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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Y'all remember the Creelby vampire AU I yapped about with Patty as a nun?
Talking to Ire and thinking more seriously than ever about a verse where Patty domesticates the mindflayer.
He'd never planned a future for himself â he'd never been allowed â he'd hoped for one, of course he had, but when it came to the visualisation of it, to the details and the specifics, it was just a blur of colours, feelings, vague longings and concepts he had. Nothing solid â nothing certain. The clearest vision he ever imagined hinged on Papa's eventual death. The idea that one day, still many years from now, Papa would grow ill and then, by some miracle, he imagined, maybe he'd have time to free himself, to carve the Soteria from his neck and run in whatever chaos, whatever vacuum the eventual death of Dr Brenner might cause.
It was a fantasy, though. That he also knew. Because he understood that, more likely, when Papa took ill and became too old to continue his project, the government would terminate it or hand it over to younger hands who likely wouldn't see any use for him. He'd be old by then, too, of course.
In a way, his mind had become full of rooms, like a grand old house; these rooms would pile with thoughts and feelings and memories and some of them he would shut away, lock up tightly as he could. Whether because they had become too full and too overwhelming to sort through or because he was trying desperately never to see them again, the sentiment remained the same. Years of captivity and conditioning had eroded him in ways he scarcely understood. He was fine in body, but in mind? In soul? He was shattered, and some of his pieces didn't fid anymore but were else would he put them?
That particular room, the one where Papa eventually dies, came with its own window, and he passed by it on occasion but never really allowed himself to look in because if he didn't hide them, shove them away into their own compartments of his mind, he's not sure what he would do.
He needed the hope, the separation from the things he'd learned were true and the things Papa had convinced him of, the vague feeling that there was still hope, there was still something for him, something he could make out of all this â it wasn't all lost, he wasn't all ruin.
And now she was here; she had found him, and in that act alone, he believed in her, thoroughly, entirely, more than he believed in anything else. She'd given solid form to the feelings that had lived in his mind; the hope he'd felt all this time materialised.
Henry watches as she turns panic into process, fear into a list of needs, grief into a plan, and it steadies him in a way that feels almost humiliating in its simplicity. Like he'd been floating at sea for years, and her voice is the solid shoreline.
Still, something in him tightens, when she says "Don't ask me to risk your life," not at her refusal, but at the fact that she can look at him and still see a life worth guarding. It's the contrast between her feelings and Papa's, the feelings that blurred and overlapped and, in his isolation, had become so hard to define, to separate from one another and see them in their vast differences, which, just like that, are now crystal clear.
Papa only ever guarded the resource; he didn't guard him. He didn't care about him. Not the way any father should. But Papa wasn't his father. Henry swallows, forcing himself to exhale through the tightness in his chest. He lets her feel the scar, lets her touch linger because her hands are careful and clinical and loving all at once. He needs to remember that those things can coexist, that she doesn't examine him with satisfaction at the harm caused and the future promise of more but only with the steadfast intention of sparing him from it as much as she ever could.
He hadn't thought of the technical aspect. The sensitive position, the fact that removing it might pose a threat to his life. He supposed, more than that, it had been a risk he ready to take because here, in the Lab, he was merely a creature that existed, not a man who lived a life. What he had wasn't worth persevering; the risk of ending his existence against restoring something that might have actually been a life was worth taking.
â You're right... If we do it wrongâŚÂ â He purses his lips with the thought that he doesn't finish; he couldn't tell her how willing he was to find death if he couldn't find freedom. â We will have to wait; another opportunity will come.â
It hurts to say it, because the urgency in him is animal â a cornered thing. The leash around his neck is suddenly unbearable now that she's here to feel it with him. But urgency is what gets you killed in a place like this. Urgency is what Brenner counts on â panic mistakes, desperate lunges, sloppy hope. He's been trapped here for fifteen years, long enough to have almost forgotten what she looked like, had her appearance not been a world-shaking reminder â another day, another week, another month, even wouldn't be anything he couldn't handle.
â We can meet again, whenever you need me. As a doctor, you have authority over me. You can request my assistance for tasks, organisation and the like. â A brief pause, and then, almost warily â Use it, but don't use it too often. Dr Brenner will notice. He keeps me close. â
At her question about cameras, he nods, once, slowly. His gaze flicks instinctively to the dead corner, then back to her. Its habitual: a lifetime of being watched, being studied, being used. â There are places without cameras, storage rooms, maintenance routes, places that are no longer relevant to the project like this one, they're just not in the places you've been shown. â He hadn't been shown them either, of course. He found them, in the merciful times when Papa became preoccupied with the other test subjects and he was able to explore unwatched. He glances back toward the door as if he can see the map of the Lab in his head before turning his attention back to her. â We will give it some time, keep a professional distance from each other, then you will request my assistance with something, some "assessment" or "orientation" or some such, whatever sounds the most boring. â His mouth twitches with something almost like humour. â I'll bring you to a better room, one with more light. Once I am free, I can get us out of here. I've learned a few new tricks since high school. â it briefly flickers his attention elsewhere, to the void inside of himself, the ever so faint crinkle of his brow following.
He knows the sleeping thing, when it wakes will bring with it a tremendous surge of terrible hunger, it will need, it will want, and it will try to take. It had only ever tasted her once â a thing that he is fiercely resolved to never let happen again â  and with that thought his eyes find her again as himself, the boy beneath the shadow, earnest as a prayer.Â
â We can do this, Patty, we just have to be careful. â
The silence between them is comfortable, even if the conversation was not. Itâs not strained or anxious, nor tense and painful. Itâs a silence that brings peace of mind, when the only noise is their breathing, and thatâs what Patty focuses on, one of her hands still on Henryâs chest as her other brushes the scar one last time before dropping to his shoulder. She takes in how he inhales, how his chest rises against her touch, and his exhales, the way his chest lowers and her hand moves forwards just an inch, chasing after him as it remains on him. She wants to close her eyes and fall asleep like this. To wake up in some other reality, in a place that is not this awful lab and is their own, a safe place. She wants to feel him breathe like this outside of the constricting walls of this place. To hold him as they sit on a sofa or lay in bed, to lean her head against his chest and hear his heartbeat knowing that heâs not only alive, but safe. That she has gotten him out of this hell, that he will not be tortured for the mere crime of existing. Patty doesnât want to put him in danger. Not ever again. Her leg aches, like a distant cramp she has totally forgotten she ever had, and she winces, for a moment, fingers tightening in the cloth of Henryâs orderly overalls. The stab of pain is brief, and it comes with a wave of crushing guilt. Itâs her fault heâs here. That he isnât out there, maybe in Vegas, maybe in California. She should have taken him with her, and Patty cannot remember for the life of her why she didnât. She remembers getting on the train. She remembers packing for the trip, in secret, because she was really too young to be travelling that far on her own. She remembers telling Bob, and telling him not to ever tell anyone else. Patty remembers his protests, and the oath she had made him take to never rat her out. Clearly, he had not.Â
She remembers waking up in a hospital, and that memory, now almost two decades old, feels brand new. It lingers in her mind now, the smell of the hospital, sterile, but warm, so unlike this lab. The beeping of a monitor and her brotherâs noise of dishelved relief at her opening her eyes. The pain in her leg feels present again, but dull, distant. Part of the memory sheâs rediscovering, Patty imagines. She was in the hospital, but she doesnât remember why. Her bones feel as though theyâre made of cement, all of a sudden, and her hold on Henry grows more firm. Sheâd left. That was the gist of it- she had left him here, and he mustâve thought she had left him to rot. The silence dies with Henryâs words, and they save her from her own mind, which will surely only rest until sheâs alone tonight, trying to sleep- her torment will begin again the moment sheâs alone with her memories. Patty swallows dryly, nodding at first, mainly because she cannot imagine disagreeing with Henry. Theyâve always seen eye to eye in their youth, and so far, heâs been reasonable, for someone who has been kept in a cage, treated like an animal, kept in subhuman conditions- in fact, heâs so level-headed about the horrors of the situation that Patty still worries she may have lost him to the dread of his reality.
She realises what sheâs agreeing to a moment later, shaking her head instead, although her protest is not earnest, itâs merely a reaction of desperation.Â
â I donât want to wait. Waiting means you have to endure even more of .. this. Of him. â Patty doesnât say Brennerâs name. She doesnât want to do so ever again, not if she can avoid saying that monsterâs name like the plague. He doesnât deserve the privilege of being treated like a human after what heâs done, she can see it more clearly than ever before, and the hatred blooming within her scares her, for a split second. Patty had never thought herself capable of despising someone so before.
â But I understand. â Patty wishes she didnât. That there could be any other way to do this, a way that doesnât require them to play these absurd roles, a way that doesnât mean keeping Henry trapped in this place any longer, but she is not a child anymore. The girl with big dreams of a stage and a warm home, often with him by her side, isnât there anymore. Sheâs an adult now, she has been for the majority of her life, and she knows what this means. What Brenner is, and how dangerous he can be.Â
â I hate it, Henry. â Her voice breaks in honesty, and Patty shakes her head. â I hate how I have to pretend to be your superior. I donât want power over you, to be a figure of authority, itâs sick. â She says, and her stomach churns with genuine disgust. â I hate that I cannot treat you the way you deserve. â Patty sighs, and her eyes meet his, detaching from the floor she had been staring at in guilt, sorrow and contemplation. Hope is all she can hang onto now, the hope they both have to share as though it is a lifeboat, the feeling they now will have to cling to if they are to make it out of here alive- and she is determined to see that through. His mention of tricks brings the phantom of a smile to her face, an echo of a past theyâd both long forgotten ringing in her mind.Â
â You still are a miracle, Henry. â Patty says, and for a moment, she is there again, holding his hand, sitting in a diner she is not allowed to be in, and then she is on a stage, and he is shaking, unsure, terrified. For a moment, she is the girl who keeps those memories. â We can do it because weâre together. Because we have each other- you have me. â

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henry creel x reader headcanons
he leaves you for patty newby
modern college AU doodles..
my take on that variants trend for Patty 𩷠I love my whimsical hyper-positive music loving clever girl.
From the top left to bottom right: Emily (Hazbin) , Ariel (Disney) , Mualani (Genshin) , Belle (Broadway version!!) , Lydia Deetz (Broadway version!!!) , Edwina Sharma (Bridgerton) , Connie (SU) , Liz Allan (MCU).
creelby if patty was in the show
What if it was yuri!! Man I am on a ROLL tonight hehe :]
@heleerie â¤ď¸

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The realization struck him as her fingers slipped the final button of his shirt free â the understanding blooming behind his eyes, solidifying from the fractured images he'd caught in her mind: the fumbling, dreaming quality of her fantasies, the theoretical nature of her desires. She had imagined, yes â but she had not done. Not with him. Not with anyone at all.
Strange, how it had never quite occurred to him to wonder. He had assumed, in some vague, distant corner of his mind, that she had lived while he had been entombed, that she had loved and kissed and learned the languages of bodies while he withered alone in sterile white rooms. It hadn't hurt him to think she had â the world had continued spinning while he was shut away from it all, and he wouldn't have begrudged her any history, any past lovers who might have taught her the choreography of pleasure. In fact, he'd wanted it for her: a life â a normal one, free of the dark, hungry world beyond and the bright, sterilized cage he'd been forced to call his home for so long.
Of course, this new knowledge does not cool his ardour. Rather, it set him ablaze with a protective, furious tenderness â a determination that they would navigate this new, uncharted territory together: two cartographers mapping a world that belonged only to them.
They're about you. My thoughts are always about you.
To say that she knew nothing would be a lie. Patty had studied medicine, anatomy, the human body. The brain, too, how feelings could affect one, feelings of all kinds of different natures. It was her job to know. But now? She was helpless when faced with reality. Nothing about it, about this, was at all like anything she knew of. Well, except maybe her own clumsiness. The way her breathing stuttered whenever he touched her, or the way her heart seemed to have a mind of its own, rattling the bars of the cage which was her chest.
If she didn't know any better, she would have thought she was physically capable of melting into a puddle. Patty thinks she may have been lied to, by the majority of movies she has seen, by books, and mostly, by other people. The banality of this intimacy, something she has never experienced before, something people deem as normal, as simple, it's nowhere to be found. There is no simplicity to calm her racing heart and shallow breathingâ there is only him.
Henry, the main component to this whirlwind of emotions she finds herself in. The way his breath falls against her skin, warm and familiar, yet uneven and ragged, much like hers, his lips, always so soft, something she's gotten used to over the years, as they spend time together, as they get closer to the line they're now crossing.
It's not simple at all. In fact, it's most likely the most complex situation she has ever found herself in, and yet, it's not a complexity she feels an urge to solve. It's themâ just the two of them, together, as they have always been. The way her skin feels as though it's buzzing with electricity, it's new, but it's a feeling entirely their own. It doesn't feel like a movie or a story, being this close to him. It feels right, inexplicably, undeniably so, and as she breathes him in, a hand running through his hair, there's a warm shiver running down her spine, tingling with something new, something entirely of their own making, something she would never dare to compare to her previous knowledgeâ it would not do their bond justice.
miss mystery come save usâŚ
The rot consumes
For week one of Funguary, theme: Decay
For some fucking reason, the more creelby things I RB or like, the more I see awful horrible henry X reader smut. Please leave my dash immediately, I do not want you here. I have a big bone to pick with all of you x readers since the time I saw Patty used as a jealousy ploy for really bad smut. Do not come to my town.
Some cute things + lab AU Creelby
I love Creelby
@heleerie đ

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Following the TFS pro shot drop there better be a fucking Patty renaissance thatâs all I have to say about that
thank you Sabrina Carpenter for introducing me to babydoll dresses. Anyways here's Patty in two babydolls from a thread I'm writing with my pookie
for that one thread.