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icarusredwings · 3 months ago

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This has been on my mind for NO Fucking reason so to make it shut up, lets talk about it.

"Why doesn't Wade just do chemotherapy?"

In this essay, I will explain the answer to that question, looking at Germ cancer cells and testicular cancer rates to decide-

Can Wade have biological kids?

Let's start with the basic facts.

What a germ cell tumor?

A germ cell tumor is a mass made of reproductive cells, also called germ cells. “Germ” is short for “germinate,” which means to mature. For men and people assigned male at birth (AMAB), germ cells mature into sperm. Related, germ cell tumors most often form where eggs get made (ovaries) and where sperm gets made (testicles).

[ https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/23505-germ-cell-tumor]

Testicular cancer.

Most testicular cancers start in cells known as germ cells and are called germ cell tumours. Germ cells in men produce sperm. Testicular germ cell tumours can develop from germ cell neoplasia in situ (GCNIS). GCNIS means that there are abnormal cells in the testicle.

[https://www.cancerresearchuk.org/about-cancer/testicular-cancer/types#:~:text=Most%20testicular%20cancers%20start%20in,abnormal%20cells%20in%20the%20testicle.]

More than 90% of testicular cancer start in the germ cells, which are cells in the testicles and develop into sperm. This type of cancer is known as testicular germ cell cancer. Testicular germ cell cancer can be classified as either seminomas or nonseminomas, which may be identified by microscopy.

[https://www.cancer.gov/ccg/research/genome-sequencing/tcga/studied-cancers/testicular-germ-cell-study ]

Treatments.

At the moment there is not a lot of options, the most common are:

Chemotherapy

Radiation

Surgery

Chemotherapy.

Chemotherapy works by stopping or slowing the growth of cancer cells, which grow and divide quickly. Because of his healing factor, this would probably not work and if anything cause Wade more illness seeing as Chemo causes

Fatigue

Hair loss

Easy bruising and bleeding

Infection

Anemia (low red blood cell counts)

Nausea and vomiting

Appetite changes

Constipation

Diarrhea

Mouth, tongue, and throat problems such as sores and pain with swallowing

Peripheral neuropathy or other nerve problems, such as numbness, tingling, and pain

Skin and nail changes such as dry skin and color change

Urine and bladder changes and kidney problems

Weight changes

Chemo brain, which can affect concentration and focus (serve mind fog)

Mood changes

Changes in libido and sexual function

And last but not least Fertility problems

[https://www.cancer.org/cancer/managing-cancer/treatment-types/chemotherapy/chemotherapy-side-effects.html ]

Radiation.

At high doses, radiation therapy kills cancer cells or slows their growth by damaging their DNA. Cancer cells whose DNA is damaged beyond repair stop dividing or die. When the damaged cells die, they are broken down and removed by the body. In theory this would work a little bit, for about 12 minutes and then he immediately would have all of those dead cells back because while the radiology killed one spot, cancer spreads. Quickly. With his healing factor its MUCH quicker too. All that pain for nothing.

Fatigue

Hair loss

Memory or concentration problems

Throat problems, such as trouble swallowing

Cough

Shortness of breath

Taste changes

Skin changes (such as burning and peeling)

Less active thyroid gland

Sexual problems

Fertility problems

Urinary and bladder problems

[https://www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/treatment/types/radiation-therapy]

Surgery.

I dont even need any sources for this. We saw what happened to his legs when ripped off. They just grew back. And if removing cancer cells makes newer cancer cells? That's useless.

Summary.

Wades entire body is cancerous. Yes. His ENTIRE body. Every arm, toe, and fingernail on this man is cancerous. His healing factor is literally just having rapid cancer growth (amongst other things)

Chemotherapy and radiation will not work on him. Chemotherapy works by killing cancerous cells in order to grow healtheir ones. Except Wade can only produce cancerous cells. Yes, while they are new and much more likely in the very early stages, it's still cancerous.

This being said, there is no cure or treatment for Wades Cancer (that we know of at this time) Its quite physically the only thing keeping him with super hero powers yet still remains even after his powers are taken.

Hate to say it.

I hate to say it but statistically removing older, more advanced cells to replace with newer, less progressive cells (aka removing or ripping off his limbs/ parts of his body so they can grow back as new and fresh) is probably the best 'treatment' Wade has right now. Radiology would work the same, right?

Yes, but A. Not as B. Too many side effects that he he'll have to deal with MORE making him even more crazy and sick. Why would he do that when he can just tease Logan into slicing a hurt leg off and go from there?

Will the treatment help him be fertile?

Realistically, without his powers, he probably would be dead in a week, perhaps less due to just HOW much cancer this man truly has.

Chemo would also make it worse. So much worse, in fact. Both pain wise and his chances at ever biologically having a child.

Result(s) Before the cancer was diagnosed, (66%) 79/120 couples who attempted to conceive succeeded within 1 year. After (Cancer) treatment, (43%) 38/88 couples conceived within 1 year.

[https://www.fertstert.org/article/S0015-0282(03)00335-2/fulltext]

Testical Germ Cell Tumors are associated with semen abnormalities before orchiectomy. This review shows an increase in abnormal semen parameters among men with TGCT even outside the treatment effects of orchiectomy, radiation, or chemotherapy.

[https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4270136/ ]

The way that TGCT affects the sperm is that it's very common for not only lower sperm count (obviously, it's hard to produce when you're fighting an entire body illness) but also changes the shape of the sperm which makes it very difficult to reach the egg. Sperm with crooked tails, double tails, double heads, or even broken sperm have a very hard time reaching the egg (think of it like natural selection) and die off before they get anywhere. If you already have low countage and most of them can't make it?

Well that's much lower chances of fertility.

In the comics.

In the comics, Wade has a daughter named Eleanor Camacho in which he was unaware of because her mother saw his face and ran away in terror. The entire thing is that her mother thought she was going to die and decided fuck it, if im gonna die Im gonna die happy so decided to spend these last moments with wade (who she literally just met- if that aint weird in itself idk what is).

She only ever found him to demand child support, and he refused to believe such a beautiful child could he his given his stance of insecurity and well- Just utter shock anyway, I think. He is right. Eleanor is gorgeous as a baby and as an adult.

(There's actually a whole comic where he's trying to fight death so his daughter doesn't die before him because he "couldn't bear the thought of living without her" so they activate a bomb "with the power of a black hole" and comit death together. It's very sweet)

TLDR

In conclusion.

Yes, Wade can have children, but he has a better chance at being successful if he removes his lower half and regrows it so that its *less* cancerous than before cells, therefore hes more likely to have normal shaped sperm and probably more of it during the process.

No, chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery would not be effective. Unfortunately, the most effective thing for him is ripping his limbs off sometimes.

"Forest- why the fuck did you write this?"

You know... I really don't know. I wanted to become a bio geneticist, and here I am. Writing about some bald guys' balls on the Internet. Siiigghh... anyway. Use this. however you want, I don't even care at this point.

#sources sited #fuck cancer #testicular cancer #deadpool and wolverine #poolverine #deadpool #wade wilson #deadpool 3 #deadclaws #wade has cancer #cancer awareness #what the fuck is wrong with me #in this essay i will #explain something NO ONE asked to know about #vanessa carlysle #wades daughter #eleanor camacho #for science!

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somedaylazysomeday · 1 year ago

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An Emissary of the (Goblin) King

Your quiet life as a teacher falls apart when a student wishes you away. Eventually, Jareth has to decide what to do with you.

Jareth x fem!reader (no use of 'y/n')

*This was written for a request in which the reader was supposed to be plus-sized. As such, there are a few scattered references to weight and body shape.

**Not related to my other Labyrinth works.

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 6,800

Warnings: themes of being forgotten, slight loss of identity, bar flirting, slight harassment, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie.

Masterlist

---

When you had gotten wished away in your thirties, you were… perturbed.

After all, you had been long past the days of fairy tales and make-believe. Magic was a lovely story element for children, a way to encourage their imaginations and allow them to dream of the impossible. But it wasn’t real.

At least, that had been your theory between the ages of ten and thirty-something. Then, one of your second-grade students in the after-school tutoring session had gotten upset with you. You had told him that he couldn’t have a second helping of snacks unless he agreed to work on his math problems with you. He had been struggling with subtraction in particular, but was so energetic that it was difficult for him to focus.

You hadn’t really been able to blame him - it was after school hours and the sun was beginning to set, throwing beams of blazing orange light from beneath a carpet of dark purple clouds. It was the perfect counterpoint to the playfully spooky Halloween decorations you had put up around the room.

Anyway, when you had insisted that your student sit down and focus on his math sheet before you let him have another handful of gummy worms, he had pouted his tiny face. With an impressive amount of venom for a six-year-old, he said, “Well, I wish the goblins would take you away right now.”

You were still wearing an indulgent smile when you appeared in the straw-strewn throne room with an anticlimactic pop!

The Goblin King was lounging on his uncomfortable-looking throne, watching you with his own indulgent smile. “Wished away by a child, were you? Pity. He likely meant nothing by it, but… well, what’s said is said. I doubt he will opt to run the labyrinth, but let us see if he calls.”

Operating under the idea that you had fallen and given yourself a rather nasty concussion, you simply nodded and took a seat on the cleanest section of the stone floor you could find. It was quiet in the throne room, though you could hear the unmistakable sounds of distant chaos.

It had started small - brushing a piece of straw from the stone slab next to you. It fell into the pit and that made you feel a little better. Then you pushed the straw from the next stone, and the next until the section around you was clear. Then you started using your feet to push the straw down the stairs until it was gathered in a neat pile at the bottom.

“Would you like a broom?” the man with the wild hair asked. You were cautious when you faced him, but he simply looked amused.

“And a dustpan, if you don’t mind.”

He shook his head. “Unnecessary.”

You hadn’t bothered asking what that meant. Instead, you applied yourself to neatening the throne room, working from the edges and sweeping all the debris toward the pit in the center of the room. Even the brown dots - ones you hoped were mud but suspected were some kind of dried fecal matter - lifted easily enough under the stiff bristles of the broom.

At last, the room was clean and you swiped your forearm across your perspiring face. You didn’t know how the pit was going to get clean, but you were going to be miffed if the answer was ‘you’.

When you caught movement from the corner of your eye, you jumped. You hadn’t forgotten the room’s other occupant - how could you? - but he moved with such impossible silence that you couldn’t track him with hearing alone.

The man came to stand beside you and you took the chance to study him subtly. He looked… strange.

You shook yourself, reflexively berating yourself for the unkind thought, but you hadn’t been wrong. His face was narrow, flaring out at the cheekbones. His eyes were mismatched, but not in a heterochromatic way. No, one of his eyes was bluish-green while the other was simply black, as if it were entirely pupil.

His hair was long and straight, though cut at various lengths that left it tapering from his head down. Like a shag haircut on steroids. You were a little jealous and had vaguely started wondering whether you would be able to pull off the style when he turned. You realized just how tall he was.

His mismatched stare was heavy and intense, and you redirected your attention as soon as possible. You opted to look at the pit instead, to take in the pile of straw and droppings, but it was gone.

“What happened to the straw?” you asked, bewildered by the empty pit in front of you.

He smirked, lips twisting with an amusement that didn’t reach his eyes. “I discarded it, of course.”

“No, you didn’t,” you contradicted. “I’ve been standing there the whole time.”

“I used magic,” he clarified.

“Magic isn’t real.”

The man’s eyes widened, then narrowed at you. “Have you not yet realized that you’re in a different place than you were when you were wished away?”

“You said that earlier,” you remembered. “‘Wished away’. What do you mean?”

“At last, the typical questions,” he sighed. “Admittedly, far later than they are usually asked. Allow me to explain.”

The explanation that followed had been interesting, if mildly ludicrous: the man was actually a fae named Jareth. He collected lost and wished away items, though the only ones of them people cared enough to chase down were living things. He guarded the Labyrinth, collected the living things that appeared in the Underground - mostly children and pets, as he had explained - and allowed the wishers to run the Labyrinth if they wanted their disappeared item back.

It could have been a far shorter explanation if you hadn’t been far more convinced by your concussion theory.

In the end, Jareth had gotten tired of listening to your counterarguments and had sent you to ask Hoggle the rest of your questions. Hoggle had answered your questions… eventually. With a lot of complaining and work between giving those answers. You didn’t mind - work was something to keep you from running in circles in your own thoughts, and you learned a lot about the Labyrinth and the Underground simply by following Hoggle around.

Jareth didn’t call you back to the throne room for nearly a week.

“It seems as though your wisher is not going to run for you,” he said, taking on an expression he may have thought looked pitying. “He is at home with his mother, playing and eating and sleeping quite well without another thought of you. Quite the heroic youth."

“He’s six!” you reminded, mildly outraged at Jareth’s censure. “Even if he had offered, I wouldn’t want him running your labyrinth. It’s a death trap.”

Jareth’s expression had flattened at your insult, his mismatched eyes glittering with irritation. “Whether he would have run or not is irrelevant in the end. The real question is: what is to be done with you?”

“I…” You disliked asking questions you already knew the answers to, but there was nothing to be gained by playing things cool. “Could I go back home?”

“No.”

The blunt answer, though exactly what you had expected, still made you wilt.

Jareth, for all that he made you nervous, didn’t look cruel about it. In a voice that was kinder than you had hoped, he said, “Even if I would agree to send you home, it would be impossible. You have been here too long. You have eaten and drank from the Underground. A single bite, a single sip… those could be reasoned with. Enough to influence a dream, forge a connection. But anything more? You are of this place now, more one of us than one of them.”

You wanted to argue, but something in your chest agreed, some nameless tangle of a thing recognizing that everyone and everything you had known were ‘them’. And you were not.

Not anymore.

You had expected to be eaten by the Firies or thrown into the Bog or at least turned into a goblin, but Jareth had given you a different job: you were to be his hands and eyes in the human world.

“After all, no one will wish their belongings to me if they are ignorant of my existence,” he had told you. “You will spread information. Books and legends, stories told by firelight and in dark rooms as their occupants drift to sleep.”

And that was your task, had been for an eternity before you thought to check what year it was at all. People didn’t recognize you when you went to the human world, not even if you happened upon someone you had once known. That was fortunately rare, and became more so as the years faded. You didn’t seem to age, not the way you had. Perhaps there was an extra strand of silver in your hair or an aching joint where there never had been before, but it was uncommon.

Oh, you looked the same as you always had. You could verify that any time you were on the surface. Just then, for instance, you were standing outside of a bar and could see yourself in the shine of the old-fashioned, gilt-edged windows. You were generously curved as you had been before, your face the same shape.

If you stared too long, though, you could catch something strange in your face, in the way you walked. Nothing overt, of course, but something that made you look… sharp. Wild. It drew some attention when someone watched you for too long. The mask of your humanity - what remained of it, anyway - fell away with exposure. From there, it could go either way. Sometimes, humans fled like prey before a predator. Other times, they hit on you.

Had humanity always been like this? So willing to run into danger? You didn’t think so, but it was getting difficult to remember.

Either way, you had barely sat down at the bar and ordered a glass of wine before someone slid onto the barstool beside you. To be fair, you couldn’t be too upset about it. You had been searching for company.

“I’ll pay for that,” the man announced to the bartender. The bartender didn’t look like she could have cared less, but she managed a nod. “So, what’s your name?”

“I’m much more interested in learning yours,” you deflected.

The stranger beamed at that and you smiled back. If you had your way, he wouldn’t learn your name. Even if he did, he would forget it before the day ended and you would never see him again. You would feel guilty about that, but you needed him for temporary relief from your body’s needs, nothing more.

He could never be anything more.

You pushed all of that from your mind and focused on your partner for the evening. He was handsome, the type of person you dated before you were wished away. It was getting harder to remember those days.

The man’s personality was a little intense, but that tended to ease back a bit after someone realized that you weren’t going to disappear from them… yet.

Two drinks in, you had offered a smile that was almost genuine and were getting ready to suggest a change in location when your chest vibrated.

That wasn’t quite the right way to phrase it, but it was a difficult sensation to describe. It felt as though your ribcage and all of the organs it protected shook in tandem. The closest you had ever come to pinpointing the sensation was to compare it to the ringing of a gong, though thankfully, without the noise of the actual strike.

The sensation was a warning that the Goblin King wanted you back in the Underground. It would happen more often the longer you ignored the summons, and would eventually grow painful.

You rarely let it continue that long.

“I have to go,” you told your potential partner, standing abruptly from the stool and handing your credit card to the bartender. “Drinks are on me.”

At least, you assumed it was a credit card. It had no numbers or identification on it and you certainly didn’t have any money, but you had never had trouble paying for anything with it. Jareth had given it to you with minimal explanation.

“Hang on-” the man protested, catching at your arm. You looked at his hand, then at him. Some of your strangeness must have shown through, since he slowly withdrew. He wasn’t wary enough, since he continued to speak. “What happened? I thought this was going somewhere.”

“It was,” you agreed simply, accepting your card from the bartender and scrawling a series of loops on the receipt she slid toward you. “Now it’s not.”

Fortunately for your almost-partner for the evening, he thought better of trying to physically stop you again and you left the bar unaccosted.

Transportation to the Underground was rarely as dramatic as it had been that first time. Instead of a sudden, jarring switch in location, it happened as a slow fade. In this instance, you were walking and your surroundings seemed to blur slightly. When you could see clearly once more, you were in the Goblin King's throne room.

Your forward motion hadn’t stopped, but it was far more risky to keep walking with the goblins thronging around your feet. You looked down at the group currently blocking your way and said, “Excuse me.”

The goblins - who had apparently been occupied in some kind of chicken-based game, shrieked and tumbled to either side. You continued toward the throne.

For his part, Jareth was pretending he hadn’t noticed you yet. Instead, he was sprawled across his throne and studying the riding crop he had resting across his knees. Most observers would believe he was pensive, utterly lost in thought, but you knew better. Jareth loved to be watched, and if he could convince you that you had chosen to look without any prompting from him, so much the better.

“You summoned me, sir?” you asked, reaching the base of the throne and offering a small incline of your head.

Jareth glanced over, managing to look surprised, curious, and haughty. “Yes, I want a report on your progress.”

“Do you mind if I dismiss your subjects?”

“As if you do not number among them?” Jareth tested, a corner of his mouth quirking upward knowingly. When you simply maintained eye contact, he gave a slight nod. “Very well, if it would please you.”

With effort, you managed not to shake your head at him. You were well able to focus even with the din of goblins around you, but Jareth took any respite he could get from them.

“Can you all go downstairs for a while?” you asked, directing the question to the room at large. “I need to speak with the king.”

“You’s is speaking to him now,” one squeaky goblin pointed out, sounding sullen.

Before the others could agree, you quickly cut in and diverted them. “You’re right, I am. But we need to talk about some very boring stuff and we need the room to be quiet. If you want to stay, you can’t make any noise. In fact, you could even help clean the throne room…”

You didn’t have a chance to say anything else, the goblins rushed out of the room in a panicked tide. You smirked at the receding wave of excitable, temperamental creatures. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since you had taught six and seven year-olds, but the goblins weren’t so different from human children.

When you turned around, Jareth was sitting on the throne like it was a chair rather than a fainting couch. One of his eyebrows was raised and he looked impressed despite himself. “Someday, you must help me gain such mastery over my subjects.”

“Impossible,” you told him flatly. “They’re too focused on impressing you.”

“That has always been my burden to bear,” the Goblin King drawled, preening slightly as you tried not to roll your eyes.

Jareth was the king. If you were to be technical about it, he was your king. He had left you alive when he didn’t need to. Even more than that, the nature of the job he had given you meant you had certain powers. The Goblin King did not bestow those lightly. You felt like you owed him at least basic respect, if not anything more subservient.

Besides, Jareth had enough people - well, goblins - trying to respond to his every need. You liked to think that he enjoyed the bits of personality you were willing to share with him.

Rather than voice any of that aloud, you gave a shallow nod. "But you summoned me for a purpose. What do you need?"

With the amusement still dancing across his fine features, Jareth tilted his head at you. "The work I gave you has never taken so long. I wanted an update on your progress."

"My…" For the first time since you had found yourself in this strange land, you were thrown off by Jareth. He had never given any deadlines for your work, never ordered you to be done by a specific time. In fact, the opposite had been true. On the rare occasions that you worried about how long something took, Jareth was the first to remind you that he - and, by extension, you - had all the time that would ever exist.

You managed to scrape together a semblance of competence. "An update. Yes. I can- That is, the work you gave me is complete. I distributed the books, set up special showings of the film, and orchestrated the release of some photographs."

"All of that has been done?" Jareth checked. When you nodded, he gave you a stern look. "Then why did you not return to me immediately?"

As if on cue, something low in your stomach gave a heaving, disgruntled throb. You had never been overly desire-driven when you were fully human, and you blamed that for your current awkwardness - sex had never been common enough for you to grow blunt about your need for it. But you still had that need, and your body’s complaints were almost enough to drown out the weight of Jareth’s stare. Almost.

“I was in the middle of a different task,” you replied, trying to make it sound as bland as possible. Jareth’s attention span was stronger than that of his subjects, but he still made a concerted effort to avoid boring subjects. “Nothing of importance.”

Jareth studied his hands. “No, I imagine there is not much of importance in a dirty tavern.”

You froze. Not that you had been moving very much before, but every muscle locked down in response to the pointed revelation that Jareth could and did know where you went when you were Aboveground. “I-”

“You?” Jareth repeated mockingly. “Yes, you. You allowed a human to ply you with alcohol, then to paw at you. Though I suspect, given the tone of your conversation, that is far more innocent than what you would have done if I had not summoned you back here.”

“But how-”

Your question cut off abruptly when Jareth made a noise of impatience, tapping his cheekbone twice, just below his human eye.

“You watch me?” you demanded, surprise turning swiftly to anger and embarrassment. “Why?”

Jareth treated the question as literal rather than rhetorical, musing for a moment before he answered. “At first, to see if you intended to flee. It would not have worked, but it is always amusing to see humans try. Then, to be certain that you were performing your tasks to my standards. And finally…” The smile on Jareth’s face was indolent, with more than a hint of mischief. “Simply because I can.”

Glaring at an omnipotent fae king was probably not the wisest thing you could do, but your fury made you bold. “And have you watched me during my personal time before?”

Jareth let his head loll toward you for the best view of his self-satisfaction. “Yes.”

With a barely stifled noise of outrage, you spun with every intention of storming out of the room. Unfortunately for you, the powers Jareth had allotted you were nothing compared to his own. Without a sound or a motion from him, Jareth ordered the heavy doors to swing closed and there was nothing you could do to force them open once more.

“I do not see why you are so offended,” Jareth told you, conversational tone coming from nearer than his throne. “I am well aware that humans have needs.”

“Then why interrupt me…” Your hissed demand had caught in your throat when you turned to find Jareth much closer than anticipated. The Goblin King twisted his head slightly to one side, matching the smirk that twisted his lips. You cleared your throat. “Why interrupt me when you know I’m occupied? Like you said, I have needs. It doesn’t help anyone if I’m too busy to meet them.”

“You are missing the most obvious solution,” Jareth informed you, spreading his hands to either side. “I can help meet those needs.”

“You?” you repeated skeptically.

Jareth’s arms dropped and he looked almost offended. “And why not me?”

It may have been a rhetorical question, but you gave it as much thought as he had to your earlier question about his reasoning. “Well, you don’t seem like you would be interested. You don’t usually do things unless you have something to gain.”

“Have I not struck you as altruistic?” he asked. You shook your head, opting for honesty above tact. “Good. You are right, I don’t perform favors out of something as naïve as kindness. I have much to gain from this offer.”

“Like what?” you asked. The suspicion in your voice was so thick as to be almost comical, but Jareth didn’t seem offended.

“Pleasure,” he answered simply. “Do you want to meet your needs now? Or will you wait until the next time you have a spare moment to be disappointed by some human in a bar?”

You thought about waiting, you really did. Jareth was cocky enough without giving him access to something as personal as your pleasure. But you were growing close to desperation. That could make you more likely to be careless in Aboveground, something you weren’t willing to risk.

“You’re right,” you said. “It is the most obvious solution.”

The only thing that saved you from the self-congratulatory smile that slid across Jareth’s face was the fact that you erased it with your lips a moment later.

The Goblin King’s teeth were sharp. It had been one of the first things you noticed when you met him so long ago, but you were still a little shocked to be confronted by that sharpness when you slipped your tongue between his lips.

Jareth’s surprise rivaled your own, though for different reasons. For half a moment, he seemed taken aback by your ardor, but he recovered and took control of the kiss before you could get used to the taste of him. He was like the sweetest wine, and you were instantly addicted.

A hand latched around your jaw kept your head positioned just where Jareth wanted it, and he swept through you like a hurricane. It was all you could do to keep up with him, but you were the first one to succumb to wandering hands.

His clothes were always so decadent, and you had been waiting a long time to see if they felt as lovely as they looked. You were delighted to say that they did - textures sliding and dancing beneath your fingertips - but you were more focused on what you felt under those clothes.

The heat of Jareth’s skin was immense even through his clothing, enough to pull an answering sensation of heat from you. Every item of clothing you removed from him ratcheted the temperature further up until you felt like there was fire under your skin.

Halfway through removing Jareth’s ostentatious cape, you pulled away to deposit it safely on his throne. It wouldn’t do to have it trampled by goblins or, worse, land in chicken excrement.

Jareth muttered complaints for every moment you were away from him, pulling you impatiently closer the moment you were in arm’s reach. “I don’t know why you did that. I intend for that throne to be our next destination.”

You cast an assessing glance toward the door. It looked heavily barred, and you hadn’t been able to budge it, but there was a distinct possibility… “Fine with me, as long as you’re sure we won’t be interrupted. I don’t want to toss any of your subjects from the window of your throne room.”

“The door is locked,” he assured you, ducking his head to press wet kisses down your neck before blowing gently across his handiwork.

With a shiver at the abrupt shift in temperature, you nodded. “And no goblin has ever managed to circumvent a locked door before.”

Jareth paused, clearly intent on undoing your shirt, but gave a marvelously exasperated groan. “Fine.”

Your triumph was cut off by an abrupt shriek as Jareth pulled you into his arms so strongly that your feet left the floor. “Jareth! What are you doing?”

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this, pet,” he replied, pouting. “I’m not wasting any more time.”

And then he was striding toward a section of the throne room that looked distinctly… soft around the edges, and you recognized it as a portal. All of that was secondary, of course, to the ever-present awareness of being held in Jareth’s arms.

As someone with a proud set of curves, you could count on one hand the number of times you’d been lifted by a lover. That was a shame, since being carried was something of a weakness for you, especially when you weren’t worried about being dropped. And nothing in Jareth’s expression or posture warned that he was about to run out of strength.

You were still basking in the sensation as Jareth stepped through the portal and into a room that was nearly as large as the throne room. The major differences were that there was no pit and that the place of the throne was occupied by the largest bed you had ever seen.

A smile stretched across your face as Jareth set you down on that large bed, and he frowned at you. “What is amusing you?”

“This bed is enormous,” you explained. “Yet I’ve never seen you with anyone.”

“I’ve had a partner here on numerous occasions,” he told you haughtily. “Perhaps you have not seen them because you are so busy finding partners among the humans.”

“Perhaps,” you agreed readily enough. “Or perhaps it has been such a long time that your last partner and I missed each other.”

“That…” Jareth’s lips pursed, “...is possible.”

You didn’t necessarily remember closing your eyes while you laughed at that, but you must have. When you opened them once more, Jareth was looming over you. “Pleased as I am to provide amusement, there are other noises I would rather pull from you.”

Your breath caught at the rough admission. Jareth’s face descended before you could scrape up a response, and then you were too concerned with meeting the intoxicating rhythm of his mouth against yours.

The next thing you knew, you were resting more securely on the bed with Jareth holding himself above you. Both of you were fully naked and you had no idea how you had gotten that way. Most likely, he had used his magic to remove your clothing, but it was possible that you had been too thoroughly distracted by his kisses to worry about something as minor as what his hands were doing.

In any case, you were reveling in the way your hands could roam over him without encountering any barriers. Jareth’s body was pale, muscles dancing subtly under his skin. That paleness was marked with occasional scars - silvery marks that spoke of injuries from long ago. You couldn’t see much of him below the mid-torso since he was pressed so tightly to you, but you could feel the delicious length of him, hot and hard against your thigh.

When Jareth finally pulled away, he only went far enough to make eye contact without either of you crossing your eyes. “I want to taste you. Is that acceptable to you?”

“You’re the king,” you reminded him with a sardonic smile.

Jareth’s jaw flexed and his mismatched eyes narrowed. “Precisely. Which is why I expect an honest answer when I ask a question. Do you want this?”

“Yes.” The confirmation was a little breathless, but Jareth’s reply had been unexpected for someone who placed such an emphasis on retaining control. “Yes, I do.”

“Good,” he told you with a nod.

His patronizing tone might have set your teeth on edge, but Jareth accompanied it with a praising stroke down the length of your body. His fingertips trailed fire from your collarbone, over one breast, across the swell of your stomach, and down to the part of you that was aching for him. At the same time, he slid down until his face was even with your hips and you could hardly keep still with the anticipation filling you.

With your knees already parted around him, Jareth had only to wedge his shoulders between your thighs to gain full access to your core. The sudden exposure to the air of the room sent a chill through the parts of you that were burning the hottest, but the coolness only heightened the sensations.

Jareth didn’t give you any warning, any time to brace. Instead, he ducked his head suddenly, swiping the flat of his tongue from the bottom of your slit to the very top. He paused for a moment while you made a sound of startled pleasure, his lips quirking.

“Delicious,” he told you. “I wonder if you’re even sweeter inside?”

Before you could offer any reply, Jareth apparently decided to see for himself. One of your legs was tossed over his shoulder while he pinned the other to the bed. That was the only thing that kept you from trying to strangle him with your thighs when he began to torment you in earnest.

Those plush lips and wicked tongue explored every part of you, wringing pleasure from you like it was something precious he could save for later.

An elegant finger pushed into your core, pressing into the heat and slickness of you without a bit of difficulty. Your muscles spasmed so dramatically that it forced you to sit up - or, more accurate, to try. Jareth’s arm across your hips kept you pinned to the bed, leaving you to writhe, squeeze your legs around him, and cry out your pleasure loud enough for the entire castle to hear. The hand pressing you into the softness of the mattress strummed fingers across your hip.

With an expression that felt wild with pleasure, you stared down between your own thighs and clenched even harder around that finger. Your eyes had met Jareth’s mismatched gaze where it peeked over the roundness of your tummy. Mischief glimmered on what you could see of his face, and there was a clear sense of enjoyment in his bearing.

That eye contact sent an electric thrill through you, and you were gone. Your head kicked back against the pillow and you seemed to leave your body for an eternity, shattering into infinite pieces under the onslaught of pleasure Jareth was using to assault you.You may have made a noise - probably had, if you were judging from your experience so far - but you couldn’t hear it over the way your ears rang with the sound of your mind shattering.

When you finally settled back into your body again, it felt too small to possibly contain everything you had felt. Jareth was applying long, luxurious licks to your core, sweeping over the entirety of your slit and it was all you could do to push him away.

Jareth gave you a moment to collect your breath, but soon enough, he was peering down at you with no small amount of pride on his strange face. “Will you recover?”

You were a bit embarrassed by the strength of your reaction to him, but you managed a smile and a nod. “Guess I needed that more than I thought. It’s been a while.”

The fae tilted his head to the side, a hint of a smile showing the white points of his teeth. “My dear, do you honestly believe I have lived so long without learning to draw pleasure from someone? Your state of arousal has little to do with it.”

The post-orgasmic glow kept you from mustering the scoff that deserved. After delivering a sad little huff, you told him, “Humble as ever, Goblin King.”

“I would so hate to leave you with an inaccurate idea of my skill,” Jareth drawled. “I would be happy to provide further proof at your earliest convenience.”

Your breath caught in your throat, leading to an embarrassing cough. On the positive side, that cough gave you a moment to internally puzzle through that. Was Jareth volunteering to do this again sometime? He was technically your boss and your king, and thus a romantic connection you had never experienced before, but you couldn’t honestly say you wouldn’t be with him again. Even ignoring the pleasure - difficult as that was - you… really wouldn’t mind repeating this experience.

“Uh, okay,” you said elegantly.

Jareth simply smiled at you, but something about his intent gaze warned that he understood your thoughts as clearly as he did his own. Still, all he said aloud was, “Did that satisfy you, pet? Or would you perhaps like to continue?”

Before you could fight it, your gaze dropped to the apex of his thighs. He was visibly hard and ready for you, his body betraying an eagerness that was totally hidden in his expression. Despite his state of arousal, Jareth was still giving you the option to be done with him. As he was known for his lack of tact, you recognized and appreciated the effort Jareth was putting into making you comfortable.

And what better way was there to show your appreciation than to offer some relief?

“I think I might need a little more,” you told him, playing coy. You even added a demure drop of your gaze, though you could see him through your lashes.

That was how you watched when Jareth’s expression sharpened, though his voice stayed careless. “I don’t believe in offering partial respite. I shall see this task through until it is complete.”

The smile that fought to spread across your face was only stifled by the way Jareth caught at your ankle and pulled you further down the bed. He surged upward at the same time until you were firmly beneath him. The fae dotted your face, jaw, and neck with kisses as he settled heavily on top of you. Your legs parted automatically to wrap around his waist and draw him closer, but you were taken aback when the length of him pressed against your still-sensitive core.

You were still surfing the wave of heightened sensation when you felt the tip of Jareth’s length notch into your opening.

Jareth’s fingers trailed from your forehead down to your jaw, turning your head until he could peer into your face. “Are you ready for me, pet?”

“Yes,” you agreed eagerly. “Please…”

“Don’t beg, sweet thing,” he instructed. “You never need to beg for me.”

And then he was driving into you - robbing you of any ability to process that.

Jareth had seemed to have an average build below the waist, as you had expected from his elegant physique and slender limbs. Still, he felt earth-shattering as he eased inside of you, enough to take your breath away even considering how wet you were with the remains of your earlier orgasm.

You were utterly still as he pressed in, locked in place by the amount of concentration you had fixed on the feeling of him. But the first time he withdrew from the depths of you, every part of you writhed beneath him. Your hands grasped, your toes curled, your head tilted in an attempt to ease the groan that fought for release from your throat.

Jareth swallowed that groan, dipping down easily to sweep through your mouth just as thoroughly as he had the first time. He plundered you greedily, feeding on the sounds you made for him as his hips danced closer and away, closer and away.

Infuriatingly, he kept you - and himself - poised on the edge of orgasm for an eternity, slowing whenever either of you came too close to the precipice. Jareth chased pleasure eagerly, though, tormenting you with fingers and lips to push you higher without allowing you the relief of release.

“Jareth, please,” you begged as his hips slowed once more.

He arched a brow at you. “Yes, pet? What do you need?��

“I-” You gave a hoarse gasp as a deliberate twist of his hips left the length of him brushing against your g-spot. It was followed by a noise of frustration when his pace slowed to a fraction of what it had been. “Please, I need to come.”

His smile was so sudden that it looked almost fierce. “My dear, why did you not tell me earlier?”

A retort sprang to your lips, but it died there as he shifted infinitesimally inside of you. That minor change had devastating effects on the angle of his thrusts inside of you, which picked up speed until it was all you could do not to drown in him.

Your body tightened around his as it had done so many times before, but he didn’t slow this time. Instead, his lips caught yours as his thumb strummed your clit.

That kiss was only broken when your orgasm hit you like a train, kicking your head back and dropping your mouth open so you could cry out from the incredible intensity of the pleasure that filled you. Your limbs curled around Jareth, constricting to keep him pressed against you as tightly as possible.

On his side of things, Jareth didn’t seem inclined to fight his imprisonment. His hips pistoned between your trembling thighs, burying himself in you over and over until - finally - his rhythm faltered.

Those sharp teeth were bared in a snarl as he pushed himself as deeply as he could get. The warmth of his release flooded you.

When the frantic pulses of his hips slowed, Jareth let himself drop on top of you. His weight was on you for a fraction of a second before he twisted to pull you on top of him instead. Since he was still buried in your core, the motion left you in the grip of an aftershock, but you recovered enough to move off of him.

Jareth’s eyes were closed, but his hands lashed out to keep you from moving as soon as you started to. “I don’t know where you think you’re going, pet, but you are mistaken.”

“I’m just rolling off of you, Jareth,” you told him, exasperated. “If I crush you, it’ll be regicide and I can’t imagine a goblin trial is pleasant.”

“It isn’t,” he agreed, eyes still closed. “But mostly because they show an inability to focus on a single issue for more than seconds at a time. And as for being crushed by you… Not only is it an impossibility, but it sounds rather pleasant.”

“Jareth…” you sighed.

That made him open his mismatched eyes and you were startled to see the changes in them. The blue-green of his human eye was expanding both toward the pupil and over the white sclera. The pupil-less darkness of his fae eye was doing the same, slowly working out until the entire orb of his eye was dark.

When Jareth finally spoke, it was with a smile that showed his sharp teeth. “Did you know there is a difference in the way you say my name now?”

You paused, scanning over his face for a moment before you asked, “And what does that mean?”

Jareth didn’t immediately answer you, but his smile didn’t fade during the stretch of quiet. At long last, he said, “It means that things have changed between us. It means that I encourage you to seek to satisfy your needs in my bed. And it means that I chose the perfect person to serve as my emissary in the human world.”

That was significantly less worrisome than what you thought he would say. In fact, it was even… sweet. “I certainly never thought I would end up here, but I can’t say that I regret it.”

“Faint praise,” Jareth said dryly. “But praise nonetheless. We shall see whether we can further improve your outlook on your place in my kingdom.”

“I look forward to that,” you admitted, relaxing slightly into him.

Jareth’s arms tightened around you, drawing you even closer. “As do I.”

---

Author's Note - Thanks for reading! I'm not officially accepting requests, but someone sent this one in and it caught my interest enough to help me break through some writer's block.

Happy Halloween!

I don't offer a taglist for spicy fics, but you can find other works on my masterlist.

#labyrinth #labyrinth 1986 #jareth #jareth the goblin king #reader insert #reader insert fic #reader insert fanfiction #jareth x reader #jareth x fem!reader #jareth x you #lemon #spicy #minors dni #not suitable for minors #ink's asks #ink's fics

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mannequinreligi0n · 3 months ago

Text

Sins - Chapter 3: Penance

wake up priest!vergil nation, let’s get to fuckin’

pairing: priest!vergil/nun!reader

wc: 3.5k

warnings: nsfw! - penetration, body worship, implied self-mutilation/harm

author’s note: thank you for being so patient with me !! sorry for the delay :’) will maybe write another freak nasty chapter bc i have a few unused idea. enjoy !!

links: chapter one , chapter two , ao3

The word ‘late’ rang in your head like a gong. Father Vergil had a strong distaste for tardiness, almost as much as he disliked the lazy and the ignorant. You bowed your head in forgiveness, silently cursing yourself for letting your nerves cause time-blindness.

“Forgive me, Father. Punctuality was never a strength of mine,” you mumble out, preparing for a deserved scolding. Instead, you hear Vergil’s steps stop in front of you, the faintest sigh leaving him.

“It’s alright, y/n. Please.”

He takes a step toward you, lifting your chin with single finger to beckon your eyes to him. The wide nature of your eyes gives away your surprise from the use of your name so casually, the absence of professionalism and humility. Vergil drops his hand from you and offers a tight smile in exchange, his own inhibitions raging war in the back of his mind. He stands there awkwardly under your confused gaze, shifting his weight from left to right and back left before clearing his throat.

“I- uh.”

Christ, Vergil, pull it together. He exhales hard, his clammy hands twitching at his sides.

“…….I fear I have not been honest with you, and with God. Your confession has…rattled me deeply, and I cannot, for the life of me, find a solution that would appease both the trouble in my soul and the will of God. Frankly, I’m…I’m at a loss.”

Your heart falls to your stomach at his words, knowing that your confession was only going to create problems. Your hands fiddle with the rosary around your neck, praying that maybe God could grant you one last word of wisdom in this time of need - you are only greeted with the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. Vergil’s hand returns to his mouth, biting at the frayed skin of his nails, and starts to pace again anxiously. The silence between you two is all-consuming and seems to last an eternity before your shoulders slump, ripping the veil from your head and holding it out to him.

“I shall pack my things and be gone by noon tomorrow. I do not wish to bring any more shame to you or the coven. Plea-“

“What?! N-No! That’s not-!”

Vergil panics and interrupts you immediately, rushing to you and clasping his hands around your veil to push it back towards you. There’s a spark between the two of you at the touch of skin, a small grace in the daunting moment. He loses his train of thought at the sight of your hair pillowing down to complete the picture of your face, his breathing shallow and frantic.

“No,” he stammers out again, blinking hard and squeezing your hand. “You misunderstood me. My issue doesn’t lie with you - it is with myself.”

You blink dumbly at him, brow scrunched with returning confusion. “I…I don’t understand,” you shake your head at him, words barely a whisper.

“Neither do I, my child,” Vergil sighs, his clammy fingers still curled around yours. “I have prayed, and prayed, and prayed to The Lord for answers, and yet he has abandoned me in the dark. I fear that this is a test of my faith, that you are a test of my faith - and I am failing miserably.”

Vergil’s eyes lack their usual hardness, a man frayed to his wits end as he searches your face for the answers he longs for. A single hand lets go of yours and moves to the cross around your neck, his thumb running over the pointed ends of the pendant.

“I have stood before our congregation and preached time and time again of love and purposeful fulfillment,” He murmurs, eyes falling to the crucifix. “I can’t help but wonder when it will be my turn to be blessed with such gifts….But then, when I look at you-“

He pauses, stormy blues tracing the line of your neck up to meet your eyes - eyes that he swore held the light of the morning sun and the grace of the midnight moon all at once.

“-I swear I can see my purpose for living, for breathing, in your face alone.”

You can feel the intensity of his words prick at your heart like thorned rose. It was taking every nerve in your body not to panic and ramble out confused nonsense, uncertain if you’re hearing him correctly. You were almost convinced you were dreaming, but the tight grasp of his hand on yours was keeping you present, if the look in his eye wasn’t convincing enough.

Without a thought in your head, you close the sea of space and press a chaste kiss to his lips, pulling away just as soon. Vergil audibly makes a sound between a gasp and yelp, eyes popping out of his head. There’s a symphony of heavy breathing between you, both staring at each other with fear and desire. You immediately prepare an apology mentally, opening your mouth to verbalize it, but it doesn’t get the chance to come out.

Vergil nearly knocks you off your feet when he dives down to kiss you once more, large hands desperately gripping the side of your head and threading in your hair. Your veil falls to the ground as you scramble to grasp at his garb for stability, lips trying to keep up with the sinful motions of Vergil’s. It’s all-consuming and starving, teeth clinking together and tongues lapping with inexperience. It was everything you had imagined and more, the taste of him alone worth the shame and punishment that was sure to come from such an act.

You’re the first to pull away, gasping for air with swollen lips. Vergil heaves against you, not daring to let go of you for even a second. No words were necessary to convey the lust or longing you shared with him, and with a few passing blinks, Vergil’s hands drop from your face and pry yours from his chasuble. He entwines his fingers in one hand and whips you along behind him, his long legs striding through the courtyard and back into the church. You nearly trip behind him, being pulled like a rag-doll. Words get trapped in your throat as you attempt to ask him where you’re going, but your question is answered as he all but shoves you into one of the small sacristies. The moment the door closes, your lips magnetize to his, his hands guiding you to a shoddy wooden table against the wall. You don’t even have time to process before he’s lifting you onto the table, pushing up your tunic to your hips to stand in between your legs.

It was a mockery to preform such a crude act where they stored the ‘blood and body’ of Christ, the decanter of fortified wine jostling on the table as you clawed at each other’s clothes. The chasuble and tunic fall to the ground, your hands unfastening the buttons of his dress shirt as he trails his mouth along your shoulder with reverent kisses, teeth clamping around the strap of your underdress and sliding it off your shoulder. Freeing his torso from the shirt, your eyes immediately gravitate to the strip of red creeping up his back and over his shoulder.

“Vergil.”

His name pulls him out of his daze and he lifts his head from your shoulder with hooded, hazy eyes. He’s about to question you when your fingers graze over the somewhat fresh scar, making his nose scrunch in a faint wince. Averting his eyes from you, he stares down at your lap, breathing deeply.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing… Turn around.”

You rest your hand on his arm, beckoning him to turn and he fights against it for a moment, a deep scowl on his face. He finally obeys and slowly 180s to reveal uneven, healing marks scattered on his porcelain skin. Worry morphs your features, hearing Vergil sigh at the wall in front of him.

“Penance, for my depravity…for my thoughts of you,” Vergil whispers, an underlying shame in his tone.

It should’ve clicked sooner that these were the makings of a discipline. Self-flagellation was a dying practice, but of course someone as rigid as Vergil would partake. You’re almost too stunned to move, taken aback by the brushstrokes of red.

��This is my fault,’ you think to yourself.

Leaning forward, you gently hold his waist and let your mouth brush against the scars, feather-light kisses gracing them. Vergil hisses at first, the raw skin bristling at the contact, but it soon gives way to breathy sighs, relishing in being adorned by your forgiving kisses.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you murmur into his skin, nose inhaling his sweat and scent.

“Christ would come down and dispute that, if he could.”

He turns back around, looking down over his nose at you with a pensive expression. A calloused thumb traces the shape of your bottom lip, his hand tilting your chin back to let the worn-out bulb in the storage room hit your face better. It’s hard not to notice the tremble of his fingers, the slight shake drumming against your skin.

“This…this is wrong,” Vergil’s eyes are fixated on your mouth, transfixed by the soft, plump skin under his digit. “I am undeserving of you, of your flesh,…your soul.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth,” you rebuttal, trying to focus on his words and not his thumb pressed against you lip, the muted smell of cologne radiating off of him, the heat of body between your legs. “If anyone is deserving, it’s you. It’s always been you.”

You lean your head forward and take his thumb into your mouth, tongue lassoing around it. Vergil’s own mouth parts with a throaty moan, reigning back the intrusive thought to shove his whole damn hand in your mouth just to have it touched by you. He slides his thumb out and replaces it with his mouth, desperate to quell the thirst in his lonely heart. You reciprocate immediately, scooting slightly off the table to be closer to him. Hands moving to his belt, Vergil groans into your mouth and shoves his tongue inside, deepening the kiss. Your own hand pulls off the other measly strap on your under-gown, letting it pool at your hips and exposing your chest to the dry air. Breaking the kiss, Vergil shifts back and ogles the new skin with hunger and awe, a single finger leaving a wake of goosebumps as he trails it down to a breast.

“‘You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you’.”

The verse falls from Vergil so softly that your brain almost doesn’t register it, hyper-fixated on his hand now cupping your chest, thumb flicking over your nipple.

“Song of Solomon, 4:7,” you manage to get out, swallowing thickly.

“Correct, dove.”

The smile of pride that appears on his face from your answer makes you melt in his touch, heart soaring. Your own fingers linger on his chest before slowly sliding down to the still-fastened clasp of his slack, glancing between the painful tent in them and his face. Vergil gives you a faint nod and you make work of it, undoing the hardware as he crowds over you, mouth returning to your shoulder to kiss up to your neck. His moan that rings in your ear when you finally free his length makes everything worth it alone, the sound making your heat twitch with unbridled need. Vergil’s hands fall to your hips and pull you closer to him, sweaty fingers clinging to the silk of your fallen gown. Cock pressed against your soaked underwear, his hips buck into them. Your head wobbles back from the smallest sensation, your strained whine making Vergil bite back his own groan. He gives a few more tentative rocks of his pelvis, nose pressed into your neck as he savors the newfound stimulation.

“May I…?”

You feel a hand let go of your hip and slip between your legs, tracing the border of your underwear. You nod embarrassingly fast against him, forehead coming forward to rest on his shoulder. Vergil pushes the fabric to the side and then guides his length to rub against the slick folds, his breathing labored on your skin. That alone probably would’ve made him come if he didn’t have years of self-control to hold him back - the warm and delicate skin of your sex making it hard to form coherent thoughts. He backs away from your neck to look down at you, his other hand meeting your face and caressing your cheek. All he can think about is how blessed he is in this moment, to be so close to the most divine creature he’s ever laid eyes upon. It almost brought tears to his eyes. Almost.

He shifts his hips closer to you and you subconsciously wrap your legs around his hips, ankles locking together behind him. His hand on your cheek moves to card through your hair, pushing back strands that dare to obstruct his view of you.

“Do you recall the Act of Contrition?”

You nod softly at him, eyes fluttering with every twitch of his cock against your nerves or brush of fingers in your hair. “I remember,” you murmur back.

“Good,” his hand between you two positions his head at your dripping slit, not yet pushing it in. “Recite it for me, for us. Can you do that, little bird?”

You forget to answer initially, sparks of pleasure firing in every nerve at just the feeling of him being one push away from entering you. You swallow back the pool of saliva in your mouth and nod again, eyes trying to remain locked on his.

There’s that smile again - that proud, adoring smile of his you’d see in your dreams for the rest of your days. He nods in return and looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to begin.

“My god, I am sorry for my sins with all my hea-, heart, oh my-“

Vergil pushes an inch of himself into you and the fullness makes you shudder. Your hands fly to hold his arms, brow knit together as a croaked moan disrupts your prayer. When you stop speaking, he halts his movement, despite his own desperation screaming in his body to sheath himself.

“Keep…keep going,” he breaths out, face flushing a faint red as your walls squeeze around him.

“-w-with all my heart…in choosing to do wrong and failing t-to do good..”

The descent continues, another inch separating your walls to accept him in. Vergil’s hand in your hair cradles the back of your head, holding it steady and preventing it from lolling away from him. His chest heaves above you as the prayer echoes in the sacristy, mingling with the buzz of the light above.

“I have sinned against you, whom I should love above all things. I firmly in-intend, with your help-“

You pause again, eyes rolling back as he finally hits the hilt. It was unlike anything you’ve felt before, so intimate and fulfilling, like the last puzzle piece of your body was finally put into place. Two souls no longer forming but one soul. Vergil, himself, was having a difficult time staying focused, the hug of your body around him sending signals throughout his limbs. He pulled back out, stopping just short of emptying you.

“-to do penance, to sin no more, to a-a-ahh!”

Vergil shoves himself all the way back in, a growl rumbling his chest. Your vision blurs for a second, the full feeling almost too much. He doesn’t wait for you to keep going, starting a steady, uninhibited pace as he frees himself from the shackles of guilt. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyways - he has felt you, smelled you, tasted you. It was all he needed anymore. The table rocks against the wall, glasses clinking together with the motion. A hand in your hair and a hand on your hip, he ruts over and over and over into your hole, face flushed a sunset red as he moans and gasps for air.

He asked you to recite the prayer, and damn it all, you were gonna comply, regardless of how much you only wanted to praise his name instead. Your nails dig into the skin of his arms, staccato whimpers leaving you as you try to regain your train of thought.

“…to avoid…whatever leads m-me to sin. Our savior, Jesus Christ….Christ-…s-s-suffered and died….for us..”

It was too much. There was only one line left of the prayer and you couldn’t even get it out, reduced to a moaning, heated mess as he clambered into you. Vergil was dripping sweat from his hairline, the beads falling to your face as you stared up at him. He looked like an angel - a faint halo of light around his head from the backlighting of the lamp. Your core tightens at the sight, an unfamiliar buzz forming in your heat from the sight and his ministrations. It felt like your whole body was plugged into a live socket, heart about to beat out of your chest.

“In his name,” Vergil mumbles out, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to finish the prayer and not himself. “Oh, my God…my God, have mercy.”

You mewl under him, hands shifting to hold his back. Your nails dig into the skin and Vergil lets out a mix between a growl and a moan, your fingers attacking the already raw marks on his back from the whip. He doesn’t stop, though, slamming into you repeatedly as he chases that glorious high. With a handful of more thrusts, you’re putty on the table, body taut and snapping as your orgasms ripples through you. It feels like the gates of heaven have opened, trumpets blaring and white light invading your vision. Vergil can’t hold himself back once he sees you give out, the sight of you coming around him making up for every godawful, lonely night of his life. He spills his load deep inside you, shuddering with a guttural groan. Pressed as deep as he can into you, his hips jolt uncoordinatedly as he gives you every last drop, forehead falling to press against yours. His hand on your hip leaves to join the other on your head, cupping your face to his, scared he’ll open his eyes and it’ll be a cruel dream. How could you be real? How could that sinful release he just felt be reality? It must’ve been-

“Vergil.”

His name in your mouth opens his eyes for him, making him take in the sight of you flushed and disheveled from his doing. His half-hard length twitches inside you from the image and you wince a little at the overstimulation, ushering a small laugh from him, from disbelief at what just happened and how delightful you look right now. He gingerly unsheathes himself, the wet sound mingling with the heavy breathing. Vergil can’t stop himself from looking down at where you were once connected, watching his seed muddle with your release as it gushes out of your hole. His mouth waters at the sight, the heady scent taunting him. God, he would lick you clean, if there was time, if you two weren’t shoved in a closet for anyone to walk into.

“Apologies…for…defiling you. I couldn’t ah, pull out in time,” he mumbles out, eyes following the trail of come leaking from you.

“None needed.”

You chuckle, sitting up to pull the straps of your silk gown back over yourself, taking the debauched sight from Vergil’s view. He holds still for a moment before following suit, pulling his pants back up and collecting his shirt off the ground silently. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to bear to you, but he didn’t know where to begin. He averted his eyes from you as you hopped off the table, scooping up your tunic and pulling it over your head.

“I’d like to see you again,” you start, breaking the silence with a reserved whisper. “Possibly…tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Vergil’s eyes flit back to yours at the proposal. ‘If you’ll have me’? Lord, you must have no idea what you do to him. He has to refrain from falling to your feet, kissing your hand and begging you to come to his quarters, wanting to show you just how much he worships the ground you walk on. He resigns to a curt nod, buttoning up his shirt, “Tonight, it is.”

“9’o clock?”

“Sharp. No excuses.”

#vergil sparda #devil may cry #fanfic #writing #dmc #oneshot #dmc vergil #smut #vergil sparda x reader #devil may cry smut #vergil x reader #dmc smut #vergil devil may cry #devil may cry fanfiction

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estrellami-1 · 1 year ago

Text

If I Should Stay

Part 1 | . . . | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Just then Eddie walks in, raising his brows at the veritable mountain of food Steve and Eleven are putting together. “What’s all this?”

Steve smiles warmly at him. “Hey, Eds,” he says, which is certainly an experience. He’s spoken roughly twice with the guy—in his memory—but Steve’s three chapters—nay, three books ahead. Eddie is Frodo, about to embark on his first journey, and Steve is Bilbo, or even Gandalf: someone who’s done this all before, whose eyes carry the weight of worlds.

Speaking of, Steve’s eyes dim slightly the longer Eddie takes to answer, so he waves his fingers at Steve, trying to ignore the swoop in his stomach when Steve’s smile brightens again. “So… what’s this?”

“Dinner,” Eleven answers. “We are making sandwiches.”

Eddie nods, because sure. Why not. “Okay.”

“How’s the song coming?” Steve asks, and the swoop returns, because not only is Steve asking, but he’s asking about Metallica, and Eddie’s gay, metal little heart can’t take it.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, grinning. “It’s so good, oh my god. I mean, it’s gonna take a bit to learn, but it’s gonna be the most metal solo I’ve ever done.”

Steve’s smile dims again. Probably because he’s remembering what happened last time, i.e., Eddie’s death. Eddie pushes down the queasy feeling.

“Eddie,” Eleven says.

“Yeah?”

She turns to face him. Her eyes are more serious than any twelve-year-old’s eyes have any right to be. “You will be okay,” she says. Then, apropos of nothing, “And I can move things with my mind.”

Eddie blinks at that. Apparently his face is doing something, because Steve chimes in. “She can.”

“I can show you,” she volunteers.

“Anything but the utensils,” Steve says in a distracted voice, like this isn’t the first time he’s had this conversation. Eddie wants to laugh hysterically, or maybe cry. Smoking a joint seems like the best third option, except all his stuff is at home. Fuck.

Then she does, lifts a whole cutting board—complete with tomatoes— and moves it over to him. He resists the impulse to snatch a piece and eat it. He doesn’t even like tomatoes, what the fuck, brain.

Steve’s watching with an amused little smile, like he can somehow read Eddie’s mind. That legitimately wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen today, so Eddie does his best to stop thinking about it, because he doesn’t think he can deal with more than one real-life superpower right now.

“I need that back, El,” Steve murmurs, and she grins at him before zipping it back over, stopping it just before it hits his face. He nods, brows raised, impressed. “Nice control. Put it down and go wipe your nose, please.”

She does, Steve watching her as she goes, fond little grin on his face. “She’s a good kid.”

“She can move things with her mind.”

“Yeah. Honestly, that’s one of the easier things to get used to. Y’know one of the craziest things, to me?”

“Do I want to know?” Eddie asks hesitantly.

Steve just grins at him. “Jonathan Byers has this baseball bat that he sticks a bunch of nails in.”

Eddie blinks at him. “What the actual fuck.”

Steve nods. “I took it, sometime back during the first year. Actually,” he thinks about it, “what month are we in?”

“Um. October.”

Steve winces. “Great. October…”

“Um. Twenty-fourth.”

Steve hums and thinks. “In about… less than a week, actually, I think—I don’t really know, the concussion messed up my days—oh, hey!” He suddenly says excitedly, then raises his voice. “Rob!”

Robin pops her head in a moment later. “What’s up?”

He grins at her. “No concussions!”

She stares. Slowly, a grin spreads across her face. “Holy shit!” She says. “No concussions!”

“No memory loss!”

“No hearing loss!”

“No eyesight problems!”

She freezes. “Steve. You were having vision issues?”

“Um. Not anymore?”

She groans. “Since when?”

“Um…” he thinks, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “Billy, I think. At least that’s the first time I really noticed it.”

She sighs. “I’m going to murder you.”

“Are not.”

“In cold blood.”

“Are not.”

“Nancy’ll help.”

Steve considers this. “She might. She’d be good at it.”

They both pause for a moment, then Robin turns to leave. “I’m gonna go make sure Jon doesn’t give you a concussion this time.”

“Have him make the nail bat, too!” Steve calls as she leaves.

“What,” Eddie says desperately, “the fuck.”

Permanent Taglist: @justforthedead89 @ilovecupcakesandtea @madigoround @bookbinderbitch @suddenlyinlove @nburkhardt @artiststarme @paintsplatteredandimperfect @i-less-than-three-you @alyelf @quarble @messrs-weasley @littlewildflowerkitten @vankaar @starman-jpg @bornonthesavage @steddie-there @goodolefashionedloverboi @andienotannie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @platinum-sunset @just-ladyme @steddiestains @swimmingbirdrunningrock @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @martinskis-lydias @notaqueenakhaleesi @sleepyboosstuff @bestwifehaver @m-owo-n @thatonebadideapanda @finalmoondragon @velocitytimes2 @callmeanythjing @ajeff855 @ilikeititspretty @knitsforthetrail @sillysparrow @that-one-corvid @ace-is-bored @local-writers-corner @harpymoth @weirdandabsurd42

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#stranger things #if I should stay #pre steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #el hopper #Robin Buckley #platonic stobin #steve and el #el just wants to help #Eddie’s doing his best not to freak out every other second #he’s trying yall #starambles

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thisapplepielife · 8 months ago

Text

Written for the @steddiemicrofic April challenge.

All Alone

April Prompt: Fool | Word Count: 454 | Rating: T | CW: Fear of Mortality, Prior Parental Loss, Prior (Unnamed) Health Problem, Anxiety | Tags: Eddie POV, Established Relationship, Long-Term Relationship, Steve Harrington and His High EQ, Beloved Wayne Munson, Everybody Lives, Happy Ending

The overhead light in the bedroom flickers on, and Eddie buries his head deeper into the pile of pillows on the bed.

He's not getting up.

"Eddie," Steve says, gently. Quietly.

"I'm fine," Eddie mutters from under the linens, but he's sure he's not very convincing.

"The hospital called," Steve says, and Eddie's whole body tenses with blinding, overwhelming fear. "Wayne can go home tomorrow. After lunch."

And it's good news. Something to celebrate. But something catches in his throat and he chokes out a sound, somewhere between a whine and a cry.

He's a grown man, unable to get out of bed, and he feels like a fool.

"He's fine," Steve says softly, sitting down on the bed, rubbing Eddie's back.

Sure, Wayne's fine. For now. But someday he won't be. Someday Eddie will be all alone, and the weight of that knowledge suffocates him. The fear of it. The inevitability.

His mom is dead. His dad is dead. He has no siblings. Grandparents, all dead. He has Wayne. That's it. That's all that's left of his family. Wayne, the only connection left to his childhood.

Wayne, keeper of the memories, answerer of the questions.

"Hey, remember when…"

And Wayne will remember.

"And what was…?"

And Wayne will know.

But Wayne will go someday, and he'll take those secrets with him.

Then, Eddie will have no family left.

"Eddie," Steve says, "talk to me."

And he can't.

He can't tell Steve, the love of his goddamn life, his family, this. Steve is his family. He is. They've chosen each other. Over and over, year after year.

Steve's his future.

But he's not his past. Not his beginnings, even as fucking rough as they might have been, more often than not.

"Honey, he's okay. I promise," Steve says gently.

It's foolish, this preemptive mourning. This wallowing.

"Wayne's gonna die someday, and I'll be all alone," Eddie chokes out, and he hopes Steve doesn't take it the wrong way.

He doesn't.

"I know how scary that is," Steve says, and Eddie relaxes. Steve probably does know. He's an only child, too. With only his mom left, now. It's scary.

Maybe they can be scared together.

A week later, Wayne's on the couch, recovering, and Eddie is buzzing around the room.

Steve's sitting right next to Wayne, notebook in hand. Taking extensive notes. An oral history.

Steve won't ever have been there, but he'll have Wayne's own words to reference.

"...and the little fool thought he could drive my car. Couldn't even reach the pedals. Rolled it right into the shed," Wayne says, and Steve laughs.

Eddie had forgotten that.

And Eddie smiles, standing in the kitchen, listening to his past share secrets with his future.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiemicrofic and follow along with the fun! ❤️

#steddiemicrofic #steddiemicroficapril #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddiemicrofic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 11 months ago

Text

The Lost 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of loss, grieving, death, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: nomad!Steve Rogers

Summary: You move into a shared flat and encounter a mysterious man.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You don’t eat breakfast, not that you ever really do. You buy enough food to have dinner when you get home and that’s about it. As the clock ticks on, stretched longer by a sleepless night, you count down to the inevitable. You have to leave that room eventually.

You dress in the convenience store button up, an ugly shade of mustard and pin your nametag on. Not wanting to risk running into your housemates, you talk yourself down to quickly brushing your teeth and tidying up. You won’t shower.

You listen through the door but hear nothing. Not like the night before when you heard everything. When you heard too much.

You bring your little canvas pouch of toiletries and lock your door behind you, just in case. You look left then right, heading down towards the bathroom. You stop as you find the door closed. Shoot. You hesitate, struggling to make up your mind. You should just go back and wait in your room.

Too late. The door opens and you jump in your shoes. You stumble back into the wall, unable to hide your fright. S emerges, his blond hair slightly damp as he combs it back with his fingers. The scent of his soap wafts out with him, warm bergamot cutting through the dingy air of the aged house.

“Sorry,” he leaves the door open behind him as he steps out, “didn’t mean to scare ya.”

You nod and wave him off, mouthing ‘it’s fine’ but unable to summon your voice.

“It’s all yours. Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” he hugs tighter the folded towel in his arm, curled around a leather zip up bag.

You give an ‘mhm’ but his timbre just reminds you of the threats that slipped beneath your door the night before. In your head, the unseen menace was a slimy little ghoul, waiting to creep up on you. You look over your shoulder as S passes.

“He hasn’t bothered you again, has he?” He stops and turns back to you.

You shake your head.

“Good,” his chest rises as he glances towards the far end of the hallway, “Guy’s a freak. On parole…” he faces you again, “not to scare you but you should know.”

You lower your eyes and squeeze your pouch tight. You bite your lip and turn to the bathroom. As you approach the door, he shifts on his feet, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. You stop but can’t bring yourself to look at him.

“Thank you,” you squeak.

He doesn’t answer right away. You linger in the silence before he musters his response, “no problem. Girl like you, can never be too safe.”

You don’t have a chance to reply. His door opens and shuts and you peek over to find him gone. You keep your hand on the door handle as his words cling in your mind. A girl like you…

Is it so obvious that you're alone? Vulnerable? Afraid?

If it is, maybe it’s better that you have someone like him watching over you.

🚪

You arrive for your shift and take over after balancing the till. It’s quiet and you don’t get much more than the usual pop-ins. An old woman takes up close to twenty minutes playing the scratch cards and a group of teens come in to buy energy drinks and ten cent candies. It makes you wish you only worried about wasting your money on unwinnable jackpots and unhealthy snacks.

You spend your downtime doing the crossword in the newspaper Aziz left behind. The pencil lead dulls with each letter you press into the newsprint. The door chimes again and you peek up as a greasy haired man looks around. His eyes scan the store and finally land on you.

You stand up straight and greet him in your small way. Your voice crackles beneath the drone of radio DJs as they discuss their weekend follies. The man nods and diverts to the magazine rack. You tap the pencil and go back to the puzzle, glancing up periodically as he browses the shelf.

When at last he retreats from his perusal, he approaches and lays down one of the magazines shrouded in black film. You try not to show your discomfort as you flip it over to scan the bar code, overly aware of its more adult contents. He doesn’t show an shame as he leans on the counter and breathes loudly through his nose.

“They all got fake tits these days,” he snivels, “I remember my dad’s rags they used to have the natural girls.”

You blanch and hit total, reading out the amount owing. He snickers and reaches into his pants’ pocket, feeling around a bit too long before dragging his hand out. He chuckles and reaches into his jacket instead, taking out his wallet. Ew.

The door chirps, signalling another customer. You don’t look over. The man across from you searches his wallet slowly, fluttering his fingers over the bills inside. His tongue flicks out like a lizard’s.

“Is cash or credit easier, sweetie?”

The pet name sends a chill through you as his tone tickles your memory. That’s the voice you heard last night. That sickly, simpering slither. You can’t help but take a step back, even with the shield of plexiglass between you.

The other customer appears behind the man and clears his throat, “pay and get out.”

You look past the greasy-haired man as S looms behind him. His fist closes and opens, as if he’s holding himself back. You gulp as the other man rolls his eyes.

“Mind your business, meathead,” he deliberately counts out the bills. “It’s the handsome ones that are mean…” he tuts, “nice guys like me, well, we’re hard to find.”

“She doesn’t care. She’s working,” S snarls.

“You don’t own the store, guy,” the other retorts, “you don’t scare me.”

“I don’t gotta scare you,” S steps closer.

The other man bares his teeth but shrinks, just a little. He throws down the money and shoves it through the slot. You gather it up. It feels almost as slimy as he looks. You reach your hand under with his change and he grabs your hand, closing it around the coins.

“You keep that, sweetie,” he squeezes, “pretty girl like you earned it.”

“Don’t touch her,” S grabs him from behind, wrenching him away. The suddenness has your front hitting the counter before the strange man lets you go. “Take your stuff,” S snatches up the magazine as he holds the man by his scruff, “and go.”

He throws him against the door before whipping the magazine at him. You watch helplessly. The smaller man, much smaller than S, catches the porn rag and tries to look fearsome against his accoster. It’s a pathetic attempt. He seems to realise as he slouches down and tucks tail, pushing out into the street with a grumble.

S shakes his head and turns back, marching to the counter. He puts his single protein shake on the other side of the glass. You swallow and put the change down shakily.

“Those are two for four, sir,” you say, “if you’re interested.”

He nods thoughtfully, his throat bobbing. “Thanks, uh, yeah, maybe I’ll grab another.”

He draws away and walks down the center aisle. He stands before the cooler, pulling open the door, before swiftly spinning on his heel and coming back. He places a strawberry shake next to the vanilla one. You scan both and the till applies the discount.

“Sorry, er, to cause a scene. I just… he shouldn’t be pestering you. Especially at work.”

“N-no, it’s… it’s fine. It’s… nice,” you stammer out as you accept his five dollar bill. “You don’t have to… do that.”

“It's not about 'have to',” he shrugs as you count out his change. He takes it, then the vanilla shake. He doesn’t touch the other one.

“Sir,” you point to the strawberry.

“You seem like the strawberry type,” he steps back on his heel, “it’s for you.”

“I… I can’t–”

“You didn’t eat breakfast. You should,” he insists.

“Sir, really–”

“I’ll leave it here,” he says, “in case you change your mind.” He nudges it closer to the glass, “make sure you give it a good shake. The flavour settles at the bottom.”

He turns away before you can argue. Again, he ends the conversation with his departure. As generous as he is, you get the idea he’s not into negotiating.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #nomad!steve #drabble #the last #marvel #mcu #avengers #captain america #series

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hughiecampbelle · 5 months ago

Text

Nausea (Billy Butcher Oneshot)

Character/s: Butcher

Word Count: 1,349

A/N: This is a re-upload bc the first time I posted it I got self-conscious and deleted it lol. It's just not my best writing, but I feel like I have to get it out. Just me writing about my issues again! I still have no idea what's going on, but all the same diagnoses come back from the first time (uc/crohn's/celiac/gastroparesis) and it's so infuriating. My doctors don't know what's wrong and my family, who I love, just think it's nerves. I don't think my very graphic symptoms are nerves 😅 I have so many remedies by my bed, it looks crazy. I haven't slept well in a few days bc of the pain, but I'm also so afraid of not being believed again, it's a vicious loop. Okay I swear I'm done complaining! Thank you for putting up with me!!! 💜💜💜💜💜💜

He knows when it’s happening. There is no great show or performance. There is no crying or whimpering. No one else would even notice, but he knows the signs. Albeit too late, but he does. You’re quieter, withdrawn, hand over mouth, hoping this will stop the nausea. Deep, even breaths: breathing through it. When that is not enough, when that stops working, you slip quietly out of the room and into the bathroom. He tries not to notice how long you’re gone. Mere minutes. It feels so much longer. Someone snatches his attention from you and suddenly, you’re back. You reappear as if you were never gone. You offer a smile, a joke or two, a sense of normalcy, but beneath you’re stomach is churning, clenching, radiating pain through your middle. You only let him tell a few people, who you’re sure told everyone else. Still, none react besides him. He doesn’t say anything, to do so would draw attention. That’s the last thing you want. Instead, he moves towards you, casually, standing beside you. Close. You can feel his jacket on your arm. Worn and scratchy. Familiar. He looks at you and you offer him a small, insignificant nod. That’s as far as he’ll get to asking if you’re okay. That’s as far as you’ll let him when you’re working.

Its been happening on and off for years. Off, for a long time. You thought it was over. Gone. Dead. It’s come back, though, an uninvited guest. This sudden pain, this distress, this mystery no one is curious enough to solve. When they looked, they found nothing. Said you were fine. You were embarrassed, hurt, questioning if it was all in your head. Eventually, you moved on. Things got better. You believed them. And now it’s back. A fullness, nausea, pain, weight loss. You can’t be in the apartment while he’s cooking. The smell repulses you. The taste, too. You can’t eat, afraid you’ll be sick. Again. He urges you, please, something more than your morning coffee, but you cannot handle it. Everything you try you end up spitting out: everything is gluey, everything is profoundly unappetizing. Hiding in the bathroom away from the scent or leaving altogether, it’s put a rift between you. Meals that were safe turned poisonous. Entire food groups cut off unwillingly. It’s been days. Your stomach growls, but that is a trick. You try to ignore it, hide it, knowing what he will insist. He watches you. You can feel it. You don’t say anything. It’s easier this way, not to fight, not to argue. This is a hill you will not die on. He does what he can, pouring your coffee, grateful you at least have that. So far, it doesn’t cause problems and it keeps you full. That’s all you can ask for.

He wants you to get looked at, checked out. You refuse. You were so sick, so scared, and they told you nothing was wrong. You were constantly doubting if this was even real, then and now. If they didn’t find anything, if they didn’t have the answers, you’re not sure what you’ll do. You can’t be doubted again. You can’t be looked at and deemed dramatic. You knew the pain was real. Why did you have to prove it? Why did you have to show them when they refused to believe you? So, you keep it to yourself, far from friends and family. They congratulated the weight you lost. Said you looked good. Remind them you were petrified to eat. You were smaller and that’s what mattered. It’s worse at night. Lying beside him, you push from him, untangling his arms from around you. A trash bin by your head, waiting for it to pass. If things are bad, really bad, you’ll lock yourself in, on the floor, praying for it to go away. He wakes up to an empty bed night after night. The pain wakes you up. You have nausea patches, and losanges, and a heating pad he is constantly rewarming. If you lay very still, perhaps you can trick it. Play dead. Hours you’ll spend curled in a ball, wondering what it was that you ate that set it off, that made it so angry. Was it the time? The combination? You were down to drinks with minerals and vitamins, hydrating agents to keep you going. Baby food. Liquid diet. You missed food. You missed having an appetite. You missed cooking. But it wasn’t worth it afterwards. Immediately or hours, the nausea, the pain, the discomfort invites itself back into your life.

Butcher isn't a natural worrier. There isn't a lot that scares him. But this? This leaves him petrified. There is something wrong and no one will listen. You try to shrug it off. It was so much worse all those years ago. It was excruciating. This, if anything, is a walk in the park in comparison. Uncomfortable sure, but that's all. It's not Vought or Homelander, that he can protect you from. That he can stop. Your body working against itself? That he can do nothing about. It isn't fair. It isn't right. And yet, there is nothing to be done. The tests they did were inconclusive. Why risk it again? Why waste your time? You assure him soon it will be gone, a few days, maybe a few weeks. Last time it was six months. You swallow that time like a prison sentence. Six months. You could do it again, if you had to. You could manage. Maybe by then they’d take you seriously. He wanted to yell and scream, at them. Order them around, insist they help, but would that even help? More tests, more waiting. By the time it would be your turn, it would have gone into remission. Loved ones would hypothesize, becoming doctors themselves. Their favorite diagnosis? Nerves. You weren’t anxious, or nervous, or worried. You were wasting away. You were spending your nights trying not to throw up and your days doing anything to prevent discomfort. Even certain clothes, too close, too constricting, were off the table. You couldn’t stand the way they looked at you, everyone but Butcher, wondering if it was physical or mental. He heard you, he saw you, he knew this was all too real. Why couldn’t others?

You're more tired, exhausted as soon as the sun starts setting. You lose a lot of hours at night, in the early mornings, praying to anyone who will listen that you’ll wake up tomorrow and it will be gone. That you will be fine again. That it really was all in your head. Falling asleep in the car. He tries to avoid bumps in the roads, potholes, not wanting to wake you. Your attention straining: it's always there, in the back of your mind, at the back of your throat. It sits deep in the pit of your stomach and it mocks you. When you finally do complain, just a little, when it's too much, he knows it's really getting bad. He's helpless all over again. The people he's loved, the people he's lost, he can't risk it. Not again. Not with you. There’s little can do, though. There’s little anyone can do. This is not someone he can kill, this is not an organization he can take down. This is chronic, spontaneous, vengeful. It has no rhyme or reason. You let the mask slip every so often. You’re scared. Scared of what they’ll find, scared of what they won’t. He reassures you, whatever it is, you’ll figure it out together. You trust him, you love him, but you can’t do that to him. You can’t be a burden. You body is your own to take care of. So, you throw up in the bathroom, and wear your patches, and make your jokes. You tell him it’s a three, always a three, on a scale from one to ten. You can’t let him worry, he’s got enough on his plate. Yours will remain empty until, hopefully soon, it goes away just as it has appeared.

#writing #billy butcher #billy butcher oneshot #billy butcher drabble #billy butcher x reader #the boys #the boys drabble #the boys oneshot #the boys x reader #stomach problems tw #tw stomach problems #stomach problems #nausea #nausea tw #tw nausea

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macgyvermedical · 2 months ago

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can you talk a little about wegovy and muonjaro for weight loss?

The answer is maybe.

If it were just the drugs themselves, I'd say absolutely. But there is a surprising amount of cultural baggage associated with these medications, and I don't really know that I can do them justice.

So first, let's talk about weight. There's a fantastic book called "Fat Talk" by Virginia Sole-Smith, about being overweight or obese in an age that prioritizes thinness, and how diet culture in particular is a threat to young people. Another, called "Intuitive Eating" by Elyse Resch, discusses how calorie restriction- commonly cited as the "way" to lose weight along with exercise- only works once or twice, because our bodies get wise to it and want to hold onto fat.

Humans evolved to gain weight. Fat is how we store energy for times when we might not have enough to eat. And if "not having enough to eat" (whether because of famine or because of calorie restrictive dieting) happens repeatedly, we have evolved to change hormones and metabolism so we a) don't need as much food to stay alive and b) are primed to eat more food than we need when it is available.

Aren't human bodies cool?

In the medical world, there are a lot of things tied to weight. For example, statistically, being overweight or obese means you're more likely to have health conditions like high blood pressure, diabetes, and heart disease. It is unclear, though, if those problems are caused by the weight itself, or other dietary, activity, and behavior patterns that may also happen to contribute to the weight gain. Things like a sedentary lifestyle, frequent consumption of foods with low nutritional value, avoidance of medical care due to stigma, or even chronic calorie restrictive dieting.

Unfortunately, due to this statistical tie, there is a lot of effort made in the medical world to get patients to "lose weight at any cost" instead of recommending dietary, activity, and behavior changes for health reasons alone.

Culturally as well, we prioritize thinness as attractiveness. I remember in high school there was a poster in my health classroom that read "Ideal weight- or it might be hard to get a date!". There are lots of negative associations with people who carry more weight, including that they are lazy or stupid- things that have nothing to do with body size.

Now, that doesn't mean that there aren't things that could be benefits of losing weight. For example, joint and back pain can be improved with weight loss. But weight loss is probably not the end-all be-all cure-all it's touted to be.

Because it is really hard for most people to meet this standard of "lose weight at any cost", there has long been medications that purportedly help people lose weight. Most of these medications have been stimulants, which decrease appetite and make it more comfortable to engage in calorie restrictive dieting. They also increase energy, which can make it easier to exercise or tolerate more exercise than would otherwise be possible.

Before we talk about the drugs, I want to say- there are risks and benefits to all medications, including these! The discussion you should always have is what risks are you and your healthcare provider willing to tolerate for the potential positive outcome. Also, this is a discussion of the drugs when used for weight control. The same drugs used for diabetes are at different dosages and have potentially different risk/benefit comparisons.

Ozempic/Wegovy (semaglutide) and Mounjaro/Zepbound (tirzepatide) are both a type of medication called a GLP-1 agonist. GLP-1 agonists are also called incretin mimics, because they mimic a type of hormone (incretin) that tells the brain and body that it is full. This makes it easier to eat a small amount of high nutrition food and feel satisfied. They also work by increasing metabolism. Between the decreased consumption and the increased metabolism, weight is lost.

Over the course of a year and a half, tirzepatide causes about 15-20% average reduction in body weight with continued use. Over the course of about the same time, semaglutide causes an average of about 15% body weight reduction with continuous use. Say, for example, you weigh 100kg. A year and a half on one of these medications could get you down to 85kg.

The problem is, as soon as that drug is withdrawn, the body realizes it was starving, and tries to compensate. These drugs are good at getting rid of weight, but maintaining a new weight usually means staying on a lower dose of the drug perpetually. Most people regain all weight (and potentially more than they lost) within 5 years of stopping the drugs.

Some studies suggest that repeatedly regaining lost weight may be more detrimental to health than remaining overweight or obese when it comes to statistical risk of type 2 diabetes, heart disease, and other "weight-associated" illnesses.

The main side effects are GI-related. Most of these are nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, gas/bloating, constipation, dizziness, and abdominal pain. More severe side effects include pancreatitis (inflammation of the pancreas) and gasteroparesis (paralysis of the stomach and part of the digestive tract).

#writing reference #ozempic #mounjaro #zepbound #wegovy

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chromations · 9 months ago

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The one story that scares me the most away from substance use is Jimmy Page. It's not an easy topic to go by, yet I'm still hesitant to post this.

Finding out the pure severity of Jimmy's health between '75-'83, mainly talking about 1977. This whole topic makes me so sad, but I always keep looking.

More under cut, it's a long post unpacking that year. Feel free to add.

We all know he did heroin, starting in 1975, and that he's always been skinny and underweight. But it started amping up in '76, taking more with a noticeable weight loss.

That man was practically on the brink of death from 1977. Between constant shows, rarely eating save for a liquid diet, rarely sleeping, and his addictions... it's scary. He had a weight goal that'd been just about reached: between 125-130 Ibs at 5'11½". (And while an inaccurate measurement of health for those heavier, this falls into 17 on the BMI chart: severely underweight) He dropped a few waist sizes (men's 29 in '75, down to men's 26) and had refused to talk to Peter Clifton after he'd included wide shots of Jimmy in TSRTS and a single roll of his stomach, as it made his ass "too wide." The black dragon pants didn't fit anymore, and fell off during a show. You can see him in the black dragon suit plus a belt during the Oakland photos. Note that these pants had completely fit him without need of a belt two years prior. He ended up at around a men's 26 waist. He'd stopped eating completely for a few days in a row during some tours.

Safe to say, Jimmy was extremely weight conscious. I think he met the criteria for an eating disorder diagnosis, as well.

There's accounts of him having stage fright and anxiety. He'd show up to '77 tour shows completely exhausted, nodding off constantly. Peter Grant had ended up slapping him awake and giving him coke just so he wouldn't pass out.

Then, there's the Chicago '77 show. Jimmy, sick on stage. His eyes are bloodshot, he's had nothing but orange juice in the past 60 hours, along with no sleep in that time frame. Sick from smack and coke, along with all of the previous factors of being an anxious wreck. It's a wonder he got through the first 7 songs before having to sit down during Ten Years Gone, calling for a 5 minute break, and then canceling the show. He couldn't go on that night, just nearly crumpling to sit. This is the story that scared me the most.

Linked below, the show is recorded up until Robert announces the show is canceled.

https://youtu.be/YVCiBd1oodU?feature=shared

I remember reading this account from Dave Northover (Jones' personal assistant):

This is what shattered my heart, initially reading it. How harshly drugs shattered Jimmy's brain, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. There's also a quote from Jimmy in an interview from the year: "I'm not into solid foods very much. I can't remember when I last had a steak. A few tours ago. It's just that you don't want too much in your stomach when you're playing. And there are some places you can't eat after you come back from the gig." He then notes that the banana daiquiris that he'd been consuming all the time are the answer to any problems, "having that every day and nothing to eat at all."

Additionally, In that interview, Jimmy says that earlier on in Zeppelin, Jimmy "had really been eating" and that he'd tried on the clothes from when he was in school, only for it to be very loose. It worries me more to remember that Jimmy stopped school at the age of 16 and had always been underweight. High metabolism, illness prone, and bouts of glandular fever during his time with The Crusaders (still was a teenager), not improved one bit by his undereating.

It's hurtful to hear how, more often than not, the media will praise a celebrity for their skinny figure, even if they're extremely unhealthy with it. Jimmy Page is no exception, as people praised him for his figure during his age.

Heroin is no joke, and I wouldn't wish the addiction it so easily presents to anyone. Withdrawals and smack sickness is scary to even witness, completely altering the person it grips. People often note how jimmy was an asshole, especially in the late 70s, but when dealing with a heroin addiction, with what is basically an eating disorder, high anxiety, with the goal of living your music, the goal of pleasing the crowd, getting the job done, and most of all, surviving, the way you act isn't at the front of your mind. I'm sure Page was aware he was an asshole, but with what he was dealing with, it's not important. Instant gratification, reward, matters more. Not dying matters more. Getting the next hit matters more. His image mattered more.

No matter how much of an asshole he was, and some of the reprehensible things he'd committed earlier on, I wouldn't wish this upon anyone. You see the light leave his eyes as the years went on, you know that while he recovered, those were the darkest years of his life that we know, and there's a reason he'd rarely talk about it: Who would want to?

I've heard multiple people say that if we hadn't lost Bonham in '80, then within those few years, we would've lost Page. It's a wonder he was able to still go on in the early 80s.

Even comparing photos of him in 73, 75, and 77, you go from a "safer" underweight, to his ribs completely visible.

I'm glad we still have him around. This whole topic is not easy to go by, and while most anti drug campaigns don't sway me much, it's the slow / fast decent into all of this that gives me such a strong reaction.

I don't appreciate seeing the way it's so casually joked about amongst the online zeppelin areas. People do take it seriously, but there's always the insensitive ones.

(Adding on, since I accidentally posted this as a draft)

Many people blame page for the effects of his addiction: Sloppy guitar playing, distancing from the rest of the band, assholery behavior.

You can't fault an addict for falling addicted. You can fault them for starting it, maybe, and you can criticize them for all you want. Still, a heroin addiction isn't just as cigarettes. It's the easiest to fall addicted to, and one of the hardest to quit, especially when a physical dependency is grown. Withdrawal symptoms could start early, and extreme too. Most heroin addicts trying to quit will relapse within the first day or two, it's not easy as that.

Considering how unhelpful the help was at the time, quitting cold turkey at these points would probably worsen his condition for a while, considering how rail thin Jimmy had been. The people around him grew worried, grew mad, and I find myself wondering how he could still pick up the guitar and rail out the LA Forum 1977 show, producing banger shows through 77, yet the shoddiest shows as well.

There could be little done about treatment of eating disorders as well, due to medical knowledge and stigma around it. I'll sympathize with this part, having the experience of one: ED recovery on your own is rough. I don't know how jimmy got out of heroin and an ED, and I don't think the process of that should become business unless necessary.

If you find yourself falling into these vices, seek help. Nothing about this is normal: not the lifestyle, nor the pressures.

Jimmy's case will always haunt me. I'd wish this upon no one.

#tw drugs #jimmy page #led zeppelin #tw disordered eating

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kiirotoao · 9 months ago

Note

HEYY YOUR SO PRETTY BTW AND I LOVE YOUR BLOG

the ask :

so, i wanted to get ur opinion on s3 mike. such as, what he was going through and his internalized homophobia. things like that!

maybe some things w/ him and his relationship w/ el too!

THANKS FOR ANSWERING IF U DO ANSWER :D

I’m gonna pretend that I’m fine after weeks of getting flustered just staring at this in my inbox! Thank you, anon!!! 🥺🥺 You’re making me blush! But, uh, anyways! Let’s talk about Mike Wheeler! 💙

I think that Mike in season 3 is the most interesting version of himself in the entire show because of how hidden his story becomes. In all other seasons, Mike cries openly with other people and expresses his sadness and fears over Will and El.

In season 3, though? Besides the finale, the tearful goodbyes narrated by Hopper, we never see Mike truly cry and explicitly talk through why. Sure, it can be pretty readily implied that it’s because of the Byers leaving, but we don’t hear that aloud. We don’t see exactly who’s on Mike’s mind as those cars pull away. We're left with silent and unsure stares, looks of seeming regret or something else unknown.

Season 3 is truly a huge turning point for Mike, he’s losing his girlfriend and arguably his closest friend in the Party, and it's so easily overlooked because it all happens at the very end of the final episode. Whereas El goes through hell and fights to connect to Billy and save her friends, where Max also feels the weight of his loss, where Will gets his heartbreaking scene at Castle Byers - all the Party members who are very linked to Mike get their emotional moments that season, and we know exactly why they cry.

But Mike dances around his emotions all season long. In consulting Lucas to deal with breaking up and making up with El, in trying to tell El that he loves her without ever saying it, in fighting with Will because "it's not [his] fault [Will doesn't] like girls."

Oh, Mike. I really don't think that Mike was out to hurt Will when he said that. Rather, it's a culmination of heteronormativity and the poor relationship that he has with El and trying to compensate for it. I interpret the outburst as him saying, 'it's not my fault that I'm in a relationship and you're not, so you wouldn't get it.' And by extension, Will being in a relationship would require, normatively, being with a girl.

But at the same time, for a jab that deep - I can't help but question more.

Mike could have said, "it's not my fault you don't like anyone!" or "don't bring her into this!" or even as simple as, "you wouldn't understand!" But no. Mike takes the direct train to sexuality station and brings up the fact that El is a girl. So it seems to me that Mike is very likely harboring something in his heart about why El being a girl is important for him to argue.

But we never know for sure. This moment is never addressed again due to the Mind Flayer’s sudden return. And so it’s up to us as the audience to decide what we think of Mike’s statement. And personally, as I’m sure many of you believe, too, I think that Mike is projecting and trying to hide the fact that he doesn’t like girls onto Will, pushing away his problems to someone he trusts who’s more similar to himself than he realizes.

Tied to his inability to say to El’s face that he loves her, to the fact that they've - reportedly from Hopper - kissed all Summer long with no mention of meaningful conversation, to the very surface-level relational mending his makes by calling El’s outfit “cool” and giving her candy, to the very end of the season where Mike once again denies saying that he loved El just before an open-eyed kiss and a face like this:

Mike doesn’t need to say anything about that kiss for me to know that that’s not the reaction of someone who’s perfectly happy to be back together with his ex-girlfriend. So do I wish that we had a moment of vulnerability for Mike where he expressed his heart in season 3? Yes, but his nonverbals spoke volumes.

So, yeah, I think that in season 3, Mike is very much gay, but he he acts cautiously and self-preservingly because trauma is drowning everything out.

And what is this trauma? I know that I’m working backwards, but I need to bring up that Mike was separated from El for so long in the time of season 2, and I think that that makes him so attached to her in season 3. Think about what else he says in that scene when he admits his love: “I love her and I can’t lose her again.”

As sweet as it is to be reunited to El by the end of season 2, it’s not a clean reunion for Mike. He’s in shambles when he learns that Hopper was lying to him and not letting El even tell Mike that she’s okay.

Not to mention that this isn’t his first but second time almost losing her to the monster that season.

Because of this unstable connection, I think that Mike has built a protective relationship with El, one that focuses on keeping her rather than knowing her, and we see how that all unfolds with his superficial “superhero” complex he has of her in season 4. Season 3 was just the beginning.

And so I think that Mike in season 3 stands as a version of himself that’s confused protectiveness with love. Even though he arguably behaves with that same mindset all the time, it’s at its highest during season 3 because of his never-ending insistence to help El even if she’s capable to do things by herself. Mike isn’t just clingy, he’s worried. Worried for her life. There’s no time to worry about where the problems in their relationship arise, there’s only time to fix them and go back to how they were at equilibrium - when things were normal.

Thus, Mike behaves rather stubbornly. He’s insistent and defensive, not letting a single thing slip through the cracks and risk any more hurt. In doing so, his personality is left far under the surface and unexplored. He only acts to stir up emotions rather than reflect on them, because any pausing to think will only confuse him more. He’s looking ahead, looking at the light, holding onto everything good he has with all the propriety of a 13/14-year-old who has a heart bigger than his head.

Simply put, Mike is a bit of an anti-hero this season. And I think that it's because of this that he starts to get most controversial for the audience.

I’m clearly a Mike apologist, but I genuinely don’t think that he’s out to hurt anyone when he argues with others this season. He’s just stubborn and loud about it, which can definitely be to his fault at times. But in the end, when it comes down to who he loves, I think that season 3 is the era of change, and that ending scene with Hopper’s letter paints the perfect setup for the next seasons to reveal that Mike has a lot more going on under the surface that’s causing all of this. Maybe some regrets, things he wishes he could “turn back the clock” on, regarding, say, Will and El and how he treats them platonically and romantically? Just a thought.

The question of the day for Mike in season 3 stands: is he being selfish or selfless? And I think that it’s a mix of both, blended in with some heavy confusion due to role changing (not needing to protect El) and uncertain affections (not knowing how to figure out what he has with Will).

So, yeah. All in all, I think that Mike is really closeted in season 3 and doesn’t realize it until the final episode, and I honestly love him for it. As someone who’s gone through similar hurdles of internalized homophobia as a teen, it’s really heartwarming to see him grow and figure things out, even if the journey is far from perfect. It’s a humble origin story. And if he somehow ends up being straight and Byler isn’t endgame, well. I’ll be upset at the writers, but the impact still stands.

#Mike wheeler #byler #byler analysis #mike wheeler analysis #asks my beloved <3 #Mike is my second favorite character but always first in my heart to talk about and analyze #he’s just so babygirl #THANK YOU AGAIN ANON!!!#I wanted to reply sooner but it’s Mike so I just kept going 😂

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ashcal99 · 1 year ago

Text

Collarbones : Jasper Whitlock Hale III

Chapter Three

"I can see your collarbones and baby I'm scared, Never thought I'd be so unprepared"

Summary: Camila Johnson was only 16 when she was diagnosed with leukemia. By the time she had turned 17, the doctors had tried everything to save her. Her family is close to giving up hope when they hear of a doctor who may be able to help her. The only problem is, he lives on the opposite side of the country. The small family soon decides to move to the small town in Washington, in efforts to prolong her life. In doing so, her life changes forever.

Warnings: Eventual smut (18+ only), mentions of death, depression, descriptions of disease and weight loss, general angst, slow burn

Words: 4.1k

A/N: Please lmk if you'd like to be added to the tag list. Hope you enjoy x

Soundtrack

Previous Chapter

Series Masterlist

——————

January 29th, 2005

Jasper had been extremely punctual of course. He had paced back and forth so many times that night he had practically worn lines into the floor. It was times like these that he really did miss sleeping. The promise of seeing Camila once the sun arose had the night dragging on much slower than he would’ve even thought possible. He wasn’t exactly sure what they would be doing, but he knew it would be with her and that was all that mattered really. So, there he was standing on her doorstep, knocking his fist lightly on the front door of her home, not one second after the agreed time of 11am.

He of course knew before the door swung open, that it would be her that would answer his knock, having smelt the abnormal scent of her blood, but that didn’t stop the fluttering in his stomach as she came into view. Like usual, it was as if his breath had been stollen from his lungs as he drunk in the sight of her. As if he needed that air to live. Her eyes flickered up from the toes of her warn out boots to meet his. She sent him a small, bashful smile. “You’re very punctual.” She teased.

Jasper’s golden eyes seemed to glimmer as a smile broke out across his face. “Didn’t want to keep you waiting, darlin’.” He said. The word as usual, sent Camila’s pulse quickening and she scolded her heart. He had called her that countless times, yet the word never failed to get a reaction out of her. She really needed to get a grip on herself, and she hoped that he was unaware of the effect that he had on her.

She shook the thoughts from her head, gesturing him inside of the small house. “Sorry, my mom wanted to meet you before I leave. She’s a little protective if you could imagine.” She said, letting out a light laugh.

Jasper sucked in a breath. “Yeah, of course.” He said, smiling politely to the girl in front of him as he stepped through the threshold. Slight panic filled his chest as his eyes scanned the small living room directly in front of the entrance to the home. The room was mostly bare, save for a plush worn looking sofa, two arm chairs, and few boxes in the corner that had yet to be unpacked.

He wished Alice would have warned him of the girl’s mother. He hadn’t exactly been prepared to be in close proximity and direct conversation with a human today. Of course, he was spending the day with Camila, but the only thing that made that possible was the lack of hunger that followed the scent of her strange blood, and he knew, of course that the same would not hold true for the girl’s mother.

Floorboards whined under his feet as he stepped into the tight space. He tried to focus on the steady beating of Camila’s heart for comfort, but that didn’t stop the rigidness of his shoulders as the fire in his throat lit ablaze with furry. There, on the sofa in front of him, sat a middle aged woman, an almost perfect reflection of her daughter. He steeled himself, swallowing the burn and mustering up his best manners. “Hello, Ma’am. I’m Jasper Hale. I’m here to pick up your daughter for the day.” He said, flashing a bright smile at the woman.

She came to a stand, looking at him, seeming to almost size him up. Of course she would be protective of her only daughter. It was only natural for her to want to make sure that she would be in safe hands, especially given her sickness. It was expected, and really if he had been thinking straight, he would have realized that he would be meeting at least one of her parents and prepared himself.

Seeing his kind smile and hearing his polite greeting seemed to ease a bit of her stress as the tension in her shoulders loosened slightly. She returned his smile walking closer to him as she stuck her hand out for him to shake. “I’m Camila’s mother, Michelle. It’s a pleasure to meat you.” She said.

Jasper’s eyes flickered over to Camila quickly, and back to her mother. May as well lay it on thick, he figured. He stuck out his hand in front of him, gently taking the woman’s warm palm into his own. He knew he could blame the cold weather on his chilled skin if questioned, so he leaned fully into his southern charm as he delicately shook the woman’s hand, lingering longer than he would normally dare. “The pleasure is all mine, ma’am.” He said.

Michelle stood there, slightly stunned for a moment. Exactly the reaction that he had been chasing. “So, where is it that you will be taking my daughter today?” She asked kindly as she dropped his cold stone-like hand.

Letting his body relax at the loss of the woman’s touch, he looked back towards Camila. “I’m leaving that part up to her, but I figured we could go get something for lunch first.” He said, trying, despite the flames lapping at his throat to seem relaxed, and to the best of his ability, normal.

Michelle sucked in a shaky breath. “I just worry. Please make sure she doesn’t push herself too much. She has a tendency overwork her body at times.” She said, concern creating deep lines between her eyebrows.

Camila cringed at her mother’s words. She knew she would be concerned about her going out, but she had wished she would refrain from talking about her as if she wasn’t in the room. Of course she was fragile, that much was apparent, but she sometimes hated how her parents treated her as if she would whither away at any moment. “Mom-“ She started, attempting to keep the woman from embarrassing her even further.

Holding up her hand to stop her daughter, Michelle interrupted. “No, Camila, I’m serious.” She scolded.

Jasper could feel the worry immolating from her and decided now would be a good time to take advantage of his supernatural gifts. “Of course, and I will make sure to have my phone with me as well so I can call you and my father in case of any emergency.” He said, sending her a reassuring smile as he pushed the feeling of comfort and calm towards her. The least he could do was try and ease the anxiety of the situation for her.

She let out a deep sight, letting the weight of her worry leave her shoulders. Camila had explained the situation on her ride home from school the day previous, the only reason her and her husband agreeing, being that Jasper would have a direct line to their daughter’s doctor. As much as the whole thing concerned her, she knew that it was only fair to let her daughter enjoy her time with the boy. Especially considering that Camila was adamant on letting her parents know that they were ‘only friends’ and ‘just wanted to get to know each other more’.

“Okay… Enjoy your time out, honey. Be home by ten.” She said, after a long pause, giving her daughter a light smile and ushering the two teens towards the front door.

Camila smiled thankfully at her mother, grateful that she didn’t push it any further, and planted a small kiss to the woman’s cheek. “Love you.” She muttered, turning and grabbing Jasper's hand to pull him out the front door before her mother changed her mind.

An electric shock raced up Jasper’s spine as he moved towards the pull on his arm, dazed by the girl’s touch. It was then that he had realized that this was the first skin to skin contact that he had ever shared with her. Her palm was a blazing ember against his own icy touch and he took note that this must be because of her constant feverish state. The warmth was comforting to his freezing skin, and he hoped that his cold touch may be just as comforting to her.

Camila tried to hide her shock as she processed the temperature of his skin. Just like Alice, he too had the same ice-like touch. Odd enough, without even considering that the two weren’t actually related to each other. She shook the new confusing information from her mind, deciding that she would have to add it to the long, ever-growing list of the things that were off about Jasper and his family.

Once the two were outside, standing next to the contrasting expensive looking car in her driveway, she reluctantly dropped his hand. “Sorry.” She said, blushing lightly. “Wanted to get out of there before she decided to make me stay home.” She admitted.

Reaching his hand forward to open the passenger door for her, he smiled bashfully to the girl. “No worries.” He reassured, trying to draw in his control. The sudden contact with her skin had seemed to flip a switch inside of his brain, almost like rebooting his mind, and it wasn’t quite back up to running at full speed yet.

He shut the door behind her as she moved into the vehicle, being extra careful to make sure that all of her body was inside before latching it shut. Making his way quickly to the drivers side, or quickly for a human anyway, he turned the key in the ignition, listening as the engine roared quietly to life. “Where to, for food?” He asked once he had clicked his seatbelt into place on his side and made sure that she had done the same.

“Same cafe as the other day?” She offered, considering that she didn’t really know anywhere else in the small town yet and she had actually enjoyed the food that they had served.

Jasper tried to hide his grimace as he forced a smile onto his lips, pulling out of the driveway and heading in the direction of the cafe. Given that they had just been there a few days prior, he knew he would have to, unfortunately, actually order food this time due to the risk of anybody but Camila noticing that he had a particular issue with consuming human food. He only hoped he could successfully hide the fact that he wouldn’t end up eating any of the food, and he tried, quickly, to come up with some kind of idea that would help him seem inconspicuous.

“Any music preferences?” He asked, reaching forward to turn on the radio as the soft notes of a piano filled the car. One of Edward’s cd’s he had left in the player.

Eye’s flickering over to his face, the corners of Camila’s mouth turned up. “What do you have?” She asked.

His long arm reached over her lap, unlatching the glovebox to reveal, a large book, that was no doubt filled with different options. “Take a look.” He offered.

He had to admit, he didn’t really listen to too much music himself. When he had been human, having been a part of a not-so-wealthly family, he hadn’t really had much exposure to music, besides the occasional tune he would hear while out in town with his parents. Even that music, he didn’t listen to often now, given that it was over a century old at this point. If he was being honest, the only exposure to music that he had anymore was mostly due to Edward and his constant pursuit to occupy the ongoing boredom of this life that they had been given.

Flicking through the pages and pages of cd’s, Camila tried to get a grasp on the many genres that the book held. They ranged vastly from classics like The Beatles, real classics like Mozart, and even artists as modern as Linkin Park and all it did was confuse her more if she was being honest. “I thought there’d be more country in here given your southern drawl.” She teased, eyes flitting up to catch his reaction to her words.

A genuine laugh left his lips and rang like a bell throughout the car. “Yeah, I uh… I guess I didn’t really grow up with a whole lot of music around. Those are Edward’s. Sorry to disappoint, darlin’.” He said pointedly, smirking.

Camila giggled lightly, heart fluttering at the sight of his bright smile. She plucked a disk from a sleeve of the book, finally settling on one of the many Queen albums. She ejected the current disk, placing the new cd into the the slot above the clock on the dashboard.

The beginning notes thrummed throughout the car as the wound down the road. “80’s huh?” He asked, raising his eyebrow.

“It’s a classic.” She reasoned, as she bobbed her head slightly to the rhythm of the music.

That definitely didn’t help him not feel absolutely ancient as he sat there next to her, all one-hundred-sixty years of him. He had to pull himself away from the thoughts that began filing through his mind, suddenly feeling like a total creep. He hoped, whenever she ended up finding out the truth about him, that he wouldn’t scare her away. The fact was, he was well over a hundred years older than her and he tried not to let that fact get to him too much.

In truth, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the 258 years difference between Carlisle and Esme, but that did little to ease his discomfort with the inevitable conversation he would end up having about his real age. Refusing to let himself spiral any longer he spoke up. “80’s was the best decade for music in my opinion.”

Camila hummed in agreement, closing her eyes as she let herself fully feel the melody around her.

——————

The cafe was a bit more packed than it had been previously that week, given that it was now lunchtime as well as Saturday. Luckily, the corner booth was still unoccupied when they arrived, so that, if anything, would help to keep Jasper as far away as possible from the many humans occupying the room as well as provide enough privacy to not have to sensor their conversation too much.

Unfortunately, however, the waitress that had served them before was the same for today, and immediately, he knew that there would be no way out of ordering food for himself this time. Reluctantly, he scanned the menu for something that would be easy enough to choke back up later on, and settled on a burger, figuring that it would look the most normal for a teenage guy to eat.

The woman left their table, promising that the food would be out soon. Camila turned to Jasper, an eyebrow raised at his obvious discomfort. “You ordered food this time.” She pointed out.

“Uh- yeah.” He stuttered out, trying to push the right words to the forefront of his mind. “Don’t wanna stick out too much, I guess.” He said, eyes flickering around the crowded restaurant.

Camila nodded slowly. “So you really don’t eat then?” She asked curiously, deciding now would be as good a time as any to get her questions out in the air.

Jasper gulped. “No, not food like you eat.” He muttered lowly.

Her eyebrows threaded together in confusion. “Okay, I’m lost.” She admitted.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized. “I can’t exactly tell you myself, and to be fair, I don’t think you would believe me even if I could.” He said, a reluctant grin adorning his features.

Camila huffed, slouching slightly in her seat. “So, let me get this straight. You’ve been dropping these very strange and almost ominous hints at me in hopes that I’ll figure this all out on my own?” She said. He nodded, happy that she had the bluntness to call him out. “Okay, why me?” She asked. “What makes you have so much trust in me? We don’t really know each other very well.” She pointed out.

“If we’re being honest, out of everyone in this town besides my family, you know me the best. From what I know, it’s the same way vice versa.” He said, his golden eyes peering deep into her green ones.

She nodded slowly, processing his words. “Fair enough.” She muttered. “Okay. How about I just throw random ideas and you can confirm or deny them?” She suggested.

Jasper thought for a moment. “That… sounds… doable.” He said, agreeing to the idea.

Camila sat up straighter in her seat, feeling slightly exhilarated by the prospect. “Okay. So you don’t eat. Any food at all?” Jasper shook his head. “You’re really cold.” She pointed out. He nodded his head this time.

“You’re good at reading emotions.” nod yes

“You have like, super human hearing.” nod yes

“You and your whole family are like ridiculously attractive. Inhumanly so.” She said, letting herself get away with her rambling so much she hadn’t even noticed when the words fell from her lips. Her eyes widened in realization, as a bright red blush crept up her cheeks.

A smirk grew on Jaspers lips as her words fully sank in. “So, you think I’m ridiculously attractive?” He teased.

Her hands flew up to her face, trying to cover the growing blush on her cheeks. “Shut up.” She mumbled embarrassed.

Jasper’s smirk grew larger. “My sincerest apologies, darlin’.” He said, earning a groan from the girl.

Jasper’s head suddenly snapped away from her, towards the waitress making her way to their table, two plates of food in her hands. After making sure that the two were all set and didn’t need anything else, she finally left the two by themselves once more.

He starred down at his plate, grimace clear as day on his face. Camila’s eyes flicked back and forth from the food to his face. “I can eat it. If you want… Not all of it, but enough to make it look like you tried to eat it yourself.” She offered.

He smiled over to her. “Umm- yeah.” He nodded lightly. “That would be great.” He admitted.

——————

Camila had tried to rush through finishing her food, knowing that she would most likely get more answers once they were in their own privacy once more. Unfortunately, as much as she tried, her stomach could only handle so much, so it ended up taking close to forty-five minutes before she was able to get a substantial amount of food down.

So, there they sat, car parked on the side of an abandoned road. Finally alone once more. Jasper knew that the location may not be the best option for the inevitable discovery looming overhead, wanting her to feel safe and not like he took her out to the middle of the woods to kill her, but ultimately, knew that it would give them the privacy needed if she ended up freaked out.

They had continued their back and forth questioning and answering after they had left and here they were, still going on more than three hours later. Granted most of that was because they had kept pausing to joke and go off on side conversations. He couldn’t really help it to be fair. He was nervous and almost instinctually tried to change the subject at every corner. In truth, he was terrified of her having a bad reaction. A natural reaction.

Despite the happiness filling her chest, Camila was beginning to grow more and more irritated with herself. This day had flipped everything on its head and her composure had long past flown out the window. It had been over a year since she had sworn off any future of dating again, and she told herself, over and over again, that she needed to stop, but she couldn’t help the butterflies filling her stomach every time he looked her way.

There was something about him. Something almost supernatural that made her feel at home in his presence. She found herself wanting that impossible future with him, and all it did was hurt. She had spent the past year coming to terms with her inevitable death, being contempt in the fact that her life would be cut short. Already saying goodbye in her mind to her friends and family and there, suddenly he was. Fucking that all up. Throwing a wrench in her plan. Her heart desperately wanted to fight that impossible fight just to spend more time with him, while her mind knew that the end was near and inevitable. So for now, she would ignore that inevitable future and allow herself to feel.

——————

“A family addicted to plastic surgery.” Camila suggested. Jasper busted out laughing loudly. shake no

“Damn. I really thought that was the one.” She joked, laughing along with him. “Okay, okay.Are any of you actually related?” shake no

“Bitten by radioactive spiders?” Bursts of laughter filled the car once more at her words. “Gamma radiation?” She added.

Jasper shook his head. “No.” He said, still shaking with laughter.

Camila groaned. “I’m not getting anywhere with these questions.” She complained.

Jasper thought for a moment. “Be less specific?” He offered.

She sighed heavily, throwing her hands into the air exasperatedly. “Are you even human?” She asked half joking.

shake no

She froze in her seat, her eyes searching his face for any signs that he was joking, but all she found was honesty and everything was suddenly way more serious.

She nodded slowly, trying to gather her racing thoughts as she stared into the trees ahead of them. Oddly enough, this discovery didn’t scare her like she knew it should have. She knew that whatever the truth ended up being, that Jasper wouldn’t hurt her. Regardless, what did she really have to lose anyway? What mattered was that she trusted him, whether that trust was ill seeded or not didn’t really matter to her anymore.

“Are you from Earth?” She asked incredulously.

Jasper smiled again, snickering slightly. “We’re not aliens.” He said.

Camila rolled her eyes teasingly. “Just checking.” She muttered.

“Are you immortal?” nod yes

Her eyes widened. “Really?” Jasper nodded again. “You’re sure you’re not making me out to be the most gullible person in the world?” He shook his head firmly, deeply serious, despite the ridiculous nature of the conversation. “How old are you?” She asked.

Jasper shook his head. “That’s a conversation for another day.” He reasoned, earning an indignant huff from the girl. He was honestly shocked with how well she had been taking all of this. Most importantly, he could tell by her emotions that she believed every word that he was saying. He didn’t exactly understand the blind trust that she had in him, but nonetheless, was happy that he had it.

Her mind wandered, attempting find her next question. How did you recover from an admission like that? Despite her shock, she pushed on. “Do you sleep?” She asked.

shake no

“Like, not at all?”

shake no

She pushed her mind to think of what this could mean. If he wasn’t human, then all of this had to be pointing to something in particular. He had expected her to guess eventually, so she knew that she to know deep down what it could be. Had to have heard of whatever he was at some point in her life. Her mind wandered to horror movies, and the monsters that were written in countless stories that she had read.

Suddenly a word came to mind, and she sat, silent for a moment, completely still in her seat, debating if it would be completely ridiculous to ask. Surely this ridiculous conversation was proof enough that she should just ask the damn question already.

“Vampire?” She blurted out.

Jasper hesitated for a moment. This was the make it or break it answer. She would either take this information overwhelmingly well, or more than likely, run off screaming. The lighthearted conversation had flipped so completely in such little time that it left him reeling and wishing that he could back pedal, but he knew that there was no way.

He hadn’t expected her to figure it all out so soon, but here she was, on the cusp of finding out everything, and they hadn’t even known each other a full week yet. The word had already left her lips and there was no chance that he would lie when the truth was already out in the air.

He shifted his gaze down, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to look her in the eyes as he admitted the truth. “Yes.” He muttered.

Her heart thudded in her chest, as the information sunk in. “Y-you’ve got to be fucking with me.” She sputtered.

shake no

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