I think you’re the same. Definitely different kids, but still mine.”

“How are we different?” she asks.

“Well, she was a lot more, I wanna say girly?” He’s quickly adding, “And I’m not sayin’ that you’re not girly...”

She snorts. “I’m not.”

Joel smiles crookedly, “Yeah, you’re not. So that. She was taller. She had that killer smile.” His eyes widen, worry on his face, speaking fast, “Again, not sayin’ you don’t...”

“Chill out, Joel,” she laughs, him visibly relaxing. “She did have a killer smile. You really think she’d like me?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods. “You’d get on like a house on fire. She would’ve liked you ‘cause you’re funny. I think you would’ve made her laugh,” he answers thoughtfully. “The two of you love music—she had a small CD collection she would’ve liked showin’ you. And I know together you would’ve had too much fuckin’ fun givin’ me shit. Can picture you gangin’ up on me,” he chuckles. “She would’ve liked you a whole helluva a lot, and I bet you would’ve liked her back.”

“Yeah, I think I would’ve,” she replies. “Sarah sounds really fucking cool.”

He’s softly smiling, looking at the picture. “Yeah, she was the coolest.” His head swivels in her direction, “Not sayin’ you’re not cool—you’re really fuckin’ cool, too. The two of you are way cooler than me.”

She’s laughing. “Jesus Christ, Joel,” she says. “It’s okay, and it doesn’t take much to be cooler than your old ass.”

“Yeah,” Tommy speaks up, Joel and Ellie looking at him, smirking. “Sarah would’ve found you hilarious, and y’all would’ve had a blast terrorizin’ the fuck outta this asshole.” He nods his head toward Joel.

“God, Joel’s right,” you add. “They would’ve ganged up on him, just a constant Joel roast.”

“It’s already a constant Joel roast…” Joel grumbles.

Rubbing his arm, you reply, “But it’s done affectionately.”

“I guess,” he sighs.

“There’s one more gift for ya,” Tommy says.

You’re staring him down, telling him, “Tommy, the pictures are more than enough—way more than enough. We can’t accept anything else. We won’t.” You shake your head.

“She’s right,” Joel cuts in. “You’ve given us too much. There’s no fuckin’ way we can ever repay you.”

“This gift isn’t from me,” Tommy responds with a little smile. “It ain’t from Maria either.”

“Then who’s it from?” Joel asks, confusion on his face.

You’re wondering the same thing. There’s no one else in Jackson you know.

“Ellie.” He points at her, both of you turning your heads to look at her, you having to lean around Joel.

“Hey.” She puts up her hands in defense. “Tommy helped!” She points at him. “Told me I could pick out a gift for you guys, and we went around to a bunch of places last night looking at shit, and I saw something I thought you might like, but it’s probably super fucking lame, so if you wanna trade it, go for it. I have no fucking clue what to get people when they get married.”

“Hey, don’t stress,” you reply, giving her a reassuring smile. “We’re gonna love it.”

“Yeah.” Joel smiles, knocking his shoulder against hers. “We’ll love anythin’ you got us.”

She looks unsure. “I hope so.”

“What’d you get us?” you ask.

Her attention moves to Tommy.

“Is it back there?” she asks him.

“Yep,” he answers.

Ellie jumps off her barstool, walking around the bar, to lean down and grab something that seems big, but you can’t see since it’s so low, her moving back toward you both.

When she’s in sight, your eyes go wide, realizing it’s a black hardshell guitar case.

There’s pink on her cheeks, holding it out to Joel, looking down at her feet. “When, um, we were on our way to Salt Lake City, you, um, said you wanted to find a guitar?” she says it as a question. “Said you hadn’t played in forever and that you’d teach me. Which you don’t have to,” she quickly adds. “But, um, I figured if you used to play, you probably played for Doc and Sarah, and she’d maybe wanna hear you again, so a guitar, for your wedding or whatever.”

“It’s perfect,” he chokes out, and you can see his eyes glistening as he gently takes it from her. “Thank you, Ellie. I, uh, didn’t think you’d remember all that.”

She meets his eyes. “I do. Remember a lot of it. So, there you go.” She’s wringing her hands in front of her, Joel carefully setting the guitar against the bar and getting up from his chair to stand in front of her.

“Would it be alright if I hugged you?” he asks softly.

“Sure.”

He’s slow in his movements, not going too quick as he wraps his arms around her, one behind her back, the other hand cradling the back of her head, resting her cheek on his shoulder. Her own arms go around his middle, his chin nestled atop her hair.

A father holding his last living child, a daughter being held by the only parent she’s known, a comfort they’ve both needed and something to cherish.

“Thank you, baby girl,” he whispers.

This seems like a private moment, averting your eyes, Tommy doing the same.

“I’m happy you’re, uh, better,” he continues.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” she says just as softly.

“Never in a million years, I… care about you too damn much.”

“I care about you, too.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

They stay like that for seconds longer before separating, his hands on her shoulders.

“I think I promised I’d sing for you,” he tells her with a warm smile. “I apologize if I’m a bit rusty.”

“I didn’t save the world.”

“There’s still time, kiddo.” He moves back over to the black case to open it up, pulling out the mahogany acoustic guitar, its sides stained black, him admiring it. “Well, isn’t she a beauty.”

“You gonna play the thing or take it out on a date?” Ellie asks, making you giggle.

Joel’s eyes narrow at her, him moving to sit on the barstool with the guitar resting on his thighs.

“Gimme a second,” he replies, strumming his fingers over the strings, it clearly out of tune. “I gotta fix it.” His eyebrows are creased in concentration as he turns each peg to adjust the pitch of the strings until he’s satisfied, nodding his head when he strums, and it sounds right.

He’s not playing any particular song, just reacquainting himself with the chords, doing little melodies to get back into it.

Tommy walks out from behind the bar to go sit next to Maria at her little table, his arm over the back of her chair, while nursing his drink with his other hand, both of them watching Joel in interest.

Since Joel was a child, he’s been passionate about music. By the time he turned seven, he was playing guitar, and as an adult, he was so good that he only needed to hear a song once to know how to play it.

“Promise me you won’t laugh,” he says to Ellie while still playing.

She’s smiling, replying, “I won’t.”

He gives her a look.

“I won’t, I promise,” she says.

He nods his head.

“I’m trustin’ you.”

It makes sense that only after some minutes, he seems to have the hang of it, things sounding smoother, and you grin when he moves into a familiar tune—the steady rhythm with the twang as he plucks the strings, excitement bubbling in your belly over what was about to happen.

He’s focused on the guitar, his voice a deep, throaty rasp, as he starts crooning the beginning of “Stand by Me” by Ben E. King.

Tears are back in your eyes, feeling emotional that he’s playing your song.

This was the first song he’d ever played for you all those years ago, the song you’d ask him to play again and again because of how much you loved it, the song you thought would play while you shared your first dance after saying ‘I do,’ the song you could imagine him singing to your children.

And here he is, playing the guitar for the first time in over twenty years, and this is the song he’s chosen to sing, knowing how much it’d mean to you.

Joel Miller is the love of your life, has always been the love of your life, and now you get to call him your husband.

She’s honestly surprised that he’s not bad—kind of reminds her of the singer from Pearl Jam, but, like, if he were Texan and his voice was a bit deeper.

God, she misses her Walkman so fucking much, she’d kill to hear “Take on Me” again. Wait, maybe Joel knows it, and he could play it for her. She’ll have to ask him when he finishes with this song.

It’s crazy to her that this time last year, she’d been in FEDRA school, getting up to shit with Riley, and now she’s across the country, in a small town that fucking works with her—Jesus, it’s even fucking weird to think about calling him her Dad—Joel, he’s her Joel, it’ll take some time to ease into the name change. Anyways, she’s now here with Joel and Doc, who’s honestly a great addition to their team.

If anyone deserves to be reunited with their one true love like he’s living a fucking fairytale, it’s Joel, and Ellie is so fucking relieved that Doc is actually pretty great; she’s more than pretty great, actually. Doc is fucking awesome and has always been honest with her, so she knows that when Doc told her she’d try to figure out a cure, she was telling the truth, and that gives Ellie hope that she might actually get a chance at saving the world after all.

Everything she’s gone through, all of the people who’ve died for her, it all needs to fucking mean something. It has to.

Ellie’s happy for Joel and Doc, she really is, and she’ll never admit it out loud, but she’s scared. Not that, like, Joel will forget about her now that he has a wife. No, they care about her too much, and that’s what scares her.

For the first time in her entire fucking life, she has a family—Joel, Doc, even Tommy, and Maria—she has people who give a shit about her and love her. Joel wants her to call him ‘Dad,’ he thinks of himself as her father, and she sees herself as his daughter, and now there’s Doc, too, who’s so warm and comforting, and fuck, what if something happens to them? What if she loses them like she’s lost every other person who’s ever given a fuck about her? This time last year, she had Riley, and now Riley’s dead, and not only that, but Ellie’s the one that had to kill her.

A year and so much has changed.

What if she loses all of this?

She told Sam she’s afraid of ending up alone, but really she’s frightened of outliving the people who care about her, and now there are so many.

She just has to remind herself that Joel is the strongest man on the entire fucking planet. He got her across the country, basically came back from the dead, and took out a hospital full of Fireflies—they’re not in danger here in Jackson, and if they were? Joel will keep her and Doc safe, she’s positive about that, and Ellie will help, she can hold her own, and she’s not going to let anyone else die for her.

They’re safe.

Everything is going to be okay. Joel will make sure of it.

The song finishes, and he sighs, not looking at her as he asks, “Well?”

“Well, that didn’t suck,” she replies, smiling. “I’m honestly impressed ‘cause I figured you’d be fucking terrible, but you weren’t. You were pretty good.”

He looks at her with big eyes and a little smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She nods her head.

“You still got it, babe,” Doc says.

He turns to look at her with a grin. “Yeah?” he asks her.

“Yep.” She smiles back. “You had me swooning—you know how much I love that song.”

“Yeah, I do,” he replies in a different tone that has Ellie making a face.

Jesus, they’re so gross, and now they’re kissing—of course, they are. She’s pretty sure they can’t go five fucking minutes without their lips locked.

Her attention moves to Tommy and Maria, who aren’t much better sitting close together fucking canoodling.

Disgusting.

She’s got the ick.

“Cake sure sounds really fucking good right about now,” she says loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

“Hell yeah, it does,” Tommy replies, getting up from his chair. “I’ve got plates and shit.” He’s walking back behind the bar.

Joel and Doc have unlocked their lips, thank god.

“Joel?” she asks.

He meets her eyes. “Yeah?”

“This is probably a long fucking shot, but there’s this band I loved called A-ha? Listened to the tape on my Walkman all the time, and they had this song called “Take On Me.” Do you know it?”

He smiles. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

He’s already playing the beginning, the familiar melody making Ellie smile so big she thinks her cheeks are gonna hurt.

Yeah, everything is gonna be okay, and her life has never been better.

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[blueywrites]

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, extreme fluff, smut, oral (f receiving), anal play (f receiving), fingering (v & a), p in v, praise kink, breeding kink

chapter twelve (epilogue): late bloomer (14.5k) | playlist | AO3

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #37-40. #37, the title song, is not featured in the text, so you can play it whenever feels appropriate. Here is a female version of 'Passenger.'

He’s a late bloomer

He lives in the in-between

But he’s getting it right

First she started a seed

She proceeded to cut the weeds

And she’s facing the sky

'Cause late bloomers still rise

Late Bloomer — Mereba

The salt you scrape from your sneakers leaves tiny pink crystals on the welcome mat, and even before your numb knuckles rap against worn wood, the plastic bag dangling from your fist announces your arrival to the man inside.

"Coming!"

The call comes from beyond the door, and muffled footsteps follow. You step back off the mat in preparation for the door to swing open. When it does, revealing a mop of unruly golden-brown hair above clear blue eyes, you greet one another pleasantly, your enthusiasm calmed by weeks of following the same song and dance.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you reply, sticking out your arm, your plastic bag held aloft in offering. His brows quirk in a silent question which you answer readily. “Mexican again this week.”

The blandness of his voice sparks with genuine enthusiasm then. “Sweet!” Gareth takes the bag, peering into its contents as he abandons the threshold to wander back toward the living room. You let yourself in, closing the door behind you and toeing off your sneakers next to the scuffed black Docs and Vans belonging to the apartment’s occupants. 

It’s quiet inside except for the low murmuring of the television and the crinkling of plastic as Gareth drops your food delivery onto the coffee table. As you head directly to his bedroom, he doesn’t spare you a glance, already pulling apart the contents of the bag as he plops onto the couch. You’re peeling your scrub shirt over your head without bothering to close the door when you hear him call hopefully from the living room, “Are the nachos for me?”

“Yep,” you call back, smiling to yourself when you hear him rip the plastic lid from the package without any further adieu. You shuck your pants, riffling in the top drawer of Gareth’s dresser for a change of clothes. Inside is a tangle of blacks and soft blues, deep grays and creams, threadbare t-shirts and soft sweaters— a drawer relinquished to a friend in need, filled first with Eddie and slowly acquiring bits of you as your weekly visits continued for one month and then two. You dress for the December chill in soft leggings and a slouchy sweater, folding your wrinkled scrubs as you shuffle out of the bedroom in your socks. You quickly drop them in a neat pile by the door before skirting by Gareth’s knees and curling up on the opposite side of the couch. You settle into that familiar nook, passing the time unwrapping your dinner and watching whatever show Gareth has chosen. The tacos are crunchy, all salty shredded pork, crisp lettuce, and mild cheese, though you chew and swallow mechanically; the show is engaging, a mystery-thriller with an attractive leading man, but its colors are dull and your eyes drift from the action. 

Because where you’re nestled now is in the shade. Your blooms are lazy and half-closed, your leaves soft and lax, drooping downward towards fertile earth. You’re eating and watching, but really, you’re waiting— waiting for a brightness that doesn’t come until you hear distant heavy bootsteps that grow steadily louder before halting just outside the apartment. There’s the briefest pause and then the jiggle of the doorknob.

And when Gareth’s front door opens, only then do you bloom again.

Eddie shoulders his way inside in his dirty coveralls and his workboots and with his wild hair balled into a low, greasy bun; even when filthy as all hell, he still manages to suck all the light from the room. When he tugs his boot laces loose, you unfold your legs and straighten your spine in anticipation of his approach. As Eddie pads over, he and Gareth exchange casual greetings, and you wait patiently for him to turn amber brown toward you. That’s where all the room’s light is because when he meets your eyes, it bathes over you like the warmth of the summer sun emerging from behind a cloud.

“Hi, baby,” Eddie says.

“Hi, Ed,” you reply, and your face tips up automatically, knowing how he’ll greet you: a warm, broad hand resting on your shoulder for leverage as he leans over to press a kiss to your forehead.

The tang of motor oil and sweat envelops you, and Eddie’s lips are chapped from the winter but warm as he presses them to your skin. He hums contentedly when you lean into him, and your love wells up from the bottom of you, rising up your green like sweet water as your vines plump, your leaves rise, and your flowers glow white in the sun. You’re craving so much more the second he pulls away, and you know from the curve of his lips and the look in his eyes that Eddie feels the same, but you both refrain for Gareth’s sake, sating yourselves with loaded glances and fond words for now. “How was your day?” Eddie asks you, squeezing your shoulder three times deliberately before he’s straightening up and rocking back on his heels. You smile at the secret meaning behind his touch, snatching his wrist before he can turn away and squeezing three times back. 

“Oh, you know,” Gareth drawls, flapping his hand, “same ol’ same ol’. Thanks for asking, baby.”

Eddie shoots Gareth a flat look, but you giggle as your boyfriend shoves one dirty hand into the food bag on the coffee table, rooting for his dinner. “Wasn’t talkin’ to you, dipshit,” he says, though his lips twitch with a repressed smile. He pulls the remaining item from the bag with an air of triumph: an overstuffed burrito wrapped in shiny foil, looking fit to burst. Exactly how he likes it, you think, pleased when you see his eyes gleam eagerly as he starts to peel it open. 

“It was fine.” You squint, derailed from your typical follow-up question about his day as Eddie steps around the coffee table, still unwrapping his dinner. “Are you not gonna eat with us?”

“Gotta shower today. I’m disgusting,” he says, tacking on quickly, “more disgusting than usual” before Gareth can open his mouth.

Your squint turns to a confused frown. “You can’t eat a burrito in the shower, Ed.”

By this time he’s peeled back enough foil to expose the bulging tortilla, and Eddie descends on it like a man starved, cheeks bulging as he replies through the mouthful. “Can eat it on the way to the shower,” he muffles through beans and rice, grinning cheekily as best he can when your eyebrows pinch in fond exasperation.

“Dude, do not drip sauce on the floor,” Gareth shouts after him, and you look over the back of the couch to see Eddie waving his hand dismissively without looking back before he disappears into the bathroom. From the other side of the couch, you feel Gareth’s eyes on you like a heavy presence, and you settle back against the cushions, crossing your legs again before glancing at him. He’s looking at you dully, almost accusingly, and you grimace sympathetically. “Soon,” you whisper. “I promise.”

It’s another familiar song and dance. Any time you’re over and Eddie does something, well, Eddie-ish, you promise Gareth that you and Eddie would be getting your own place soon, and Gareth grumbles that you’d said that last week. You know he doesn’t really mind that Eddie’s become his impromptu roommate these last two months since getting kicked out of the apartment he’d shared with Chrissy. Gareth has done his faithful best to accommodate Eddie though his apartment is a one-bedroom and barely bigger than a studio, so Eddie’s nights are spent on the couch, and his belongings are fitted into spare drawers and whatever unoccupied crannies could be found. They’ve known each other for years, and Gareth is happy to help his friend and bandmate, but as the weeks drag on, some friction has formed between the two men as they share such a small space.

To cut Gareth a break, you and Eddie try to spend most of your nights together at your place, only opting for Gareth’s when Penny has Charlie over to give them some space. She’s been very understanding about Eddie being over so often, and you’re already well aware that your sister hadn’t signed up for a package deal when you’d asked if you could move in. 

You’re hoping that by this time next month, barring any unexpected expenses, you and Eddie will be ready to move in together. It isn’t a matter of commitment; you know he'd want nothing more than to get a place with you now, and you feel the same way, but the two of you haven’t saved up enough to make that decision practical yet. There’s the matter of a deposit and two months' rent, plus utilities, insurance, new furniture… it all adds up, and though Penny had adamantly refused to let you pay partial rent with her, you know Eddie had insisted on splitting half-and-half with Gareth. It doesn't matter that he just sleeps on the couch. Eddie Munson is never going to take any handouts.

Penny and Eddie are stubborn and more alike than they realize, you’d thought on more than one occasion.

The couch dips, and when the warmth of Eddie’s body settles against you, you welcome it wholeheartedly, shifting into him instinctively. His arm is a heavy but comforting weight slung over your shoulders, and he smells of smoke and apples when you snuggle against him, lifting your knees to fold towards him. His curls are cold and damp as they brush against your neck, and you shiver but don’t pull away. You’re rewarded with the heat of his stubbled jaw when he leans it against your temple. Your hand settles automatically at the soft of his waist, thumb trailing along the little pudge of fat below his navel, stroking over his threadbare t-shirt, and Eddie’s fingers ghost against your upper arm, scratching slowly in time with your movements. 

In this way, you and Eddie can steal subtle touches and relish in each others’ presence as he and Gareth bicker over what to watch. They settle on a comedy movie, and while you don’t really mind either way what they choose, secretly, you do prefer these comedy nights. Though sci-fi and fantasy hold your interest the most, and horror provides opportunities for Eddie to comfort you, which you enjoy, comedies are by far the most fun to watch with him because he’s at his wildest and, frankly, his most joyful. You grin when Eddie’s stomach leaps under your hand as he throws his head back and laughs without restraint, squeezing you tighter against his side. You giggle when Eddie jostles you as he leans forward and gestures widely with his free hand, spouting off complaints and eager observations alike, flopping back against the cushions and dragging you with him. You glow when Eddie murmurs commentary into your hair, remarks for only you to hear— observations about how so-and-so reminds him of something you've said, or questions he wouldn’t want to ask Gareth for fear of looking stupid, or little whispers of affection, sappy nonsense to make you blush so he can nuzzle his nose against your cheek and call you cute. 

And that’s how you spend the evening: belly full, tucked into your boyfriend’s side, watching a movie with him and his best friend until the hour grows late. It’s the same as it goes every week, a song and dance you’ve come to know so well you could hear its phantom notes in your sleep, a melody you’ll never tire of singing.

By the time the movie finishes, Gareth is rubbing his eyes, flinging a sleepy wave over his shoulder as he shuffles off to the bedroom. You and Eddie mumble your goodnights to him, lazing against one another for a moment before moving. You breathe deep and stretch as Eddie’s weight leaves you and he maneuvers onto his knees, craning over the cushioned back. His shirt rides up, and your eyes are drawn to the wide sliver of pale skin as he drags his blanket up from behind the couch, piling it in your lap for you to straighten out as he leans even further to reach his pillow. That gets plopped at the opposite end as you stand and tug the blanket over your shoulders, waiting for Eddie to flop down, lanky legs splayed and arms open and ready for you to join him. Eddie’s hair is dry now but still fragrant, smelling of apples as he enfolds you in his arms and it tickles your cheeks. You shimmy together, tangling your limbs and finally sating the desire for closeness you’d been assuaging all night with small touches that would never be enough. 

Eddie buries his face in your neck, huffing against your skin as he burrows into you insistently, and you know he wants affection. You love it when Eddie gets needy like this— dragging you greedily against his body, almost manhandling you, flopping his leg over yours and wiggling until he’s comfortable. You tuck your fingers into his curls and scratch his scalp in big circles, smiling softly when he melts into you, boneless and lax as you lavish him with attention. Humming contentedly, you reach up under his t-shirt to feel his hot skin, dragging your nails over his back. He stretches against you like a cat, arching into your touch and pressing his lips to your throat in a mute thank you.

He tries to reciprocate, calloused fingers stuttering over your side as he attempts to stroke your skin in return, but Eddie is nearer to sleep than you are. When you feel his legs twitch, that tell-tale sign that he’s about to drift off, you pull your hand from beneath his t-shirt, smoothing it down as you rest your hand against his lower back. You don’t anticipate the low whine he muffles into your throat, and you chuckle when he shimmies to communicate his dissatisfaction. It almost seems antithetical that this man, typically clothed in ink and leather and chains, typically sharp and wolfish with eager flashing grins and a teasing black-smoke rasp, now whines unabashedly for your touch and pouts up at you with hazy brown eyes and pooched pink lips, soft white underbelly exposed for you to do with it what you will. 

You love Eddie’s black, but his white is only for you, so you can’t help but covet it even more.

Your hand tucks obligingly back under his shirt, tracing random patterns, and as Eddie sighs against your neck, a question floats up, one that’s been hovering on the edges of your mind for some time now. It's a question that causes pins and needles of nervousness to prickle low in your chest, but in the dark hush of the living room, it feels possible to voice it.

“So, I’ve been thinking—”

“Always dangerous,” Eddie mumbles, and when you huff and your fingers stall on his back, his head pops up, eyes holding yours contritely as he rests against the pillow instead so he can look at you. He’d be a vision of innocent devotion with those beautiful curls and big brown eyes if it weren’t for the amused dimple threatening at the corner of his lips.

"So,” you repeat, “I've been thinking.” That prickle of nervousness surges again. “We’ve been dating— officially, I guess— for a couple of months now, and… well, there's been something I wanna do. Someone I wanna—"

“Uh-uh.” He cuts you off with a sharp shake of his head, and your heart falls. Before you can say anything, you’re being flipped onto your back as Eddie covers you with his body, hips pinning your pelvis to the couch, brown eyes glittering with intensity. Your eyes dart between his, wide with alarm as he says, "Oh, fuck no. Never again.” Your lips part in confusion, but Eddie barrels on, brows jerking up in emphasis. “You're all mine now. You’re my sweet girl. I'm not sharing you." 

His meaning hits you all at once, leaving you winded and incredulous as his name strangles in your throat. You think he must be joking, must be pretending to be serious— but when his fierceness doesn’t subside, your incredulity transforms into something resembling offense. 

You scoff disbelievingly. "Eddie!” You hush his name in an outraged exclamation, a little miffed that he’d actually think you’d be suggesting you swing with someone else, but nonetheless a little fluttery at his immediate possessiveness. Still, as you push at his shoulders, you frown petulantly. “That's not what I was gonna say at all! What the hell?" 

Eddie doesn’t relent as you resist him, though the fierceness in his expression finally melts away at your unmistakable shock; instead, in a whiplash mood reversal, he wrestles you playfully, tickling you with his face and hair until you’re no longer at the edge of anger and are filled with giggles instead. "What then, hm?" he snaps teasingly from underneath his hair, shaking his head like a dog until you press your hands to his ears, holding his head steady between your soft palms.

You clear the hair gently from his face, feeling a little shy again as his eyes are revealed from the curtain of his curls, staring at you curiously. "Well, I was trying to say that we’ve been dating for a little while, and you’ve already met Penny, and I was thinking….” You push through your nervousness at the potential for rejection, voice quiet in your throat. “I wanna meet your uncle. If you want me to." 

Eddie visibly softens, amber eyes going gooey like honey. His smoke voice is deep and rich and sure. "I'd really like that." 

Your wings flutter at the gentleness in his gaze, warmth spreading to soothe the prickle of nerves. “Yeah?” 

Eddie tucks your hair behind your ear and drags his thumb down the shell to your lobe, which he pinches three times slowly and deliberately. “Yeah, my sweet girl. I want you to meet my family.”

You take his hand, brushing his knuckles with your lips and squeezing three times back. It’s a quiet way to communicate when words aren’t needed or can’t be used. Three presses, slow and deliberate, a gesture that always means the same thing. 

I love you.

It's snowing in Hawkins, Indiana, and while Forest Hills Trailer Park typically isn’t much to look at, it’s a wonderland in white.

The tires carve deep grooves in that white as you pull down the lane, and all— every flat roof and rusted car, every trashcan and skeletal flowerpot— is covered in a thick blanket of delicate powder. When Eddie turns the key to cut the engine, the silent stillness feels different from usual. Magical, almost, suspended in time and space as fat, dry flakes drift soundlessly down from a dove gray sky. As you dismount the vehicle with your host’s bag of gifts in hand, even the slam of your car door doesn’t echo quite as far. It’s muffled by the surrounding blanketed forest, where every piney branch is covered in a hush of snow, shifting occasionally like wings unfurling when powder falls into the sea of white below.

Eddie clomps up the worn porch steps first, leaving imprints for you to follow in. You match his stride with your smaller feet all the way up to the front door, eyes caught on the lumpy couch shaded by the awning, its front face dusted with white that clings like powdered sugar to the rough fabric. Eddie's rings rap against the plastic frame, and it’s then that your heart starts to pound. Nervous anticipation flutters in your stomach, borne of desperate yearning— a yearning to make a good impression on the most important man in your boyfriend’s life, to be deemed good enough for the most important man in yours. 

Wayne Munson’s aging face is grizzled and creased, but the dimple in his cheek and the softness of his nose are so familiar they kick you in the chest. The sound he makes when he locks eyes with his nephew is husky and full, the bark of his laugh matching the smoke of Eddie’s when he clasps his nephew in a rough and eager embrace. His hands are tan but broad like Eddie’s, also worn from years of toil as they clutch at the back of your boyfriend's leather jacket. The men rock for a moment in the shared contentment of their reunion, and you wait behind Eddie, nearly fidgeting with the anticipation of meeting his uncle for the first time. But when they finally part and Eddie steps aside to reveal your shy smile and soft hands carrying your bag of offerings, the way Wayne Munson looks at you makes one thing abundantly clear:

You needn’t have worried.

“This is her,” Eddie says, and the audible pride in his voice floods your cheeks with pleased but bashful warmth. You’re ready to meet him where he is, but Wayne steps down from the threshold of his doorway onto the porch, his crooked smile widening as his blue eyes meet yours. 

“It’s a pleasure t’meet you, sweetheart.” He pulls you into a much more careful hug than was bestowed on his nephew, and his worn denim shirt is soft beneath your chin and smells of laundry powder and cigarettes. The paper bag knocks against his back, and when he pulls away, he eyes it curiously. “That f’r me?”

You nod, shyness still gripping your tongue, but Eddie’s palm on the small of your back is grounding. “Just hold your horses, old man,” he gripes. “Let us inside before you stick your nose in.”

Wayne grumbles but obliges, stepping up first and leading the way into his home.

The indoor heat glows pleasantly against your cheeks as Eddie pulls the front door shut behind you, closing you in the cozy clutter of his childhood home. The place is cramped but well-kept, messy in the way you’d expect from a single man, but not dirty. There’s much to look at; the decor is quite eclectic, walls and surfaces covered with items both practical and sentimental. The most interesting is the ship wheel ceiling fixture in the kitchen, loaded with mismatched bulbs of different colors that cast the space in varied shades of light. The effect only adds to the charm, and you can nearly see a younger Eddie bounding down the narrow hallway from the back of the house, smoke voice high with adolescence as he calls out a goodbye to his uncle, curls bouncing against his forehead as he rushes past you out the door.

“So—” Wayne’s gruff voice startles you from your imaginings, and you catch his twinkling blue eyes as he jerks his chin toward the bag in your hands. “You gonna gimme that or what?”

The tease in his voice has you giggling despite Eddie’s huff. “Ungrateful,” he mutters under his breath, but you pull out the first item obligingly— a square box wrapped with paper to conceal what’s inside. You pass it over to Wayne, who shakes it, you suspect, just to make his nephew scowl. “You know what it is,” Eddie says, trying to be stern, though when they share a look, a smile can’t help but crack through. “Just open it.”

Your confusion over Eddie’s insistence on this particular type of gift has eased now that you’ve seen the primary decor adorning the trailer’s walls, but you watch Wayne carefully nonetheless, curious as to how he’ll react as he peels the paper back to reveal the picture on the front of the box.

Wayne’s brows contort in a mixture of confusion and amusement as he stares down at it for a moment before a guffaw rips from his throat. “What is this, kid?!” he turns his accusatory gaze toward Eddie. “You sayin’ I’m old and sickly?”

“You are old,” Eddie quips back, plush lips slanted in a smirk. “But, no.” His amber-brown eyes flash to yours. “It’s ‘cause of y/n.”

Wayne’s crinkled face swings to you then, and you smack Eddie lightly in the stomach in silent chastisement of his vagueness. “It’s ‘cause I work in healthcare.” You speak for the first time, voice small, gaze dropping to the picture in Wayne’s hands. It shows a mug in the shape of an orange pill bottle, complete with a white ridged rim to depict the child-safety lid and quite accurate in its mimicry of a prescription label, though the patient’s name is a clearly fictional ‘Mr. Java Joe Espresso.’ “It was Eddie’s choice,” you defend, pursing your lips against a smile when your boyfriend knocks you playfully with his elbow.

Wayne lifts the box closer to his nose to peer at the writing, finally huffing amusedly through his nose. “All right,” he concedes, and as he places it on the island counter behind him, you pull out his second and final gift. At the sight of the crumbly peach cobbler, Wayne looks considerably more enthused. “Now that’s more like it.”

Eddie helps you gather three plates, loading them with slices of cobbler as Wayne sinks into what must be his preferred armchair with a bone-weary sigh. You pass one to him, thumb on the spine of the fork to keep it from slipping as he takes it. “Thank you, darlin,’” he says, and you settle next to Eddie on the couch, sinking into his side.

It begins, you suppose, the way all introductions to family typically begin. “So, how’d you two meet?”

You nestle into Eddie’s side, fork playing with golden crumble and soft fruit as Eddie’s smoke curls gently against your cheek. “Through a mutual friend,” he says, and his voice is so calm and even that you feel the tightness in your belly ease. Eddie’s palm finds your knee, a comforting weight that warms your skin through your jeans.

“The first time I saw him, he was on stage,” you pipe up, one finger running against the textured bottom edge of the ceramic plate, the lip upon which it rests. “He was…” 

You pause as you remember it: that black and white, the gash of red, the aggressive ink of his torso against pale quartz, the press of his lips to the mic, the enchanting smoke of his voice. You hadn’t known how to describe your impression of him that day in the dressing room when you’d met Eddie for the first time, but you know now. “I thought he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard,” you say, sweet as the peach cobbler you’d brought his uncle, and Eddie’s fingers tighten against your leg, squeezing slow, pressing once, twice, and then again. 

The curve of Wayne’s mouth gentles beneath his grizzled salt-and-pepper beard. “Ain’t he something, though. My boy.”

You nod your keen agreement. Though you’re angled toward Wayne and Eddie is behind you, you can feel the warmth of his blush without looking. “Y/n works in pediatric medicine,” he says quickly. “She helps sick kids all day. And she can sing, too. Got the voice of an angel.”

Now it’s your turn to flush, and what ensues is a fierce competition of deflection as both you and Eddie brag on each other to his uncle, trying to divert the attention from yourselves. It’s a valiant effort that leaves Wayne positively tickled as he looks back and forth between you until he finally holds up his hands for mercy. “Look, I get it,” he interrupts, “you each think the sun shines out the other’s ass. Consider me convinced.”

Eddie snorts, wrapping his arm around your bashful shoulders as they try to scrunch up to your ears. Unable to concede without winning, he plants a loud smacking kiss to your cheek, grinning manically as he leaves you positively burning. “Eddie!” you hiss as Wayne chuckles, squirming your discomfort but oh, so sweetly blooming nonetheless.

You’re surprised to find that the afternoon spent in Wayne’s company slips by as quickly as snow melts from sun-drenched branches. The man is gruff but so easy in his way that you’re comfortable before you know it, sinking deep into Eddie’s side to swing your foot idly and suck sweet pie filling from your fork. You’re perfectly content to listen to them banter through updates about Wayne’s life and Eddie’s, about the shop and the band and the friends Wayne remembers from Hawkins. You’re a little worried the sudden absence of Chrissy might come up, considering how she was such a long-time fixture in Eddie’s life, but Wayne is far more tactful than Eddie can sometimes be, and your concern never comes to pass. You’re both fascinated and thoroughly delighted by the anecdotes they share, silly stories of Eddie's childhood and recollections of times long past but fondly remembered. You talk about yourself when prompted, telling Wayne about your family, your work, and your interests, falling so far into the contentment of this exchange with the Munson men that by the time the sun has begun to wane, you find yourself genuinely disappointed that the visit is over.

Wayne tries to send you off with the remains of the cobbler, citing his nephew’s sweet tooth, but Eddie is adamant in pointing out that Wayne's is just as big. Well wishes are exchanged; soft plans and promises are made to see one another again soon. "You should come and see us next time," Eddie throws over his shoulder on his way to the door, "once we have our own place." 

"Yes," you add eagerly, "We can take you to the bakery where the cobbler came from. They make really great cannolis, too, if you like those." 

Wayne claps an open palm against his nephew's shoulder, eyes crinkling with his grin. "You better treat 'er good, son," he says sincerely. "She's a keeper."

Your voice is so firm, firmer than it's been all afternoon, that the Munson men nearly startle with it. “No.” They both blink at your vehemence, but you turn your resolute gaze to dark curls and quartz skin, pink lips and amber eyes. “He’s the keeper.”

You look at Eddie, and you know what your eyes are saying: that he's the only one that can make you flutter and bloom, that every sweet drop of succulent fruit spilling from your tongue is for him. You know you've peeled back your layers and shown your green. And when that gentle pink spreads over his cheeks— when Eddie's expression softens, glowing with bashful pleasure, pride, and adoration— you find it's quite alright that you’ve let these two men see all the way down to the center of you.

The asphalt of the bar's parking lot is worn and cracked, but you know it so well you don't have to look down to avoid the potholes when you skirt around the side of the building, heading towards the back. Your eyes quickly find where Eddie's van is parked alongside the wall, but you don't approach it; that isn't why you've ventured here. Instead, you head right for that gray door set into crumbling brick, the one with the light that floods it from above, illuminating its chipping paint. Your duffel brushes against the flakes as you rap quickly, glancing around tensely until the door cracks open to reveal a familiar dirty-blonde mop and blue eyes. 

You pass the bag into Gareth's waiting hand, voice low and intent. "We still good?"

"Yeah," he says a little breathlessly, darting a quick look over his shoulder before his face whips back to you. "Head back during 'Around the Fur.' Tania will show you where to go."

You nod, and in a flash, he's gone. You twist the handle, bracing against its weight, and with your careful guidance, the door thumps gently closed. 

A handful of minutes later and you're seated at your normal spot at the bar, sipping on soda water mixed with grenadine for color to maintain the illusion of normalcy. Your normal spot is in the front corner directly beside the hinge-top, so you can sit up there when the weekend crowds make it difficult to see from a barstool. Thursday isn't typically a busy day, but tonight's occasion is special, so the place is already buzzing even though the performance isn't supposed to begin for another forty minutes. You're facing the bar rather than out towards the crowd, chatting idly with Jimmy as he makes drinks for customers. You're trying to distract yourself from the bouncing of your knee and the nerves making your leaves shake restlessly, but it's hard when your eyes keep catching on the black streamers behind the bar.

You'd spent winter, spring, and summer watching Corroded Coffin slowly grow from regular performers at a single bar to a healthy rotation at half a dozen, from averaging one show a week to four, from modest crowds of screaming fans to immodest crowds of a whole lot more. Eddie was beyond pleased, as were Gareth, Jeff, and Brian, and you'd relished in their success with your consistent presence at their shows at least once a week, more if you could swing it. Of all the places Corroded Coffin plays, this bar— despite its dingy, seedy visage— is still your favorite because it had been the first, the beginning of everything for them and for you. It makes sense why Eddie had chosen here for the festivities tonight, and you were grateful for it because of that intimacy. Still, even with all the shows you've seen, you've never been as nervous as you are for this one.

A hand on your shoulder draws your attention from Jimmy to green eyes shimmering with iridescent powder, and despite your nerves, you beam as you spin on the stool to embrace your friend, muffling your eager greeting into her auburn hair. She shimmies you in her grasp, squealing her enthusiasm as you rest your chin on her shoulder, meeting familiar hazel eyes beneath an artfully disheveled fringe. Tan fingers run through the strands as Steve waits to greet you with a broad, lopsided smile, though you’re both diverted when his girlfriend steps away to survey you, her nose wrinkling in confusion. “Is that what you’re wearing up there?”

You look down at your cream dress with its sweetheart neckline, extending a foot to examine one delicate ballet flat. It’s very in line with what you’d typically wear, both to Eddie’s shows and otherwise. You squint at Karoline skeptically, about to explain when Steve beats you to it. “Kar,” he says, fondly amused, “it’s a surprise, remember?”

Steve looks to you, and you nod your confirmation, holding up your virgin drink as you add, “All for the illusion. I worked everything out with the guys. You’ll see.”

In typical dramatic fashion, Karoline actually smacks her forehead. “Duh,” she says, chuckling self-deprecatingly, and you surge with admiration for her ability not to let anything embarrass her. She leans into Steve’s side, who wraps an arm around her comfortably. “Of course you have it all planned out. It’s gonna be the best birthday present Eddie’s ever had in his life.”

You smile, though you feel your nerves mix with bashfulness. “Well, I don’t know about that,” you hedge, but you pout when you see Steve shaking his head in exasperation, hazel eyes locked on you. “What?” you ask, crossing your arms tight in your lap, feeling a little exposed under his gaze.

But that hazel isn’t dulled like briny mud or sharp with bitterness. Instead, Steve just huffs a wry laugh as his lips curl knowingly. “Yeah,” he says quietly, fondly, and it pierces through the self-consciousness. “She’s right, y/n. He’s gonna love it.”

Though you don’t reply, your gaze softens, and you know Steve can read the gratefulness there. “Come on, Kar.” He nudges his girlfriend gently, and she reaches out to squeeze your hand one last time before they head off into the gathering crowd. You squeeze back, taking strength from their support before they slip away.

Steve and Karoline aren’t your only friends here. As you sip your drink and the sweet fizz of the flavored soda water dances on your tongue, you remain facing the room, eyes scanning the sea of bodies that buzz with impatient energy as they await the start of the show. Slowly, some other beloved faces emerge from the anonymity: Tara and Lisa nestled snug in the middle, Penny in the back corner, as far from the stage as she can manage to avoid the potential of Eddie spotting her. Their presence is a temporary balm for your nerves, offering silent support despite the distance. Part of you wishes they were right beside you, but you’d told them to stay away; you didn’t want to risk tipping Eddie off, valuing the sake of your surprise over the comfort they’d provide you.

It hadn’t been easy keeping your plans from Eddie, though you’d been determined to do it, knowing the payoff would be worth it. It took weeks of frantic last-minute meetings with the guys you could only swing when Eddie was working overtime (which he never remembered to tell you about ahead of time), weeks of singing the same song over and over in your empty apartment, snatching moments of opportunity in those tiny gaps before Eddie’s return would have you falling mute. You practiced relentlessly, knowing you’d chosen a challenging song, one that would not only showcase but stretch the limits of your skill. You wanted your performance to be perfect, but not for the crowd, though that was, of course, a factor. Mostly, you wanted to impress Eddie, to show him how tall you’ve grown with his tending. And after all those weeks of scheming and sneaking, weeks you’d spent on edge knowing one small misstep from anyone involved would have Eddie— blessedly, cursedly intuitive Eddie— poking at you relentlessly until he’d pried the secret from your clamped lips and ruined everything… somehow, he’d never caught on. And now, as the bar’s lights dim almost to darkness and the stage billows with haze that drips like liquid smoke onto the floor below, it’s finally time.

Watching Eddie perform always takes your breath away, but this time feels different. When he mosies up to center stage, strumming the two chords of the song they’d chosen to open with tonight, the crowd’s raucous cheering matches the broad, wolfish grin on his face, sharp and black and utterly delighted at the electricity in the air. The energy stirs you too: blood thrums hot in your veins, washing you with heady anticipation as Eddie’s dark eyes find yours like they always do a moment before he presses his plush lips to the mic. “Hey,” he purrs, and feminine shrieks fill the air, mixing with the clash of drums and the grinding of Eddie’s guitar. This is familiar, too; when he knows you’ll be there, Eddie always starts the set with the same song. “This town don’t feel mine,” he croons, and the flutter of your wings surges from the pit of your stomach up to your ribcage, stirring your green to restlessness. Not just because of what this means to you— it always means something that Eddie begins with the song you’d told him you liked most the first night you’d met— but also because you know that tonight, you won’t just be looking up at him, watching him from below. You’ll be joining him up there, allowing yourself to be perceived.

Nonetheless, you smile at him, hoping the curve of your lips doesn’t tremble before he looks away. Once he releases you, your shoulders sag, relief rushing as you reach absentmindedly for the dainty gold chain around your neck, rubbing your thumb against the textured object hanging there as you watch the guys perform. There’s rarely a moment you aren’t wearing the red and white shell, so the gesture has become nearly automatic, a soothing repetitive motion you turn to whenever Eddie isn’t near. It doesn’t quite settle your nerves now, but it carries you through the next couple of songs, keeping your fidgeting from becoming obvious. And your nerves are almost forgotten completely when Eddie turns around for the first time to show off the new ink on his back, an early birthday present to himself he’s debuting for his fans today: a pair of dragon wings curving across his shoulders and down to his waist, shifting as he continues to strum during the breakdown. The screeches that accompany the reveal are nearly feral, and you giggle when you see the tell-tale quiver of his shoulders that tells you he's trying not to laugh.

You’re okay until Gareth whips his sweat-damp mop of hair, beating out the distinctive hits that begin Around the Fur. No amount of self-soothing could quell the wave of adrenaline that rushes through you then, rustling your green like a gust of tumultuous wind. You take a deep breath before you slide off the stool, and your legs are nearly jelly beneath you as you press through the sea of bodies, cutting a laborious path toward the back of the crowd. Resisting the rising claustrophobia, you make a large circle around to the other side of the stage, slipping into the corridor that leads to the bathroom. It’s blessedly wide and empty, cavernously echoing with the reverberations of Brian’s bass and Gareth’s kick drum. You savor the relief of being freed from the crush of damp bodies for just a moment before striding down the hallway, bypassing the bathrooms and heading directly to the door that leads backstage.

Sure enough, just as Gareth had promised, his girlfriend Tania is there to collect you, her eyes wide with focused intent as she leads you to the dressing room she’d prepared. You rush after her, heart pounding as she ushers you inside and closes the door. “We’ve got about five minutes before you need to be at the side stage,” she says, striding over to the rack as you step out of your flats and lift the hem of your dress at the same time. You shed your clothes hastily, eyes locked on the outfit that hangs from the bar, the one she’d helped you pick last week. It's all black and comprised of a mix of textures, some tight, some sheer, topped with leather and accents of silver to match Eddie’s chains. More daring than you’ve ever worn and perfectly curated for this moment.

Expertly, Tania gathers the fabric of your thin tights in her fingers, rolling them down for you to step into. Together, you clothe your body in the rest: the short, tight dress, the sheer mesh turtleneck that layers beneath it, the tall boots that tie over your knees. You swap your dainty gold studs for dangling silver swords, lifting your arms so Tania can clasp the buckles of your harness belt over your chest and around your waist, tugging gently on the straps and stepping back to ensure it’s sitting right. She nods sharply, satisfied, glancing at her smartwatch. “Two minutes for makeup,” she says, and though your face flashes with nervousness, obediently you sit, folding your hands in your lap as she snatches up the eyeliner from the beauty counter beside you. With a tightly-knit brow, she lines your lids using quick, fast strokes, smudging the liner expertly with the side of her thumb before twisting open a tube of burgundy lipstick. She takes her time with your lips, surveying you clinically afterward before her black lips split in an eager grin.

“You’re ready,” she says, and the surety in her voice almost makes you believe it.

Backstage the floor is a mess of wires which you step over carefully like they're landmines. You hover in the wings with a fluttering heart as you wait for your cue, the muted mic growing slippery in your hands. It feels suddenly surreal to be here, gazing at the band from this new vantage point. You can see Gareth wailing on the drums, Brian’s thick fingers working the bass, Jeff’s head bobbing as he hunches over the keys, but your eyes are drawn time and again to the front lights glowing on the sweat-slick skin of Eddie’s back, burnishing his dark curls to deep, rich brown as the wings on his back shift and roil. Beyond him are blurs of movement, the undulating shapes of indiscernible bodies captivated by his performance. As you see the flash of hands reaching from that sea of dark, you feel a sudden shiver of doubt prickle up your spine. Eddie’s been performing for years; he commands the stage with ease. What if you, in comparison, are lackluster? What if the crowd is disappointed by your sudden intrusion? Doubt settles heavy in your stomach.

What if they don’t like me?

The sudden thought has your head spinning, but there isn’t time to dwell on that because Gareth’s beating on the cymbals, and the song is ending, and Jeff is speaking, voice hoarse with exertion but forming the words that seal your fate.

“—as you all might know, today is a special day. Today, this motherfucker right here turns twenty-six.” Eddie’s curls whip as he looks at Jeff, a shared manic grin splitting their faces as the audience whoops and hollers for him. 

“You’re fuckin’ old, dude!” Gareth shouts, loud enough to be heard even though he isn’t mic’d, and there’s a wave of laughter.

“Oh, fuck off, man,” Eddie’s amplified voice is sharp and loud, nearly startling, and you duck back slightly so he won't see you, heart hammering as he twists to give Gareth the middle finger. The words could be angry, but he’s smiling, and his voice warms to match it. “No, but honestly, there’s nowhere else I’d rather celebrate one more year of dodging the grave than right here with all of you, in the place this whole fuckin’ mess really took off, with the guys who made it happen—” From behind, you see Eddie’s head turn towards the bar, towards where you’re always sitting. “And—” when his voice falters, you know he’s noticed you aren’t there anymore.

Jeff cuts in quickly. “And we’ve planned a special treat for you.” He pauses dramatically, teeth flashing into a smug smile. “A special treat for you, Ed,” he clarifies, and you don’t have the luxury of watching Eddie’s head whip toward him again because that’s your cue.

You lift your chin, and as you move out of the shadows, each successive step allows the glare of the front lights to illuminate you more and more: every dip and curve of your body, every sway of your ample hips as you approach your boyfriend from behind. It takes a moment for the crowd to realize what’s happening, and once they do, you hear the realization wash over them in a tittering wave. You thought you’d known what it would be like to be on stage, to have all those eyes on you, staring, boring down to the most minute details of your appearance. But it’s one thing to know it and quite another to experience it. And the doubt, the nervousness, the fear, the self-consciousness— they’re suddenly all laid bare in the harshness of the unforgiving spotlight you’re walking into.

You keep your eyes fixed on black and white, the reason you’re here. They run over Eddie’s slack arm hanging at his side, over those chunky rings and ruddy knuckles, over the tapestry of dark ink, the way the curve of his shoulder slopes into the cords of his pale quartz neck, the curl of his damp hair against his cheek. The moment feels longer than it lasts in reality, the time between the audience’s noticing and Eddie’s, and you use it to caress him with your gaze, to memorize the flutter of his dark lashes and the rise of his bare chest as he finally starts to turn.

The moment whittles down to nothing but the look in those honey-brown eyes as Eddie finally sees you, a look powerful enough to wither the depth of your doubt. You flick the switch on the side of the mic as you walk toward him, illuminated fully now, light gleaming off the smoke and silver of your armor, armor that matches your beloved’s. The armor is his, but your voice is all your own when you finally speak.

“Hi, Ed,” you say into the mic, and your voice is velvety like a hush of wings but also rich like sweet, ripe fruit.

Eddie’s plush lips hang open as his eyes dart over you, unable to settle, his face slack and stupefied, brown eyes impossibly large in his pretty face. There’s a moment of silence before he replies almost dazedly, “Hi, sweet girl.”

A wave titters through the crowd again, murmurs of recognition, encouragement, and disappointment alike— disappointment, perhaps, from some of the girls that didn’t realize Eddie was taken— but they don’t matter now. Because the whole reason you’re here is staring at you like he’s trying not to pinch himself to check if he’s dreaming. In the face of Eddie’s slack-jawed awe, you smile. “Happy birthday, Eddie,” you say, and Jeff starts the track for Passenger.

It seems to take a moment for Eddie to understand what’s happening— that you’re not only on stage with him, dressed the way you’re dressed, looking the way you look, but that you’re holding the mic to your lips, not retreating as the song begins. He misses the first strum but scrambles to catch up as Gareth starts the drumbeat, fingers moving but eyes locked on you. And you’re looking back at him, looking back until your eyes slip closed so you can sink into that familiar headspace and let the rest of the world— the stage, the lights, the stares, the crowd— fall away. Until it’s just you, your voice, and Eddie’s song, the song you’re singing to him.

“Here I lay, still and breathless; just like always, still I want some more—”

It’s exactly how you’d sounded in the quiet of your apartment, breathy and haunting, but even better now with the microphone’s vocal effects. You sink into the comfort of your weeks of practice, letting that carry you through to the final line of the verse, the last moment of gentleness before the song intensifies.

“Now to calm me, this time won’t you please—” your brow scrunches and your voice surges up as you drag out the words, “—drive faster!”

The grinding of the guitar, the thrum of the bass, the fury of the drums— they fill you up like Eddie’s smoke voice, like the light in his eyes and the rasp of his calloused hands against your green. You channel it all as you sing the chorus, pouring out your passion for all to see. 

“Roll the window down, this cool night air is curious. Let the whole world look in, who cares who sees anything? I’m your passenger. I’m your passenger.”

With Eddie, you’ve grown tall and strong. For Eddie, you’re blooming right open, finally unafraid to be perceived.

You’ve given Eddie a precious gift, and he intends to thank you, to ensure you know that you belong to him.

He’d been on you the moment you both walked through the front door, hasty and needful, fisting his broad hands at your inner thighs and ripping your thin tights to shreds to expose your heat. Your desire rushed hot and thick as he dragged you down to the ground, burying his face in your pussy right there on the dining room floor, too hungry for you to wait for the bedroom. He devoured you, relentless despite the writhing of your hips and your fists tugging at his curls in a grip that must have been painful. 

You came the first time on his tongue.

Afterward, he’d lifted you in his arms and carried you to the bed you share, laying you gently across the down comforter as your chest heaved with your panting. He undressed you tenderly, working you back up unhurriedly, pressing teasing kisses to every inch of your skin until you were squirming and needy again. Then, when you were ready, Eddie fucked you deep and slow, tucking your knees to your chest, his guitar pick swinging to brush against your skin with every grind of his hips until you came a second time on his cock, shuddering and whimpering.

And now he has you on all fours, face down, arms curled atop the sheets as his hips smack against your ass, making your doughy flesh jiggle. He’s clutching your hips so tight you know there’ll be marks tomorrow, little oval bruises that act as evidence of his passion for you. It only makes you burn hotter for him. As do his words— his smoke that you inhale eagerly with heaving breaths until it coils rich and heady in your belly. 

“—so fuckin’ sexy up there, singing my song like that. Got me so fuckin’ hard, babe, I could’ve fucked you right there on that stage—” You whimper, pushing your hips back, his praise motivating you to take him deeper. “Oh yeah,” Eddie groans, raspy with approval. “That’s it, sweet thing. Bounce that perfect ass on me.” He starts to fuck into you harder as you obey, rocking back against him until the claps echo alongside your whimpers and his low, breathy sounds of pleasure.

It’s fairly commonplace for Eddie to make you cum twice, but your third orgasm has long been elusive. You’ve typically found yourself too sensitized for it, your clit too puffy and raw for even Eddie’s light, careful touch to be pleasant. But something seems different tonight. Maybe it’s the thrill of performing successfully on stage with him, or the patience with which he’s playing your body so expertly, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s not touching your clit directly, that it’s just his heavy balls swaying rhythmically against your lips, a slight slap that makes you tingle every time you push back to meet his steady thrusts. Whatever it is, you can feel the cinders of your arousal build back up again under his faithful attention, and you drag your teeth against your bottom lip, relishing in the feeling of him behind you.

His fingers had been pressing bruisingly into your hips, but now Eddie’s grip softens and shifts, his broad, calloused hands rubbing wide circles over your ass as he praises you again. “Have I ever told you,” Eddie says musingly, his voice low and edged with teasing, “how goddamn gorgeous your ass is?” 

He plays idly with your cheeks as you chuckle. “Only all the time,” you say, and the sound of your laugh hitches when he grabs two handfuls of your pliant flesh, pulling your cheeks apart as he continues to fuck you steadily. When he continues to hold your ass like that, and you hear a low groan, you rush with heat as you realize he must be watching himself disappear into your heat. You imagine what he sees: his cock, thick and flushed pink, engulfed over and over down to the hilt by your slick, puffy pussy. Your entrance is stretched tight, dragging with him slightly as if reluctant to let him go when he pulls his hips back. You flutter at the thought, squirming in his hold as your cinders catch to a low flame again, now for the third time. You can feel your thighs sticking to his on every thrust, can hear how wet you sound, and you’re suddenly envious of his view—

“Shit, baby,” Eddie breathes, and the heat in his voice makes you pulse. “You’re so fuckin’ messy, coating my whole dick. Pussy’s so creamy, just wanna—”

You’re left with no warning before his thick length is suddenly and abruptly pulled from you, leaving you mournfully empty as you feel the bed shift and lurch behind you, jostling your knees. Eddie isn’t gone from you long, though, as you quickly feel his breath puff hot against your skin before he licks a broad stripe up your pussy.

You sigh at the feeling of his tongue on your puffy lips, which is so gentle it’s almost a relief compared to the, admittedly, delicious pounding you’d just been receiving. Eddie groans his eager satisfaction as he tastes you, and you answer back with a moan of your own, widening your knees and settling into the new sensation. Your hips jerk slightly when his chin bumps against your sensitized clit, but Eddie doesn’t linger there long. Instead, after laving your entrance thoroughly, tasting you until he’s satisfied, he merely starts at the apex of your heat, dragging his tongue briefly along your clit on his journey up to your entrance. Up, slowly and steadily and deliberately— up to your entrance but then past it, because Eddie just keeps moving up, up, up, and he doesn’t stop until his tongue has dragged across the tight pucker of your hole.

You burst instantly with flutters, with fire that licks your belly and leaves your head rushing at the unexpected feeling of Eddie’s tongue there. It’s not something you’ve never done together, but it’s not something you do all the time, and the novelty of it feels both naughty and profoundly thrilling. Your breath deepens as you wait, muscles tensed as you feel Eddie’s breath puff warm against your skin again, but this time at that delicate, sensitive spot between your cheeks. The anticipation is torturous, and involuntarily, you feel yourself clench and flutter at the feeling. Eddie hums low in his throat like he’s both satisfied and amused at your reaction, and you’re near to a whine when you feel his tongue— broad and firm, warm and wet— as he licks your ass again.

Your whine melts to a breathy gasp as Eddie’s calloused hands land on your cheeks, his thumbs prying them apart for better access as he pushes his face closer. The way he’s licking you here isn’t the same as the way he licks your pussy. With your pussy, Eddie varies the pressure and the rhythm, sometimes swirling and sometimes sucking as he plays with your lips and your clit. Now, each stroke of his tongue is even and consistent, predictable almost, like he’s slowly devouring an ice cream cone. 

But oh, is it effective. Before long, you’re whimpering, a high sound of feminine need, louder when you feel one hand leave your cheek and Eddie fills your pussy with two fingers, curling them deliciously so your hips buck. He ignores your clit, working you with his fingers in time with his broad tongue which swipes against you again and again, dragging warm and wet over your puckered hole. Your fingers fist in the bedding as your hips begin to shift, tiny circles that match his movements. His fingers continue, but you feel his tongue pause so he can croon, “Aw. It's like that, huh?” 

Eddie’s voice is smug, knowing, and it only twists you tighter, making the flame of your desire burn brighter for him. 

“Fuck, Eddie, that feels so—” you break off in a desperate whine, very undeniably affected by what he’s doing. 

"I know, baby, I know.” Eddie chuckles, licking your ass through his laughter, and the breathy sound of his amusement shouldn’t be arousing, but it is. “You were winking at me back here. Couldn't resist.” 

He keeps licking you, long, measured strokes that he times with the push and crook of his fingers until you’re desperate for him to stretch you open again. This feels good, really good, but the flame growing in your belly— the burn of your need— can only be sated by one thing. “Ed,” you plead, “please, please fuck me again— need your cock now, need you—”

No matter how much he might tease and play with you, Eddie can never resist the sweetness of your voice when you beg for him. 

You feel the bed shift behind you again, Eddie’s knees brushing the inside of yours as he straightens up and shuffles closer to you. You feel his head firm and spongy against your puffy lips, and though his length has been left neglected for a while, if anything, he’s even harder now as he pushes back inside you. The thought that Eddie was just as aroused by licking your ass as you were to feel him do it makes you shiver, pleasurable tingles racing up your spine as he slides thick and hot back where he belongs inside you. The stretch is delicious, as is the rasp of his wiry hair against your clit when he grinds in slow and firm, pressing as deep as he can go. 

“Mmm—” you push back into him, widening your legs to lower the angle just slightly, and Eddie hisses as he nudges against the end of you. 

“Feel good?” he rasps, kneading your thighs as he circles his hips languidly, letting you enjoy the deep press of him inside you. “Is my cock makin’ you feel good, sweet girl?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, “yeah, Eddie, I love your cock, baby. You make my pussy feel so good.”

He sighs harshly, and you flutter and tingle with pleasure as he pulls back and thrusts forward sharply, punching a delighted moan out of you. “Yeah, Eddie, like that,” you say, voice thick and sticky with your need for him. “Fuck me like that.”

He thrusts into you once more, slowly building up his pace until he’s fucking you evenly like he was before, holding your hips in his broad hands. His cock stokes the burn in your belly, filling you with steady pleasure that is making you feel good like you’d told him. But after his tongue, the air of your bedroom is cold on your hole, slick from Eddie’s spit. And you’re just realizing you really miss the feeling when something hits you there— something wet and warm that lingers for a moment before beginning to slide, guided by gravity to drip down the delicate skin between your ass and your entrance.

Eddie’s spit.

You’re just recovering from the realization that Eddie has spit on your hole when you feel the calloused pad of his thumb press against it, rubbing you there as he maintains the pace of his hips. You moan, arching your back and rocking eagerly into the feeling of him massaging you with his thumb while he fucks your pussy. Before you know it, you’re panting, nearly squirming with your desire for more— more cock, more thumb, more touch, more something.

Your desire is purring within you, making your answer to Eddie’s question come quick and easy. “You want my thumb inside?” he asks, and immediately you’re nodding, the tingling fire of your arousal bursting to life again.

You know that nodding isn’t really enough to confirm what you want, but a little vocalization is all you can manage. “Mm-hmm,” you hum, voice wavering as your body rushes with anticipation. 

“Shit, that’s so hot,” Eddie mutters under his breath, and you whimper when he pauses in his movements, both his thumb and his hips as if he needs to stop entirely in order to concentrate. And then the pressure against your hole steadily and evenly begins to increase. 

You arch your back further, encouraging him with your posture and the little breathy sounds you let spill from your lips as you pant. He pushes in steadily until the tip of his thumb pops inside you up to the first knuckle, and the breach has you clenching on him instantly. "That's it, baby. Take it,” Eddie husks, and the smoke of his voice settles low in your belly, mixing with the heat of your fire as he starts to thrust his cock into you again.

As he resumes his pace, splaying the rest of his fingers along one cheek to hold onto you comfortably, you find yourself nearly overwhelmed by all the sensations— the rasp of his wiry curls against your heated lips, the lewd shlicking sounds of your wetness as he pounds into you, the pleasant sting of his thumb and the delicious stretch of his cock, the feeling of being breached and filled by him in two places instead of one. Your flames twist high, flaring hotter and hotter until you’ve turned into a whiny mess— lips parted, brow scrunched, eyes screwed shut as you twist the comforter in your fists and bury your face in it. It doesn’t stop your whines and moans, though they’re muffled now, uttered into the soft fabric beneath you.

“Ah-ah—” Eddie’s rasp is chastizing as he bends over your back, his hot, sticky chest now flush with the breadth of your shoulders. As he does, incidentally, he presses further in: his cock bullies up against the end of you and his thumb slips deeper, stretching you as you stutter a moan into the comforter. He grips your hair to turn your head, pausing for a moment to press his palm lightly against the side of your face for emphasis. "Don’t do that,” Eddie pants, pushing himself up with one hand against the bed before grabbing hold of your hip and fucking into you again, his other hand still firmly gripping your cheek with his thumb buried inside. “Wanna hear every sound out of those pretty lips.” 

You’re officially a wreck now. Panting, moaning with every breath, mouth open and drooling against the bed, face hot and flushed as he pounds you, brain empty of anything but Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. You look up at him, glassy-eyed and adoring, and he groans raggedly, face pinching as he sees just how fucked out you are. "Jesus Christ, you look so—” He breaks off in a grunt, dragging his teeth against his plush bottom lip before groaning, “fuck, m'close, but I want another one from you. Can you give me one more, sweet girl?"

Your nose skims the sheets with each thrust as you rock with Eddie’s movements, teary eyes locked on his pretty face: the flush of his cheeks, how his damp curls kiss them as they sway; the plush of his swollen lips as he swipes his pink tongue across them; the shadow of his jaw and the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows thickly; the look in his brown eyes, heavy and hazy, molten to deep honey as he watches you take him so well like the good girl you are. Your thoughts are sluggish, melty with the heat of your desire, the flames that lick up your abdomen. It takes you a moment to realize Eddie has asked you a question. 

Can you give me one more, sweet girl? Will you let me make you cum again?

Your focus hones to the stretch of him filling you, his cock pumping hot and thick in your pussy, his thumb and splayed fingers holding you in place. And as you think about it— think about how pretty Eddie looks, how his cock feels inside you— you find yourself wanting one thing. You want Eddie to cum. You want to see the way his brow pinches and his mouth falls open, to hear his smoke voice high and tight as you make him moan, to feel the way he holds you as he twitches and pumps warm cum deep inside you, claiming you as his.

Your bottom lip drags against the comforter as you close your drooling mouth, and you bite it through a tiny, petulant whine of protest at the realization that waiting for your orgasm means having to wait longer for Eddie’s. “Eddie,” you whine, brow crinkled pleadingly, trying to urge him toward what you desire. “Want your cum in me.”

Eddie huffs, cheeks pinking further, eyes darkening at the petulance in your voice. “Yeah, baby?” he husks. “You want my load?”

Your eyes widen hopefully, an expression of earnest, cock-dumb need. “Mm-hmm,” you hum, whimpery and urging again. “Please cum in me, Ed.”

Eddie can never resist your pleading, but this time, your words make his brown eyes flash. He chuckles breathlessly, expression lighting with mischief. And you should have been prepared, but you’re too gone to notice, so it takes you entirely off-guard when Eddie purrs, "I know what you really want, y/n. You want me to fuck a baby into you.”

Instantly, you burst with tingling flutters; you gasp sharply as goosebumps rush along your back and arms, racing up your spine to tingle in your scalp, tightening your nipples and leaving you reeling. It’s not something you and Eddie have discussed before, and you aren’t expecting how affected you are by the thought of Eddie giving you a baby. You shudder, a full-bodied and unmistakeably obvious physical reaction to his words, one you have no hope of stifling. 

Eddie groans, deep and low in his chest as he feels and sees your reaction to his words. “Shit, you do, don’t you? I fuckin’ knew it.”

He sounds smug but excited, and you can’t help but feel embarrassed by the strength of your sudden desire. Because you do want that— in just the same way as the first time you had your mouth on him, when Eddie asked you if you wanted his cum. Though the suggestion hadn’t consciously occurred to you before, you realize it has been there, buried deep down like the seed that has since sprouted and grown tall under his careful tending. A hidden desire that now has been exposed, leaving you open and vulnerable. 

But then Eddie’s smoke voice gentles, sounding so sincere as he says, “I can't wait to see you, y/n.” The fingers clutching at your hip ease, and your breath hitches as Eddie slides his calloused hand down to cup the soft of your stomach, holding you, supporting you in an embrace seemingly at odds with the way he’s fucking into you. “Gonna be so gorgeous. Belly all round, tits so big… beautiful, sweet girl.” You feel your green quiver and bloom with the strength of your love, but also with this poignant, sharp longing that floods you. 

He’s right behind you, holding you, inside you. Eddie couldn’t be closer, but you still want more.

His voice is growing huskier, grittier, hoarsening with desire as he keeps talking. “I want everyone to see you. To see how incredible you are. They’ll see you, and everyone will know…” he breaks off in a grunt, chest heaving, words a little shakier as he continues, “they’ll know I fucked you full of my cum. I want everyone to know you’re my girl. I want them to know you’re mine." 

That’s the more you’re yearning for: Eddie claiming you, filling you, marking you not just with bruises from his fingertips and his kisses but with his seed, with the evidence of your shared love growing inside you, sheltered by your body. A piece of Eddie and a piece of you, forever entangled. And as you hear each successive word, your longing twists tighter and your flame burns brighter and hotter until it’s tingling between your hips, driving you toward that elusive place you’ve already visited twice tonight. 

Eddie’s fucking you hard and fast now, wound tight, seemingly stirred by his own words. “Is that what you want?” he pants. “You want me to give you a baby, y/n?” 

You do. You really do. You want it so bad you can’t even speak beyond a broken, keening noise in your throat. “Tell me,” Eddie urges you, brown eyes nearly desperate. “Please, tell me you want it.” 

Through your gasps and whimpers, you force out the words in a choked sob, only for him. "I want your baby, Eddie, I want—" 

Your orgasm surges up so quickly your words cut off in a scream, and you cry out desperately, high and hoarse as it rushes through you. Longing and pleasure, desire and devotion, a combination so intense that you lose control of your body, swept away by an all-encompassing wave that has you twisting your fingers in the sheets and writhing, twitching, spasming on Eddie’s cock. You don’t even notice when he pulls out his thumb; your pussy flutters wildly as he holds on tight to your hips, wide-eyed and nearly overwhelmed by the vehemence of your reaction. 

The illusion of his control shatters. Eddie’s hips stutter as he starts to whine, and now, he’s almost as much a mess as you are, though you’re too far gone to notice it. As you start to come down, all you can hear is his wavering smoke voice, choked and raw. "Oh, my God— good girl, you’re so— so good, my girl, oh shit, g-gonna make me cum, oh fuck, I-I’m—" 

Eddie keens desperately, whiny and high, a beautiful broken sound of desperation as he finally spills inside you, filling you and filling you and filling you. 

In the aftershocks of your pleasure, the warmth of Eddie’s cum brings a sense of peace and completion. When he chokes on a moan, rutting his hips against your ass as he shakes and trembles, you press back into him, sighing as you feel his cock twitch and jerk rhythmically with his release. If you had the energy, you’d push yourself up so you could press your back against his chest and thread your fingers in his curls to cradle his head, but after three orgasms and more than an hour of intense love-making, you’re feeling utterly exhausted. Luckily, Eddie’s feeling the same desire for closeness as you are— you hum, eyes blinking heavy-lidded as he drapes his sweaty torso over your back and wraps his firm arms around your middle, holding you close. 

You relish the press of Eddie’s chest against your back, the frantic beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his breath, though his weight quickly becomes too heavy for your trembling, boneless arms. You push out a whimper and he gets the hint, pulling out and collapsing onto the bed in a heap beside you. Quick as you can, you turn towards him, fighting against the protest of your sore muscles to shimmy closer until you’re enveloped by his heat. You tangle your limbs together, ignoring all else: the sweat that makes your skin stick everywhere it touches, the mess of cum leaking from your pussy onto the comforter as you shift, the slightly-uncomfortable poking of his half-hard cock against your soft tummy. Because you don’t care about those things when you can gaze into the tired, sated eyes of the man you love, caress his cheek, kiss him softly, and hold him close, knowing this moment can last as long as you like.

You lay there basking in the glow until Eddie begins to untangle you, choosing to ignore your petulant grunt aside from a quick fond chuckle he huffs through his nose when he rolls off the bed. Your head flops back to the mattress, and you drift into that place just at the edge of dreaming, the distant sound of running water a fuzz of pleasant white noise in your ears. When the mattress dips, it pulls you out of it, and you stretch luxuriously across the bedding as you feel a warm, damp cloth against your inner thighs. You hum, rolling onto your back and spreading your legs for him, smiling up at Eddie as he cleans you gently. “Thank you,” you say, voice quiet and sleepy and sated. Eddie’s curls tickle your cheeks when he ducks to press a kiss to your lips. You frown suddenly in realization. “Hey,” you say, still quiet but a little more awake now as his lips pull away, dragging yours with them slightly. “Wait a minute. It’s your birthday— I should be taking care of you.” 

Eddie flops down next to you, eyes sparkling as he grins, and you wonder how he can still have so much energy after fucking you for hours. “You’re right,” he says, “it is my birthday. And I wanna take you somewhere.”

Your frown turns from consternation to confusion. “You wanna take me somewhere for your birthday?” When he just nods, gazing at you hopefully, you soften. “Okay,” you hush through a smile, playing with a lock of his curls. “Of course. Where do you wanna go?”

Those plush lips twist a little sheepishly. “Well, it’s kind of far. Not that far,” he rushes, “it’s within driving distance, but… it would take a couple hours.” You don’t understand his hesitance until he adds, “And we’d need to leave soon.”

You squint. “How soon, Eddie?”

He grins, and there’s an edge of intentional charm in it, like he knows you can’t resist him when he’s being cute. “Um, in like… three hours.”

Your brows flash up. “You mean we’d have to leave at three in the morning?” When he looks at you, those pretty brown eyes all big and wide and pleading, it’s almost disgusting how quickly you relent. “Let’s do it,” you say, and the sparkling, crinkly-eyed beam that lights his face is an instant reward.

You and Eddie weave back together to steal a brief naked nap, waking with snuffles and pulling on warm comfortable clothes before rubbing the crust from your eyes. You make a pitstop in the living room so Eddie can check on Smaug the bearded dragon; you smile fondly as your boyfriend croons over him while Smaug blinks lazily, looking up at him from inside his elaborate glass enclosure.

“We should feed him before we go,” Eddie says, and your lips curve with a smile.

“How about a treat? Then we can give him his mealworms when we get back,” you suggest, giggling when Eddie wraps you in his arms, shuffling you forward with little steps over to the fridge. You pass him the small container of mushy strawberries, watching as Smaug snatches them up with his pale tongue, mashing the fruit with little smacks of his tiny jaws.

And as you prepare to head out, a sense of childish giddiness overtakes you at the fact that you're leaving in the middle of the night when it feels like the rest of the world is asleep, off on an impromptu adventure to who-knows-where. You turn to Eddie to see him bundled in his sweatshirt and thick joggers, lanky frame covered by swaths of soft fabric, his feet stuffed in his untied Reeboks. He jams a beanie over his wild curls, tugging until it’s arranged how he wants it, snug but not quite straight. You consider asking Eddie where he's taking you, but as he carefully fits a second knit beanie over your head, tongue poking between his lips as he adjusts it against your forehead, you decide you’d rather leave it a surprise. 

You don’t need to know where you’re going; it’s enough to know who you’re going with.

Still, you can’t say you’d expected to end up where you are.

By late September, no one is looking to visit the beach. Certainly not at five in the morning, and especially not when the gate to access the park at the edge of the island is closed. 

No one except Eddie Munson, that is.

To be fair, he hadn’t expected it to be gated off, though that was, in fact, his own oversight. But you had driven two hours to get here, and it is his birthday—well, the day after his birthday now— so it doesn’t take much coaxing at all to convince you to let him park on the sand half-concealed behind some scraggly trees and help you hop the gate. 

It's quite a bit colder here at the shoreline than it was in the city; the salt air is gritty and harsh against your cheeks, and you're glad for the beanie keeping your ears protected as Eddie slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you into his warm side. It's cold and dark, but luckily, Eddie seems to know where he's going, illuminating your path with the flashlight on his phone. When the lighthouse looms out of the dark, towering red and white and still as a silent sentinel at the edge of the ocean, you assume that's where he intends to take you. But instead, Eddie skirts around it, leading you from concrete to sand before hopping spryly onto a low, flat rock that leads to the jetty.

Only then do you become wary. You'd been faithfully following along after him so far on this adventure, but the thought of feeling your way along giant rocks in the pitch black with nothing but the stars and your phone to guide you is unnerving. You squint, trying to gaze down the line of large, dark stones to see how far they go. They seem to stretch on almost endlessly. You shiver with apprehension as you imagine turning around to see the distant pricks of civilization at the shoreline, surrounded on both sides by the rush of the undulating sea, entirely exposed to the unknown.

But Eddie is holding out his broad hand, silver rings gleaming in the moonlight. Even in the dark of twilight you can see the rough callouses on his fingertips, the familiar scars of toil and dedication to his craft. You see the leather bracelet that wraps around his thin wrist, the strong tendons that disappear under the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

You look from his hand to his face, and even in the dark, there's light in Eddie's eyes.

"Come on, sweet girl," he says. "I got you. We'll go slow, okay?" His lips tilt with an earnest smile. "It'll be worth it," he murmurs. "I promise."

It is so worth it. 

Every uncertain step, every slippery rock, every gap, Eddie guides you over with patience and care. Eddie's fingers hold yours tightly, growing slippery with the salt spray on the wind but never faltering in their firm grip on you. Carefully, slowly, you step from flat stone to flat stone, following in Eddie's steady, sure footsteps until the tightness in your chest eases. The jetty extends on forever, but you and Eddie tackle it bit by bit. You watch the sea play in the divots between stone as gradually, the sky lightens. It softens slowly from deep, dark velvet until, by the time you've reached the end of the jetty, it's bloomed into the cool, pale blue of approaching dawn.

Eddie goes before you, scuttling down the last few steps and holding out his arms for you. His hands close around your waist as you hop from the jetty to the sand, and you take his hand as he guides you to the strip of beach at the end of the island, edged by untamed green. You know deep down that you and Eddie are not the first to be here, but it almost feels that way. It feels as though you’re both removed from it all, claiming a little oasis for your own at the back of the world.

Cold seeps through your leggings as you sit, and Eddie flops ungracefully to mirror your position: legs bent, sneakers digging divots into the pliant sand, forearms resting on knees. The sea breeze plays with your hair beneath your beanies, but you’re used to its chill now, and you can feel the warmth of Eddie’s body right beside you— not quite touching, but close enough to keep you from shivering. You sit there quietly for some time, sitting side-by-side with Eddie, staring out at the sea. There is peace in watching the waves crash into foam that spreads thin across the beach, carrying delicate stones that dance when it recedes back into itself, only to return again and again.

As the pale blue of the sky begins to deepen to orange at the horizon line, you finally speak, your voice quiet and creaky from disuse. “Sunrise on the beach, Ed?” You slant a teasing glance at him. “This is a pretty sappy birthday gift.”

In the deepening light you can see that Eddie’s soft nose is stung pink from the cold, and he sniffles and wrinkles it before returning your glance. The sea wind is playing with his curls, turning them frizzy and wild and free. “Well,” he says, just as quietly, because in this oasis at the back of the world, there’s no need to raise his voice. “A while ago, I took a walk on the beach with this chick in Miami. Thought I might wanna do it again. See the sunrise with her this time.”

You try to bite back the wideness of your smile, but Eddie sees right through you, down to the heat in your cheeks and the sparkle of adoration in your eye and the verdant green of your soul. He shows off his dimple, grinning at you, pleased as he unfolds one arm to pinch your chin in his strong but gentle fingers. He looks at you for a moment, dark eyes dragging over your face in a soft caress before his thumb draws across your skin. “You like it?”

“I love it,” you say, thick and melty like honey. “I love you, Eddie.”

There’s soft pink on Eddie’s face. There’s the orange light of dawn in his eyes. “I love you, too,” he says. “I love you more than anything.”

You don’t try to stifle your smile that time. Instead, you direct it toward the sea, toward the rising sun, the cleft of brightness that emerges from the dark toil of the water. You lean your temple against the soft plush of Eddie’s shoulder, and he straightens his elbow to rest it again on his knee. You extend your arm, and he extends his, sliding his rough palm along your soft one and shifting his fingers ‘til they’re intertwined with yours.

Dawn is breaking, and you’re thinking about the beginning of things. 

You don’t turn to look at him, because then, your courage might fail. “Earlier,” you say, small and quiet, almost a whisper, “was that just dirty talk? Or…?”

You don’t need to clarify further; Eddie knows what you’re referring to. His smoke voice is quiet when he answers, but it isn’t unsure. “No,” he says. “Not just dirty talk, sweet girl. I do want that.” His thumb strokes across the back of your hand, and its rasp leaves tingles in its wake. “Soon, if that’s what you want.”

Your blooms sigh. Your fruit is plentiful, more than enough to share. “I do,” you say, and Eddie turns his face to rest gently against your beanie. 

His chin skims cold along your forehead, but his breath is warm as he murmurs, almost to himself, “Just wanna marry you first.”

The sun rises, and as you watch the new day dawn, the promise of the future has never tasted quite so succulently sweet.

#blueywrites #tkym #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fanfiction

[princessanonymous]

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

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24. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂'𝓻𝓮 𝓙𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓦𝓱𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓹𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓦𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓔𝓪𝓽

The next month had been spent in a haze, where everything seemed to happen at once at a very rapid pace, with her being an unwilling observer to it all. Interacting with everything proved to be quite the challenge, one she wasn’t willing to attempt for now. She remained passive and defeated, knowing that there wasn’t really any chance that her situation would get better. She was not unlike a walking corpse roaming the halls of the estate, wishing for a form of release. Like during the months leading to her turning, the girl’s days were spent sleeping; the sunrays hurt, and while the burns quickly left due to her fast healing, it left a reminder in her mind. She wasn’t welcomed amongst the living anymore, outcasted even by the sun.

She slept during the night as well, hoping that time would fly and, somehow, would make her feel better. They said that time heals all wounds. She hoped it would heal hers. Not the physical kind; her body had become quite resistant to physical injuries and scars disappeared in minutes at most. 

Dorian did not comment on her state, fortunately allowing her to slumber with nothing but a small remark that her behavior was not that abnormal from other newborns, saying that it would surely pass. Once a night, he came to feed her. He had tried giving her human blood more than once, but she had learned to see the difference between it and her sire’s. While her sire’s blood tasted good, it did not compare to the smell of mortal blood. Their blood smelt like a sweet, heavenly nectar. Like a fine delicacy that she wouldn’t allow herself to partake in for (Y/n) knew that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to stop drinking. One drop would be enough.

Killian came regularly during the night. She recognized him by the immense feeling of guilt that spread in the room once he entered. She didn’t know when she had begun to sense people’s feelings, but she had become quite used to it, almost as if it were instinctive. She rarely opened the coffin – it was Dorian’s, but she had practically taken it as her own by now – and simply listened as he took a seat and drew it closer to her. Killian would then open a book and start reading her a story. One each night, she believed. He always came whenever she was awake, somehow knowing that, while she remained in the coffin, she was not sleeping. He never said much, only read and commented on certain chapters. There was no discussion of her fate as a vampire between them; the guilt and remorse he felt told her everything. She did not blame him. How could she, when he had tried to help her? 

Even now, when all hope was lost, he strived to make this situation better for her. She had learned that Killian survived on a diet consisting of animal blood, His sense of empathy for humans made it impossible for him to drain them without a second thought like Dorian did. She had attempted Killian’s diet once, perhaps to defy her sire, but the smell was horrible. It tasted so bitter. She had gagged and thrown up everything ingested in mere seconds while wondering how he could survive on this vile thing. He hadn’t commented on her reaction though and, by the lack of surprise, must have expected it. 

She often wondered what he saw when he looked at her, if he saw the girl she once was or merely a shell of her former self. But she dared not voice her thoughts, afraid of what his answer might reveal.

Dorian came in and an argument had ensued between the two older vampires. The blond was beyond angry that the other had even mentioned his diet to the girl. (Y/n) could sense that the subject of Killian’s diet had been brought to the table many times before between the two, but now that it involved her, Dorian was unwilling to compromise. She hadn’t said anything; her opinions never really mattered in these quarrels anyways.

⊱ ────── {⋆𖤐⋆} ────── ⊰

Exactly one month later, Dorian grew tired of (Y/n)'s passive demeanor, the weight of her melancholy casting a shadow over the estate. Dorian resolved to take matters into his own hands. It was time; time for his newborn to experience the world beyond these walls. She would realize there were far more beauties to be found in this new existence.

To his insistence, they went out in the city, the goal being to find her her own coffin. The coffin maker they had employed was too wary from his last visit to come back. Fortunately, he was willing to let them come to his shop. 

(Y/n) donned a dark blue dress with a zouave jacket and a bonnet. Beside her, Killian and Dorian were clad in similar dark attire, complete with top hats. Their noble outfits drew glances from passersby as they strolled through the city streets.

Arriving at the unassuming and gloomy shop, Dorian knocked sharply. The sign declared it closed, but their appointment had been prearranged. After a while, footsteps approached the door, and the distinct sound of a lock opening echoed. The old door creaked open, revealing the wary countenance of the human craftsman.

"Good evening," he greeted, "we had an appointment tonight."

"Yes," confirmed the craftsman wearily, recognizing them. His eyes shifted to the young girl standing between Dorian and Killian. “You may come in.”

THey finally stepped in and he put a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Would you prefer a casket like your dad or a coffin, like your father ?" Dorian asked as he turned to her. He specified what to address them by now. They were finally truly a coven – a family – and she would have to understand that sooner rather than later.

"What is the difference ?" She asked begrudgingly. Her voice was scratchy, as she had not used it much during the last month.

A knowing smile graced Dorian's face, well aware that this particular decision held little room for argument. There were two main reasons why vampires preferred coffins or caskets. In the olden days, before the discovery of the carnelian's power, it was simply safer to sleep in it to protect themselves from sunlight. Now however, it was mostly for comfort reasons. Sleeping in a bed was uncomfortable for vampires.

Killian provided a clear distinction between a casket and a coffin, guiding (Y/n) through the nuances of each. He pointed to a rectangular-shaped box, explaining, "This is a casket. I prefer to rest in it due to its comfort and convenience, thanks to the hinged lid. On the other hand, a coffin conforms to the shape of a human form and has a removable lid, like the one you have been using for the last month." She listened attentively, still uncertain about which option suited her best.

"Would you have some of her size to try ?" Dorian suggested, addressing the manufacturer. The man seemed baffled but nodded anyway, perhaps too confused to refuse.

The man gestured to a casket in the back. (Y/n) walked up to it hesitantly. Dorian nodded at her with a smile. "Go on," he encouraged. She laid in it, her arms resting on the sides of her body. "Cross your arms around above your chest. It will be harder for someone to ram a stake through your heart." He paused at the fear in her eyes. “Not that this could happen with your dad and I protecting you. It is simply a good habit to have, dear.”

A gasp escaped the old man behind them, and Dorian turned with irritation. The coffin maker, finally understanding, whispered in shock, "Vampires," pointing at the duo. In all honesty, Dorian would have expected him to understand earlier, but now the realization dawned on the man. The atmosphere tensed.

The coffin maker took several steps back and reached for the door. "Let me leave! Help! Vamp—" The man's plea was cut off by Killian stepping between him and the exit.

With a strained smile, Killian spoke, "Now, why don't we all stay calm, good sir?"

“Help! Help—”

The dark haired vampire's eyes bore into the human's, shining dimly with a red light. The man became rigid, his eyes taking on a glassy look. "Be quiet," he hissed the command sharply. "You will turn around and continue business as usual without a word. Am I clear?"

The man nodded, appearing dazed. Dorian licked his lips, looking at his partner with great enthusiasm. "You know how much I love it when you do that," he gushed.

Killian's gift was that of mind control, a rare, yet useful gift for vampires that he didn't use often. Sadly, with his less than nutritious diet of animals, using his powers was more exhausting for Killian. It was another reason why this noble choice of his to remove humans from his diet always irritated the blond vampire. Dorian loved when the other showed his darker side, when he let out the powerful part of him he tried so often to hide and stifle. 

"What are you doing to him ?" (Y/n) asked in alarm as she stood from the casket.

"Nothing that could harm him," Dorian assured dismissively, showing little concern for the mortal. Turning to his fledgling, he asked, "Is this casket to your liking, starshine?"

The young fledgling bit her lip with uncertainty. Her eyes landed on him, the human, and then Killian. She shrugged before looking down guiltily.

"We can also try a coffin," Dorian suggested, addressing the still-enchanted man. "Is there a coffin her size she could try?"

"Yes, right here," the man answered, still under Killian's influence that stopped him from running away.

Dorian gestured to the coffin. "Try it."

(Y/n) closed her eyes as she assumed the position. "I like this one," she declared after a moment.

He clapped his hands together with a satisfied smile. "Good, very good. We will take your precise measurements and have one made for you in... oak," he decided. The wood had to be heavy. It was always a good idea to have a heavier lid so that humans would have difficulty opening it.

Once all was arranged, they ensured that the newly commissioned coffin would be delivered to their estate upon completion. Killian used his influence to erase any memory of their vampiric nature from the manufacturer, ensuring their secret remained intact.

"Where else do we have to go ?" She asked curiously as she took in everything around her. The noise, the smells, the colors... He could see that this trip was good for her.

"A jewelry shop," he responded.

They entered the place not long after. It was still owned by the same person, even fifty years later. Dorian wondered how the shopkeeper, one of their kind, had avoided any suspicions of being a vampire when he hadn’t aged in all these years. They greeted him amicably, and Dorian noticed the realization flashing in (Y/n)’s eyes as she understood he was also a vampire. She held no fear this time, but her troubled eyes revealed a lingering discomfort. The shopkeeper presented her with a small bracelet adorned with carnelians, gemstones meant to shield her from sunlight.

They walked out the shop and, before entering their carriage, she noticed a toy manufacturer in the distance and pointed towards it. "Can we go in there?" She asked.

"Do you want new dolls to play with ?" Dorian smiled at her fondly.

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "I don't play with dolls," she denied, "I collect them."

Killian chuckled and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Of course," he agreed good-naturedly, sharing an amused look with Dorian.

He beamed, enjoying these little moments of complicity with his lover. He had known that bringing in a child would mend their relationship.

As they passed through a dark alley, distracted by his musings, Dorian barely noticed when a man in shabby clothes walked up to them. He did notice, however, when the man grabbed his child. Soon, the girl had a knife against her throat.

Instantly, both vampires were on alert. While they knew she wasn't in real danger due to her vampiric nature, the audacity of a mortal attempting to harm her provoked a response.

"Now why don't all of ya' give me your money ?" The crook barked out. He must have targeted them because of their attire, the fact they were nobles didn't go unnoticed in these streets.

Dorian stepped forward, already preparing to snap the vile filth's neck. Surprisingly, before he could do so, (Y/n) did something unexpected. With no hesitation, she bit the man's hand. When he cried out in pain, she didn't relent and kept a strong hold, unrelenting. He struggled to escape her as she drank his blood, her eyes becoming red. Soon, the man was knocked out. Whether it was because of the sleeping toxin in the bite or the amount of blood she was drinking, Dorian did not know nor care.

They just looked at the girl as she drank human blood for the first time. He smiled fondly at her first real feeding. They only stopped her when she had sucked the man dry. She tried to resist them to have more but he tutted. "Doll, you've drunk it all." She slowly came back to reality. He had expected her to look distressed or guilty, but she looked calm and collected, most likely in denial, despite all the blood covering her face and her clothes.

He frowned at that and Killian handed him a handkerchief. "Look at you," he said disapprovingly, "you have made a mess of yourself."

They disregarded the lifeless body in the alley, displaying a clear lack of concern for the mortal. The trio continued their stroll through the city, the night embracing them in its dark tendrils. The incident in the alley seemed to have awakened a different facet of her vampiric nature, one that intrigued Dorian and unnerved Killian simultaneously. The blond had always heard that younger vampires were more likely to hold less remorse, their instinct shaping their morals. One sip was enough to stop any form of hesitation.

She clutched his hand fervently, and while she looked out of their carriage calmly, the tremors in her hand were still noticeable. With his other hand, he petted her hair softly. “You did well,” he murmured encouragingly, hoping to drive out any remorse she might experience.

(Y/n) might not have forgotten about her past, but he hoped she would ignore what once was and acclimate to her new existence with ease. Tonight was the first night of the rest of her unending existence, after all.

┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

Finally posted again after practically 2 week! Like I wrote in an earlier chapter, this story is completed and I just need to post each chapter after proof reading it. The problem came when I noticed that I really didn't like this one. I just dislike the pacing and everything and it took me some time to understand what was the problem and how to fix it. Im still not 100% satisfied with it, but I think its good, the pacing is just meh.

Also: There is only the epilogue left to post ! Almost done with this story. ;)

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #yandere vampire #yandere father #obsession #yandere #vampire #platonic #x reader #female reader #reader insert #child reader #yandere x reader #fanfic #stockholm syndrome #toxic relationship #abusiveness #manipulation #(y/n)

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — One

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none for this chapter, just Tom being grumpy and hating the world

— WORDCOUNT: 3k

— A/N: This is a fic that was commissioned by @localravenclaw as a gift for @esolean 💕 It's going to be a bit of a rollercoaster, with angst and fluff and smut galore. I plan to post twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you will have fun reading it, my dears! 💚

I

Tom was twenty-five. It had been seven years since he graduated from Hogwarts, and just as many since he started working at Borgin and Burkes. Now, he found himself in a sweltering place with the world passing him by. Trapped, for his sins, in a moving metal coffin. If this was hell, it looked like rolling hills, houses nestled in the fog, narrow rows of poplars and puffs of grazing sheep, all set to the tune of clinking chains and carriage shuffles. He hated this assignment.

After taking the train from London to Dover, he caught the ferry that sailed to Calais, and from there took a series of coaches and trains meant to take him on to Italy. To Rome. They had just stopped in Lyon to pick up more passengers, and now they were on their way again.

He had fought with Burke regarding the logistics of the whole thing. Why couldn’t he just use Floo like a normal wizard? But the miserable old stoat said he’d sooner trust muggle transportation than Tom’s pronunciation of Italian or French — and besides, was Floo even networked all the way down there? It didn’t matter anymore.

Tom was convinced it was all done to save costs, and perhaps for Burke to not have to call in any favours. So off he went with one measly suitcase and two billfolds of franks and lira — all of which were merely enchanted oak leaves. They would inevitably transfigure back to their original form in a couple of weeks or so, but by then Tom should be long gone. Who said money didn’t grow on trees?

He tried to distract himself from all this misery by checking his notes again. His little book cracked open, snapping at the spine, and its insides were revealed to him like a cadaver cut through with a black spidery scrawl. It was a list of books and authors, with observations added vertically on the side to save space.

“The Secrets of Wisdom, N. Tamisso 1650 — high priority, any edition. The Lost Word, B. Trevisan 1661 — low priority, optional. Delomelanicon (or The Invocation of Darkness), A. Torchia 1666 — first edition, mandatory.” The latter word was underlined three times. His notes continued with the instructions Burke had given. “Check the rare book dealers, antiquaries, private collectors if necessary. If you can not find it, find out who can. If they will not sell it, take it anyway.”

Tom’s lip curled. Whatever joy there was in being away from the squalor of Knockturn Alley was soiled by what he had to do in Rome. It wasn’t the books he minded, and in fact, he quite admired Burke’s taste in this matter. But to be flung so far away from home on such short notice, and for such a length of time, was pitiful to him. The heir of Slytherin turned errand boy…

“Excuse-moi, est-ce que — Oh, bonjour.”

Tom turned his frown toward the sliding doors of the compartment, between which stood a young man in his twenties. Lanky brown locks fell into his eyes veiling the crinkles of a smile.

“Yes?” sighed Tom.

“I was wondering if this was free,” said the boy. And without waiting for an answer, he dragged his luggage inside — three suitcases, all leather with copper fittings looking ready to burst — and closed the doors behind him.

“I suppose it is,” mumbled Tom. He subtly closed his notebook and tucked it back into the messenger bag at his feet while he kept track of the stranger from the corner of his eyes.

The fine quality of the newcomer’s clothes was somewhat disguised by how carelessly they hung around him. His white and starched shirt was loosened at the top, revealing a hint of tanned skin sprinkled with sparse curls. A golden pin kept a red and blue striped tie affixed to it, and around his pinky finger was a silver ring thickly laid with marcasites and crowned with a malachite stone. His lips were full and purple-stained from wine. His eyes were a bright blue. Judging by his pressed trousers and clean leather shoes, he was a gentleman who had arrived at the station by car — or, at least, he was the spoilt brat of one.

“Clement,” the boy grinned, extending his hand.

“Tom,” he replied, giving him a firm, brief shake.

“I’m on my way to Rome!” Clement sighed, plopping down onto the seat opposite him. Almost immediately, he cracked open a cigarette case and started fishing for a lighter in his trouser pocket. His luggage lay strewn all around the floor, suitcases filled with junk, no doubt. “You?”

“The same,” Tom said and instantly regretted sharing anything at all. With people like these — the overly friendly types — it was best to not encourage conversation.

“Oh, magnificent. Vacation?”

“Work.”

“How sad,” tutted Clement as he popped a cigarette between his lips. He offered one to Tom as well.

“Don’t smoke.”

“Ah.”

He closed the case with a loud click and set it on the table between them. With a smooth, almost theatrical motion, he lit up his pocket lighter — silver, older than him, probably an heirloom, engraved with an elaborate floral motif featuring a fleur-de-lis — and let the flame dance on the tip of his cigarette until he was satisfied.

“Don’t talk much, either,” the boy chuckled. He kept his eyes on Tom as he took a drag, then started puffing away without a care. He attempted to blow rings of smoke but failed. “What do you use your mouth for, then?”

“Cursing, mostly.”

Clement laughed. “The same!”

Tom doubted it.

The compartment soon filled with smoke, and the narrow window open at the top only made it dance around inside. The muggy summer fumes were driving Tom to madness already, and he could only hope the train moved fast enough to clear the air. But as they went further into the rural parts of France, the scent of sheep took over. Maybe it’s not too late to try to Apparate directly at the station, he thought.

“So, what do you do?” asked the French boy, vowels gliding altogether in one breath between his lips. His arm extended elegantly to tap the ash into a cheap tray by the window.

It took Tom a moment to look at him and answer. “I’m in, er, publishing.”

“Truly?” he said, excited enough to lean over the table. “That’s magnificent. I intend to be published too.”

“Oh? What do you write?”

“Poesies.”

“Poetry? Ah, not my area, I’m afraid.”

“But you must know some people…”

Tom wanted to tell him that if he were any good he’d have found a publisher already, but intuition told him to temper himself.

“I might,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m full up at the moment.”

The boy puffed away nervously as he tapped the round gemstone of his ring against the window, and kept his eyes on him. Tom turned to watch the view rolling past them, seeing without seeing. The sensation of being watched was as familiar as it was discomforting. It crawled down his thin cheeks, his narrow neck, and from there sank into his clothes like sweat. He gazed briefly at the tapping ring from the corner of his eyes in irritation, before focusing away again. For a few moments, he thought he’d successfully ended their conversation.

“Well, I’m in show business,” Clement said instead, grinning brilliantly. There was a gap between his first incisors that made him look boyish and pure. “Theatre.”

“Your parents must be very happy.”

“No,” he laughed. “Miserable. But,” he shrugged, “it is not their decision.”

Tom hummed and said nothing else.

“Your parents are happy with your job, no? You go on important business trips to France, to Rome, and… erm. Well, it is a good job, for sure. Makes them proud, yes?”

Whatever sunshine beamed through the window was chilled and clouded by the glare in Tom’s dark eyes. Why did this bothersome Frenchman have to talk to him? He wasn’t going to keep doing it the whole way to Rome, surely…

“I wouldn’t know,” he finally said. “They’re dead.”

“Oh… Oh, I am so sorry...”

“I’m not,” he mumbled. He didn’t think Clement had heard him, but he wouldn’t care even if he did.

The boy pulled the ashtray closer and put out his cigarette, then leaned his head against the glass. Fidgeting, he held the silver case in his hands and clicked it open and closed, open and closed… He did that for quite a while.

Tom could feel him staring. Could even sense to some extent the messy thoughts inside that head: curiosity, intrigue, and joy.

What could be joyful about that moment?

Well, if Tom was being honest, this wasn’t the first time he’d had such an effect on people. Memories of Burke’s clients came back to him accompanied by the customary shiver down his spine. Clement had the same flippant merriment about him that all the others did, those careless old witches and wizards. That unguarded look of innocence surrounded by the fog of greed. An airy absence of thought and feeling. Must’ve been the side effect of all that money.

Tom had once envied such people. Had even flattered himself with the knowledge that he, however distantly, was one of them. What greater destiny than to be born to glorious old blood? What greater tragedy than to be fallen from it…? He could even remember, with much clarity and shame, how he’d spent several months during his third year obsessing over the Gaunts and Riddles, chasing up on genealogies, and smattering the back pages of his diary with heraldic designs.

But the more he understood the upper classes — their uselessness, their inborn idiocy, their paradoxical sense of superiority which stood impervious to anything reality threw at them — the more he grew to hate them.

“I am sorry if I offended…” said Clement rather softly. “Sometimes, I talk too much.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t notice.”

“No, but I do, I do…”

Tom had overshot his subtleties, apparently.

“So you are not happy with your job? Forgive me for asking…”

“No, it’s quite alright.”

“A pity, you know…”

“Why?”

“To not like it.”

“Oh, it’s not too much trouble most of the time. Why? Do you like your job?”

“But of course!” he said, blue eyes twinkling.

Tom cast a scathing look his way. How strange… He couldn’t imagine enjoying any form of employment — other than the coveted post of DADA professor at Hogwarts.

“Why are you in Rome, then?” Tom asked.

“On vacation. I am, erm, meeting a friend,” he whispered with a grin.

“A girlfriend?” asked Tom with a smirk.

Clement shook his head and giggled. “A boy friend.”

Tom’s brows nearly reached his hairline. He’d never heard of such things being bandied about quite that openly before, at least not in England. Clement seemed not to care. Must’ve been a habit of his, as he seemed to not care about much at all other than enjoying life.

“You have a fun vacation ahead of you, then.”

“More than you know,” he winked.

Tom curled his nose at that and sat back, away from the whole conversation. But Clement leaned closer, arms braced over the table lazily, eyes flashing excitedly.

“We will rob this old fool, and run with his money.”

That captured Tom’s attention again. The boy was waiting eagerly for his reaction, and not a thought ran through his head that Tom might’ve been untrustworthy. Of course, far be it from him to ruin someone else’s fun, but the scenario Clement proposed was too absurd to be believed.

So what else could Tom do but laugh? The sound of it filled the cabin, and so out of use were those muscles that his cheeks began to ache. The sight of it seemed to delight young Clement. He leaned back and gave another one of his brilliant smiles.

“You can join us, if you like,” he offered smoothly.

“Sorry,” said Tom, his cheeks still flushed. “My schedule is full.”

“Oh, pity, pity… You would like my friend, I think. His name is Donatien. He is more serious, like you.”

“Is that so,” said Tom distractedly.

“By the way, what is your hotel?”

II

They entered Rome on a train that ran six hours late, and wobbled on its tracks, and stank of mouldy cheese and wine rust.

Clement talked most of the way there, and seemed to be satisfied with Tom mostly reacting with brief hums and tilted smiles. They even exchanged gifts. The French boy was enchanted by what was, in Tom’s estimation, a fairly average switchblade. He’d only taken it out to peel an orange. It was something he’d bought in London right before his seventh year, and although it was quite plain, it did have some delicate embellishments on its ivory handle of two writhing snakes. That seemed to appeal to Clement, who offered his own blade in exchange — a Swiss army knife that also had a screwdriver and bottle opener tucked in its red body. Considering it a more efficient deal, Tom shrugged and accepted the trade.

Faint details came up now and then about his plans with this Donatien, but most of it was lost in smoke and loud metallic rattles. As much as Tom hated flying on brooms, even he could agree it would’ve been preferable to this…

But at least he didn’t have to fear any Ministry or Aurors in these parts. Not any that were familiar with him, anyway. The Italians had their own Ministry of Magic, of course, but it was all the way down in Mirto, Sicily, and foreigners were a low priority for them. There were so many people from all over the world in Italy those days that it wasn’t worth keeping track of them all, or at least so Burke had told him.

The train slowed and pulled into the station, and pulled, and pulled… It groaned as if in pain. Clement took the jolt of inertia as it all came to a stop with cheerful clapping, and promptly got up to collect his bags.

“So, we are agreed?”

“Absolutely not agreed. Besides, I doubt my lodgings would be to your taste.”

“Ah Tom, you do not know my taste!”

“Very well, but best keep your complaints to a minimum once we get there.”

They struggled to get everything off the train with four suitcases between them. Tom was travelling light with just the one, about which Clement made some snide comment that he soon forgot, but he helped him anyway. His own belongings consisted of plain muggle clothes and some books that Burke wished him to barter with, if it came to that. Between the lines, and between Burke’s sparse and slimy brows, Tom understood he was expected to use his charms to get a bargain price — as per usual — but he did not intend to let some fat old antiquary put his grimy hands on him. Not this time. Besides, conversing with Clement had stained his dignity enough.

Being away on the continent had one advantage, at least: he was no longer under the vulturous watch of his employer.

Tom stepped out onto the platform, muscles sore from days of sitting down, and looked ahead as if he knew where he was going. People were chatting all around him, filling the cool hall with murmurs all the way up to its dome — some in German, some in French, others in variously accented English. Tom wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and picked up his suitcase to follow Clement, who was hunting for a trolley to load his luggage onto.

As soon as they stepped out onto the street, the heat of Rome in August hit Tom in the face like an oven door and he, frail and pallid thing, was not prepared for it. He squinted in displeasure, to Clement’s great amusement.

“This way, Tom!” he said as he popped on a pair of sunglasses. “I see a taxi!”

Tom had spent most of the journey brushing up on his Italian with the help of a conversation guide he picked up at the Gare du Nord. His extensive knowledge of Latin came in pretty handy. But now that he saw Clement handle things, perhaps he needn’t have bothered. His companion could easily direct the driver to the dingy old hotel Tom was staying at, the Gallienus on Via Domenichino, and chatted a bit more besides.

“Vacation in Rome often, then?” he asked.

“I just know some phrases,” Clement smiled. “You don’t need much with these people.”

The driver pretended not to understand the slight.

“Where do you want to have lunch, then?” Clement asked.

“Lunch? I’m certainly not in the mood, not now.”

“Oh come ooon…”

“You can eat on your own.”

“We can leave our stuff and take the taxi to this place I know on Via della Mercede. They make the best seafood, the best!”

It had not been until now, with this journey to somewhere far away, that Tom realised how limited his world had been at Hogwarts. He’d once felt equal parts ashamed and at a strange advantage next to the other Slytherins, his peers, all purebloods, for knowing both the magical and muggle worlds. Now, exiled for this assignment among strangers, it seemed to Tom as if he were starting life all over again. He looked out the window and everything was new, everything was strange. The buildings, the street, the people, even the clothes were different. The city, like London, was massive, but the streets were broader, blazing white. Some disappeared into little alleyways that slithered like dark serpents. Tom could easily see himself getting lost in such a place.

It was… humbling. He didn’t like it.

#Tom Riddle #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle x OC #Tom Riddle fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #sswallow;fanfics #sswallow;made a thing #fanfic;englishclient #whew here we go 😭 #I dread to think of adapting the masterlist for this lol #I might make a separate post just for all of its chapters #there will be 40 in total

[feysandarcheron]

Spoilers for the HOFAS bonus chapter with Bryce Nesta and Azriel and some vague HOFAS spoilers. Basically analyzing the songs’ meanings and going crazy over elriel

Omg the fact that all the elements of the Stone Mother story connect to the plot. (The second and last bullet points in this section have vague HOFAS spoilers)

Grieving mother. They all just got done talking about their mothers. Ember being separated from and grieving for Bryce. The Archeron mother would roll in her grave to see Nesta now and she treated Feyre terribly. Feyre being a perfect mother. The potential for Nesta to be a mother. Azriel’s mother being “anything but terrible”. And of course The Mother is like god in acotar.

Separated and fighting children. *HOFAS spoilers* Helen and Silene separated forever after a battle. Also reminds me of the 7 courts of Prythian that were separated after Theia’s rule.

Separated Man and Woman. He goes up to the sky and she stays on a mountain, which reminds me of The Embrace statue from Crescent City which is Solas and Cthona, the sun and the mountains. Also, she turns to stone on the mountain, which stone reminds me of the prison and of course the significance of the 3 mountains, and what could be beneath them.

Theme of the story is peace over violence. CC is fighting for a better world, and in ACOTAR they are trying to keep the fragile peace in place after the war.

There is also a poem called Stone Mother about indigenous lands stolen by colonialism and climate change. The Asteri are described as colonizers, and *vague spoilers for HOFAS* also Helen and Silene did something to impact the land in ACOTAR and Midgard. Also water is a big point in the Stone Mother, and *more vague spoilers for HOFAS* something happened with the water in Midgard.

So it’s just crazy people think the part about how Woman came to be with Man won’t also have a connection to the plot 😭

Good Man is lonely and wants company. Azriel being alone all this time and emo

Woman wants to be with Man but is married to Bear… an ugly beast if you will !

Bear gets into a fight with Woman and she kills him. Potential for blood duel.

She searches for Man and when she finds him she hides and just watches him, but he sees her foot prints. Reminds me of how shy Elain is and how Azriel is the only one who sees her and vice versa.

Woman reveals herself and Man sees she’s afraid so he speaks to her kindly, which reminds me of ACOWAR elriel

He offers her FOOD !! Mates hello

She accepts the food and each night sleeps closer to him until they eventually get married, which reminds me of how elriel have just been continuously building slowly with each book

PLUS the only other song mentioned is from a CC ballet called the Glass Coffin which is a Brothers Grimm version of Sleeping Beauty (!!!) (The third and last bullet points have vague HOFAS spoilers)

A man uses magic on a woman he wants to marry (a fake bond??), waking her with enchanting music (lightsinger connection !?)

The magic pins her to the bed so she can’t move, and she doesn’t like his magic, so she rejects his proposal by remaining silent. Reminds me of Elain with Lucien.

In anger he puts a spell on her and traps her in a coffin and enchanted her land to make it all barren. *vague HOFAS spoilers* barren land turning fertile again comes up in HOFAS, both Midgard and ACOTAR.

Another man finds the coffin and frees her, they get married, and the land turns fertile again (*vague HOFAS spoilers* again something like this with the land happens in HOFAS), which reminds me of Azriel potentially freeing Elain from the spell of a fake bond, and I think we will also see something like this with land in acotar 5.

Anyways slay elriel foreshadowing. I will edit this to fill in the HOFAS spoilers parts once the book comes out!

#hofas spoilers #Elriel #pro elriel #hofas

[jazeswhbhaven]

Is it weird that I love the Likeability comics more than the story? I feel we get more in depth characterization and I love that they also extend from the loading screen comics too.

But the Levi Attacker one makes me super conflicted because I love that he has that super shy moment about his scars, but everywhere else I get iffy(maybe also because MC is a complete pushover but I won't get into that since I think that's a shared agreement with many). I 'm letting Ch5 slide because that's MC's first meeting with him so yet but god I'm so not sure how to feel about him atm. I want to like him but I think something isn't lining up and IDK what i t is

I'm telling you rn anon I really want like a full based comic of WHB because I feel they'd pace it out better with the backstories, daily lives that they live, I feel like I learn much more about everyone just as you explained here.

I learned a bunch about the seraphim too from their comics.

Now on terms of Levi, in each comic I've seen of him he's like toned down compared to how he is in the game story (though that may just be me) For Chapter 5 (SPOILER WARNING) SPOILER WARNING) He was a little shit being that rude as the shoved MC in a damn coffin, have the nerve to be upset that they knew about some embarrassing moment from his earlier years, and then have Foras go and spy on Minhyeok and was hesitant to even let Ppyong leave to go get Minhyeok's spunk so they can fucking breathe lol I feel that he only cared because he needs MC...but he's so untrustworthy of everyone due to his trauma he just acts like an asshole. I'm reading more of his selfie card story as I unlock the unholy board and I'm really just not liking his attitude whatsoever. Again...he's pretty but he's sending me up the fucking wall in a bad way. It was even revealed in his likability that he isn't close with any of the kings despite growing up with them. The group photo of him with the kings looks so genuine tho like he's enjoying himself and in one of his comics they played pranks on one another when younger so I just was like huh.. okay? I'mma see where PB is going with his character development...because he somehow got along with Solomon, and Solomon himself advises MC on how to handle him because he figured it out. Me? I'd strangle him non-sexually lol like omfg Levi

#whb #jwhbasks❓ #whb leviathan #spoilers mentioned #levi you are testing my patience #i keep telling myself his misbehavior is just unmet need

[dawneternal]

The Benevolent | Eris x Healer OC | Two

☁︎ notes: so much tea drinking in this chapter?? my bad

☁︎ warnings: descriptions of wounds and blood, talk of physical abuse, implied domestic violence

☁︎ word count: 1.9k

☁︎ AO3 Link // Masterlist

☁︎ tags: @mybestfriendmademe @teddyhoneybear @cauldronblssd @imma-too-many-fandoms @tele86

Eris barely remembered the night before. He did not remember the questions his father had asked or the nonsense he’d given as answers. He knew in his gut that the truth remained tucked away and that’s all that mattered. 

He did recall his mother hurrying away, though the image was blurry from the pain. He thought he remembered an angel, kneeling by his bedside and blessing him with a touch to his brow. But of course, that was delirium from the blood loss. Every snap of his father’s whip, however, echoed through his memory in a loop.

He woke once in the night, head pounding as he surveyed the room. The moonlight revealed his mother’s sleeping form on the couch by the fire. On the floor beside his bed, another figure slept curled up with a throw pillow. Maybe two figures? It was hard to tell, their outline bulky beneath the quilt. He had a vague understanding that he should be dead, or at least in a great deal of pain. But the bedding felt real enough beneath his hands, the ache in his head like an anchor.

He did not have a chance to wonder about it any further before sleep pulled him away again. He dreamt of the angel and her lovely voice, deep and smooth, easing his pain. 

Worry not , she had said. So Eris slept deep and easy. 

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ 

When Eris woke he braced for the full impact of his injury to envelope him, but it never arrived. There was a dull ache throughout his body, but nothing compared to what he felt the night before. He found that he could sit up and move and even stretch with no resistance. 

He flicked on the fae lights and twisted in the mirror, examining his back. There were large, pink scars still tender to the touch. And he was clean, not a hint of the ocean of blood that had threatened to swallow him in his bed. 

That was how his mother found him, staring at his back with confusion and frustration written across his features. She let out a silent sigh as she set down the tea tray, preparing for his interrogation. 

“Someone else was here,” He said. Or rather, demanded, eyes meeting hers in the mirror. 

“Yes. The healer I hired.” She did not look at him, focused on spooning tea leaves into the sieve. 

“Beron forbade it.” His tone was sharp. 

“He will not know. He was called away this morning and you leave for the Spring Court this afternoon.” 

Here she was, pulling strings again. He would always admire her cleverness and always dread the consequences. She was constantly doing favors just so she would be owed one in return. It was the oldest Fae trick in the book and the only way she could gain footing in this court. 

Most of the court and its people would follow her over Beron in a heartbeat. But his reach was wide and his eyes all-seeing. Not to mention his punishments, always cruel and disturbingly creative. Thus, these games of bargains and favors remained. Whispered in dark halls and midnight meetings. Sometimes outside the borders of the court. So far, she had managed not to be caught. Beron underestimated her and one day it would be her salvation and the last nail in his coffin. 

“You hired a secret healer?” 

“And swore her to secrecy, yes,” It was an idea she’d toyed with for a while, but Eris had always asked her not to do it. It was not worth it, to risk some healer’s life on his sorry behalf. 

“Did you tell her the nature of the job?” 

Edana pursed her lips, quiet as she placed sugar cubes into cups. He sat down slowly, releasing a long sigh as he went. 

“The risks, mother,” He said, weariness making it sound more thorny than he meant. 

“Do not scold me, son,” Her tone was firm but her voice shook. She looked at him, russet eyes gleaming. “You would have died last night if she had not been there. I have said it before and I will say it as many times as it takes for this court to hear me. I will not lose another son.” 

Her lips trembled as she let her body crumple into a chair. Eris stood and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her ruddy hair. Two sides of the same coin, they were. Too soft for Beron’s preferred shade of games, too stubborn not to play their own. 

The purple smudges under her eyes were so pronounced Eris wondered if she’d slept at all. If she’d truly slept in years. 

“Why now?” He asked, his voice soft. An uneasiness grew in the pit of his stomach. Edana took a moment to answer, her eyes troubled and distant as she warred with something that Eris couldn’t see. 

“Things are brewing, Eris,” She said, “Not just in your father’s court, but in Prythian. I needed to ease my mind. To have one less things to worry about.” 

He didn’t bother asking what she alluded to. She would have told him already if she were able to. Whether it be Beron or some other higher power, she stayed vague for a reason. It did nothing for that sense of unease.

“Thesan has requested to speak with me,” Edana sighed, sounding a little more like herself again, “I assume I will be receiving a scolding from him as well.” 

“No more scolding from me,” Eris sat back down and pulled a cup of tea towards himself, “You know what you’re doing. I just don't want to see you hurt.”

She gave him a small smile and took a sip from her own cup. 

“You’re a force to be reckoned with, mother. One day you will get your justice.” 

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ 

Lady Edana sat across from Thesan, tea and pastries arranged on lace runners between them. The table sat on a balcony, so similar to where she had met with Aya. Fluffy clouds floated past the stone pillars, the arches between them like picture frames housing masterful paintings. 

Edana did not care for the Dawn Court. Everything here was too farefree, threatening to float away with the lightest touch. She preferred to be on solid ground, back in her own court with its scents of humus and ripe apples. 

“Edana,” Thesan began. His eyes avoided hers, as if her opinion would be read clearly within the amber. 

Edana said nothing, anger ebbing and flowing through her like the tide. One moment she had herself worked up, convinced that everyone around her was trying to prove that she was nothing but a fool, a paranoid little housewife. Then she would remind herself that those ideas were Beron’s creation, her anxiety his design. And she calmed, letting all of those feelings flow away until the cycle began again.

“I understand your machinations,” He said, “I know their importance, and I will contribute where I can. But you cannot draw my loved ones into this game. Especially without consulting me.” 

“Loved ones?” Edana asked, meeting his gaze as she took a sip of her tea.

“Aya is my cousin, Edana,” Thesan sighed. 

“Is there a reason you kept her hidden?” 

“She is not hidden. The Dawn Court knows her. But she has always insisted on earning her own living. She wants her success to be her own.” 

“I see,” Edana said, though her expression suggested that she did not see.

“I have a feeling that you elected to ask for forgiveness instead of permission.” He continued. 

Edana tossed her head, but she did not disagree. That was exactly what she had done. Though she had to admit that the fact of Aya and Thesan being related made her decision look much bolder. She had never meant to make a statement. 

“I suggest you do not make a habit of it,” Thesan’s voice rumbled through the balcony. 

Some considered Thesan to be the weakest of the High Lords. Even Tarquin, young and experienced as he may be, could move oceans with his power. But to hear Thesan speak this way painted a different image. Like he possessed some hidden blade within him that was as sharp as he was gentle. Like perhaps, the other courts would be grateful that he stayed close to his palace in this sky. 

Edana finally accepted that perhaps her plans had been rash. Maybe she had underestimated how easily Thesan would forgive her. The clouds floating by the balcony grew dark with the threat of a storm. 

“I cannot break the bargain,” She said, eyes on the table before her. She studied the crumbs of her macaron, pastel purple and flavored with lavender. 

“No,” Said Thesan, a growl full of warning, “But if you misstep, I will have Helion dismantle it.

“I did it for Eris,” Edana choked out, looking up at him. The lovely brown of his eyes was so soft compared to the command in his voice.

“Then he will help protect her. Or he will need more than one healer.” 

“Beron will not touch her.” 

“Do not make promises you cannot keep.” 

They were quiet for a long moment. Then the clouds lightened again, all of the tension gone from the sky. Thesan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. 

“I did not call you here to scold you,” He said, and Edana thought bitterly that it was a little late for that sentiment. 

“I wish to warn you.” 

She took another sip of her tea and wondered if this was merely a bridge to another lecture about her schemes and manipulations. As if she was a reckless child with no self control, and not a woman trapped in the underground halls of the Autumn Court. They all gave her sympathy, but if they would not help her with their actions then their words meant nothing. She prepared to tell him off. 

“I wish to warn you about Aya,” His eyes narrowed at Edana’s refusal to answer. But he had her attention now. She pursed her lips and locked eyes with him. “There are facets to her power she has not yet discovered. She could rival the best of us one day.” 

“And you have not told her this?” Edana’s brows furrowed, “You do not wish for her to control it?”

“Not all of us fancy ourselves puppet masters,” Thesan said tightly, “I was hoping it would be her own discovery. She’s so unsure of herself.”

Edana stared for a moment longer. It had crossed her mind, the depth of Aya’s power. The ease with which she manipulated Eris’s wounds. Her skill was greater than any other healer Edana had met.

“And I suppose you will not tell me any more about her?” 

“It is not my story to tell.” 

Edana’s nerves were feeling a bit frayed. A scolding, a threat, and now a warning. 

“Are we done here, Thesan?” She sighed and dropped the napkin from her lap onto the table. 

Thesan’s eyes narrowed. No, he had hoped this conversation might last a little longer. He had more to say. But he was as tired of Edana as she was of him. 

“Yes, Edana.” 

Truthfully, she had always been this way. Paranoid, calculating. Even in her days as a young and single courtier, she gambled for scandals and drama, her ante paid in lovers. She had played these games for so long now, her entire world was tinted. Perhaps the right person could have encouraged her to hone that energy. But Beron brought out the worst in everyone. 

Some thought her sons inherited their cunning from their father, but it was all their mother’s. All of their scheming they learned from her. Beron was as dense as he was cruel. 

Thesan watched the Lady leave, her burgundy skirts swishing over the stone floor. Lady of Autumn, Queen of games, mother of foxes.

#acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #eris #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris fanfic #eris fic #eris fanfiction #eris vanserra fic #eris vanserra fanfic #eris vanserra fanfiction #eris x oc #eris x healer #pro eris vanserra #acotar oc #dawn court oc #dawn court #the dawn court #thesan #autumn court #lady of autumn #beron vanserra #dawn court healer #acotar healer oc #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf

[artingstarvist]

Chapter 1 / 14

Fandom: Tiān Guān Cì Fú / Heaven Official's Blessing

Relationships: Hua Cheng / Xie Lian, Xie Lian & Lang Qianqiu

Characters: Xie Lian, Hua Cheng, Yin Yu, He Xuan, Lang Qianqiu

Additional Tags: Coffin Rescue, Coffin AU, AU - Canon Divergence, AU - Different First Meeting, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Identity Reveal, Revenge Plot, POV Alternating, Blood and Injury, Dream-Reality Confusion, Suicidal Thoughts, Non-Graphic Violence, Hua Cheng AND Xie Lian have Self Esteem issues, Hualian Invented Love, Hua Cheng bout to make it 34 gods

So I wrote a coffin rescue fic! First draft of the whole thing is nearly done actually, but it needs editing so I'll probably post chapters weekly. I actually sketched the illustration first and it kind of inspired me to give writing a try since I kept thinking about what my take on a coffin fic would be. I may or may not add more art as I go along.

Also ty @lildoodlecat for proofreading for me! <3

#tgcf #tgcf fanfic #tgcf fanart #heaven official's blessing #tian guan ci fu #if you actually read this know that i love you #i havent done creative writing in like a decade #please be gentle #my art #my fic

[britcision]

In honour of a combo Wednesday and then post-midnight Yule, have a WIP Wednesday friends! We haven’t seen Sam for a while and Hanukkah was early this year (finished on the 15) but we are here now!

This chapter’s already gotten intense as hell for Danny and Jason with Lady Gotham but we’ve been tragically without our resident fashionable goth (sorry not sorry Bruce) and we are definitely still a muppet movie, so enjoy Sam-Miss-Piggy creating some extra chaos behind the scenes 👀

No promises about how regular these updates will be because again, plot chapter, I like letting those drop without spoiling the reveals too much, but we shall see

——————

Chapter 18 part i So That Just Happened

Back in her own room on the other side of the country from Gotham, Sam Manson reclined back into giant, coffin shaped body pillow her beloved girlfriend had given her when they moved and contemplated her phone.

The brand new Wayne-chat was blowing up satisfactorily, although apparently Tim was a massive stalker too. That was probably a good thing; it meant she hadn’t actually nuked Tuck’s chances with his nerd-crush. Now they could bond over their mutual stalker tendencies.

But, did that make her revenge less effective?

It wasn’t like she was actually out to ruin his life, but she’d kinda like to leave a mark. Something that would make him think twice about letting her think he and Danny had fucking died in Gotham in her absence.

Or. Well. Gone radio silent in Gotham, which was probably actually worse because if they were dead she’d know exactly where they were.

The Wayne chat were all pretty sure Tim and Tucker were together too, and Sam’s new best friend Babs had even pulled up the feed from their living room tv somehow. Sam wasn’t exactly the tech wizard Tucker was, but… after seeing that, she disconnected her and Val’s TV from the wifi.

And settled in to remote watch Tuck get his ass kicked at Spiderheck, apparently. At least for a little while; until something else on her phone caught her attention.

It was… almost funny. While she knew she was a whole two timezones away, she’d never really felt left out before. Like maybe she should have stayed on the east coast…

Not that she regretted it, of course. She had a good job, a good school, a wonderful girlfriend who’d been so excited to get into a good school and really go to town on the business department.

(Apparently there were posters of Val’s face in the ethics classrooms. Sam refused to ask if they were golden example or dire warning.)

She was just… a long way away. Even a long portal away, and… being back with the guys, even in Gotham, made the quiet of their comfy little apartment seem lonely.

Huffing, she turned and traced her fingers through the leaves of her mimosa plant on the windowsill beside the bed. They curled gently shut at her touch, and made her smile. Just like always.

She was happy to be home. She wasn’t technically liminal enough yet that it was her haunt, but… well, for all the jokes Val made, Sam had to admit she’d put down roots. She loved her job at the greenhouses, and her internship at the botanical gardens.

She loved scaring the hell out of the dudebros in Val’s business classes who thought ethics were a waste of time. She loved sharing messages with Jazz about the boys, laughing that even three hours ahead, Tuck and Danny still couldn’t get up before them.

She was kinda considering texting Harley about Timblr too. Not like, for any particular reason; if Tim’s family weren’t gonna embarrass Tucker enough, Harley probably wouldn’t either. She’d probably think it was adorable.

Or, y’know, worrying evidence of obsession. Psych types worried about stuff like that, usually.

Sam was kinda also considering sending Harley Jazz’s number. Jazz might still be skating just on the neurosurgery side of the line, but she’d always been big into psychology. Big enough to try and double major, and only drop to major-minor after the third pre-exam meltdown.

And she could use having someone else do the shrink bit on her a little more often. Although really, for that Sam should make her a professional appointment; friends didn’t ask friends to psychoanalyze their overprotective pseudo-sisters. And Jazz could use more friends.

Jazz could use a transfer to a specialty that would let her sleep once in a while, a more stable supply of fresh ecto, and about six weeks in a meditation retreat to get the accidental telepathy under control, but more friends would be good too. And less stubborn insistence on her second try for double majors.

Maybe the switch to psychiatry full time would be good for her? Or psychology. Sam was a little fuzzy on the difference, which one Jazz was minoring in, and which one Harley did.

(Jazz’s current second major was neurosurgery, which Jazz insisted was totally less taxing alongside a neurology major because it was the same body part. She was the only person in her class attempting the double major though, so.)

Humming tunelessly to herself, Sam flicked back into the group chat. Babs was still sharing the feed… brows drawing in, Sam frowned at the little spider figures still fighting to the death. Now, she wasn’t as big of a gamer as she used to be, but she was pretty sure Spiderheck didn’t actually offer red berets.

Snorting a laugh, she flicked back out of the chat and opened a new one, adding both Jazz and Harley. All it needed was the perfect name… something that would grab both of their attention.

Obvious. Child’s play.

Snuggling back into her coffin pillow, Sam grinned down at her phone screen.

Danny Has A Boyfriend chat was live.

——————

And in at the last minute, Jazz! We’ll see if she shows up in person this chapter, I’m hoping it’ll be the last big lore dump before the first plot arc begins but We Shall See…

Chapter 20 is right around the corner though, and I like my divisibles of 5 so I miiiiight shoot for that Red Hood Reveal then… 👀

Tag List: @welcometosasakiworld @someonebored0100 @stealingyourbones @starkcravingmad @frostedthroughghost @akikkobara @rainbowbunny0159 @littlefeather345 @violet-catsarelife @serasvictoria02 @wolfjackle @blacksea21090 @secretdestinywerewolf @anime-hipster-the-amazing @undead-essence @skitscratched @blackroserelina @snoodly-boop @mayoota-blog @xysidhe @little-apricot-the-writer @chaoticmistake @the-legal-shipper @bun-fish @aroranorth-west @demon-cat-goes-woof @perfectwastelandcreation @onyxlightdragon @larks-and-katydids @peachesandcreamfemboy @jesus-camp-the-sequel @may-rbi @mothman-the-mothman87 @viyatrix @stargirl1331 @thedepressedrobin @skulld3mort-1fan @rootsmudge @ravenshadow17 @cankoking @phantom-dc @mentalcarebear @magic-pincushion @redamancyardor @lyra689 @itsparadoxlacuna @alcorbearson @asphyxia778 @why-must-i-be-like-this @tkiesai @greenpyrowolf @frivolous-pastel @honeysuckletook @adorkable1291

#dp x dc #dpxdc #danny fenton dead and loving it #wip wednesday #chapter 18 part i #sam manson is back bitches #AND SOON WE SHALL HAVE VALLLLLLLLL UGH cannot wait for val