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tadpolesonalgae · 7 months

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Dark!Feysand x human!reader: Tag, you’re it - Part 2[***]

A/N: Do you like my cookies? They’re made just for you. A little bit of sugar, but lots of poison, too.

Warnings: noncon, smut, mention of whips, kind of sex-slave things?, mentions of rape, impact play, face-sitting, suffocation, fingering

Word Count: 5,444

Your eyes snap open, instantly scrambling back at the sound of the key in the lock.

The gate swings open, allowing your self-appointed mistress to step inside, her feet silent on the wooden floor, bathed in a thick, dark red rug. Like blood-soaked moss.

The iron bars dig into your spine as you whimper, pushing yourself into the corner, where the metal meets the plaster of the wall. Your legs curl up to your front, arms hugging your knees tight as you try to tuck yourself into a tiny ball.

“Sweetness, stop doing that,” she tuts, standing at the entrance to your cage, situated near the end of their bed. “It’s been weeks. You know we aren’t going to hurt you,” she reasons, arms folding across her chest as she stares down at your cowering form.

Sometimes you’re lucky, and they’ll allow you to stay in your cage as they couple, forcing you to watch as they enjoy one another. Other times, you’re dragged from your confines kicking and screaming, until one of them inevitably takes your mouth for themself.

“If you mean me no harm, let me go,” you rasp, throat still raw from the night before. You’d kicked off just a little too hard, which landed you a night with the High Lord. And Rhysand, plus the chains and whips he’d subjected you to, wasn’t something you wanted to be reacquainted with anytime soon.

Her brow narrows, lips pursing.

Then she’s walking toward you, eating up the distance in a few quick strides, and you press yourself tighter into the corner. Your padded shackles clink as they drag across the rug.

She squats down just a way from you, making you squirm beneath her piercing blue-grey eyes. “What’s this about, hm? You were doing so well,” she muses, peering at you intently. “What happened?”

Fear and anger pump through your blood, hugging yourself tighter. “You murdered by husband, Feyre,” you snap, vision blurring at the memory. “You murdered, and raped, and stole,” you snarl, tears brimming at your lashes as you glare at her.

Her own brows narrow, a mix of pain and fury in her eyes as she stares at you, hard. Then, “your husband, as you call him,” she says icily, “was a rapist. A rapist, and a coward. We saved you from him.”

“But I didn’t need saving! I didn’t want saving!” You cry, nails digging into your knees as you keep yourself balled tight.

“He was ruining you,” she snarls lowly. “He wasn’t good for you. Couldn’t provide for you. He only wanted you so he could have a wife.” She pushes forward then, gripping you by the jaw as your eyes lock with hers, intent and piercing. “A pretty, little trophy. The Mother knows you’re the best thing that ever happened to him. He knew that too,” she growls, lips brushing over your own. “Every damn person could see it. You were too good for him.”

You squirm in her grip, trying to jerk away, but she’s so powerful and strong you can never hope to escape. “I. Love. Him.”

“He’s dead,” she snarls back, pulling you closer. “He is dead, mutilated, and buried. Dumped in the ground for the worms to feed on him. What’s left of him.”

“And I still love him more than you,” you spit back.

You know you’ve found your mark when she goes still, features leeching of colour, turning a ghostly shade of white. Fury glitters in her blue-grey eyes, icy rage surfacing, sealing over.

“We were friends, Feyre,” you continue on. “You were the closest I have ever been with someone, and now you keep me in a cage.” Her jaw tightens, but she says nothing. Just staring at you with that fury that has nowhere to go. “You can say what you like about him. Keep telling yourself those lies,” you breathe, nails piercing your skin. “Maybe you think he was ruining me, that he was tearing me apart, but you’re the one who caused me to be like this. You. Are. My ruination.”

The smack comes out of nowhere.

One moment you’re staring into her eyes, and the next your head is snapped to the side, cheek stinging with pain. Vision blurs and tears fall, unable to stop them, no matter how hard you try.

“You will either learn to love us,” she grits out, a cold fire burning in her gaze. “Or you will continue on like this. If you’ll be so stubborn as to waste away over that miserable wretch, then so be it. Drown in your grief.” Again she grips your jaw, crescent shapes surely indented in your skin by now. “But don’t come crying to me when you become so damaged even we won’t tolerate it.”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, regret flashes in her eyes. Pain flares in her gaze, and you feel that final thread be snipped off. The final string connecting a woven tapestry, split into two.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, eyes widening. “I didn’t… You know I didn’t mean that…” She cups your cheeks, staring pleadingly. “Sweetness, forgive me.” She presses her forehead to yours, touching you so gently, reverently, as if you really will shatter.

You jerk away, landing a kick to her stomach, but it merely bumps her away a little—always so much stronger than you. “You’re just like him,” you spit, pushing every ounce of betrayal and hurt you can muster into you eyes. “No, worse. This is so much worse than anything Tamlin ever did to you.”

It’s not a physical smack to the face, but it might as well have been.

Her eyes again grow cold at the mention of her past lover, lip curling. “I am nothing like him,” she snarls, gripping your shoulders.

“Aren’t you?” You snap back, kicking off again—you might be able to get through to her. “Keeping me locked up? Trying to make me dependant on you? Taking away my autonomy?” You spit at her, each word seemingly knocking a brick from that wall. “At least he never raped you.”

The final brick falls, but it doesn’t bring the aid you had hoped for. Instead fury crushes down on you, ire blazing in her eyes, hot like steel fresh from a forge.

You’re thrown to the floor, breath knocking from your lungs, air wheezing from your lips as your head hits the rug with too much force. Your eyes fly wide, paralysed as your stomach spasms with the strength of the shove.

“And here I thought a night with Rhys would have fixed that attitude of yours,” she says icily, walking over to your shackled body. “Where did that come from, huh? You were never so easily agitated before.” She stalks over to you, staring down at your winded body, muscles struggling to move. “Maybe we’re being too soft on you,” she muses, making your blood run cold. “Maybe we need to take a rougher, more absolute approach to breaking you in.”

Feyre’s deft fingers fly to the band of her leggings, pushing them down her thighs, over her calves and off her ankles, leaving her in her shirt and underwear. She steps over your head, looking down your body as you attempt to wriggle away. “It seems the only time you’re at all like your old self is when you’ve got something to do with that lovely mouth of yours,” she growls, squatting over you. Even with your human senses, you can scent her arousal from how close she is.

You squirm away, but she drops down, placing her cunt over your mouth, sealing it shut with her weight. “Much better,” she purrs, thighs spreading as she rolls her hips, clit rubbing over your lips. “You’re so much more enjoyable when you’re just a place for my pussy. So well behaved.”

The High Lady’s hands bury in your dress, and you shriek and squirm as she pulls the fabric away, up to your waist, baring you to her. You squeeze your thighs shut in attempts to hide yourself—they didn’t allow you to wear underwear. That would give you too much dignity. They want you ready at any time.

You twist your head to the side but she shifts her hips, squeezing you with her calves to keep you upright, so she can rub and roll over you to her pleasure. “I think you need the fight beaten out of you. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?” Her hand smacks down between your legs, and you scream—with pain and surprise.

Again, you try to squeeze your legs closed, but bands of darkness tug on the shackles attached to your ankles, wrapping up the iron and looping beneath your knees. Forcing your thighs open.

She brings her hand down again, catching your clit beneath bone, and you whimper into her heat. The wet fabric settles over your features, dampening your lips and nose as she grinds onto you, pleasuring herself to your pain. She smacks again, and tears fall.

Feyre doesn’t stop. Spank after spank is landed to your soft, tender sex, until slick is attaching to her fingertips, connecting them to your cunt by thin threads of slippery silver. She snarls with feminine satisfaction, delighting in the way your thighs tremble, how your chest is rapidly rising up and down with your muffled cries. Her middle and forth finger slide down, spreading you wide as she leans down your body, shifting her weight over your face.

The two fingers press to your sopping entrance, before pushing inside, roughly. Sliding up to her knuckles.

She’s pleased when you whimper, nosing at her sopping entrance as you try to squirm away.

“You say you hate us, yet you get this wet from a few harsh touches, sweet thing?” She croons, indulging in the obscene squishing sounds your cunt is making as she slides her fingers in and out. You only whimper, refusing to bow to her will.

Her fingers retract from your cunt, smacking down again, and you scream, jerking violently as the sting lances up your thighs. She lifts up onto her knees, gripping your jaw with the fingers that were just inside of you, arousal smearing your skin. “Come on, sweetness. Tell the truth, for once,” she snarls, lips lifting in a feral grin. “Such a pretty liar.”

Your nose scrunches in distaste, tears rolling back through your hair as she keeps you trapped beneath her cunt, pinned to the rug. “I hate you,” you spit out instead. “I will never love you,” you say, wetness blurring your vision as your chest heaves with sobs.

Her lip pulls back from her teeth as the undersides of her feet slide beneath your head, pulling you up into her cunt as she locks you in, squeezing tight. She releases you long enough for her underwear to vanish, before she’s shoving you back in, wet heat pressing onto you, slicking your mouth and nose.

Again her hand smacks down, and you can’t help the way your lips part in a muffled scream, hands grasping at her as you try to escape, but she pulls you tighter. Can’t breathe.

You sting between your legs, tears spilling as she continues abusing that tender, intimate part of you, pain searing into your tummy as he smacks down on your raw, swollen clit. The world spins a little and you need air, you need to breathe—

Warm, strong hands are pushing her off you, carefully.

You gasp for breath, falling back into the ready arms as cries continue to wrack your body, lungs spasming from the intensity.

Rhysand pulls you to his chest, your back to his front as you shiver and sob, giving you strength to fall into as your own fails you.

Feyre growls in the back of her throat, shifting slowly to face her mate. “Give her to me.”

The words alone drag whimpers from your lips, the little strength you have being used to push yourself back into the male, scrambling into his cruel arms. Arms that are currently holding you so delicately compared to the iron grip she’d just had you in.

You’d always known she was a huntress. Always’d had that slightly wild edge to her, the part that was well-acquainted with cold winters and brutal slaughters. It was different actually facing that part, though. Having it turned on you.

You scramble back further, hands pressing onto the tops of his thighs as you leverage yourself. He’s crouching down, hunching over you possessively. Not quite protective, but not offering you up, either. A strange combination indeed.

Soft, hot lips press to your temple, and you whimper, not having the energy to shift away from him. “I thought she was ours, Feyre, darling,” he purrs, holding you a little tighter to his body. “I’m getting a little jealous over all your time together.”

“Rhys,” she snarls, moving closer.

You snatch your legs in, flinching away from her, curling into the High Lord.

Both of them mark the movement, noting the significance.

You just chose him over her.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you shuffle away from her, burying into Rhysand, burrowing into his warmth and strength. Violet eyes gleam with interest at the pressure you’re creating, as if you want to crawl inside of him, nestle beneath his skin.

“I think you need to calm down,” he says softly but firmly, watching his mate. “You’re scaring her.”

Her brow narrows, but she pauses. “You’re being too soft on her,” she accuses lowly, letters dragging from her tongue. “She’ll never come around if you keep allowing her to sway you like that.” Rhys doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash, hand moving to stroke your hair, as if calming a pet. Strangely, it works.

“You think I’m being soft on her?” He repeats, attention dropping to you, between his thighs. His hand lightly grips your throat, spanning your neck and jaw, allowing him to tip your head back. “Do you think I’m being too soft on you, little lynx?” He asks, violet eyes piercing into your tear-filled ones hungrily.

You shake your head. “No, Rhys,” you whimper, lower lip wobbling, and he feels your heartbeat spike beneath his fingers. He makes a low sound of approval in his throat, eyes flicking back to Feyre’s. “See? So polite,” he drawls, squeezing a little tighter. “So well trained.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Feyre snarls, glowering at the two of you. “If you don’t punish her when she misbehaves, she’ll know she can use that in the future. Are you listening to me?”

His violet eyes have latched onto yours, brows curved upward, expression tired and pleading. He groans in the back of his throat, tightening his hold on you, fingers pressing against your pulse point, pushing tears from the edges of your lashes. “What about you, Feyre, darling?” He asks, gripping your chin so you’re forced to face her. “How would you fair if she gave you those pretty bedroom eyes?”

Blue-grey locks onto your bright, tear-filled gaze and she stiffens.

Rhysand hums. “Thought so.”

Feyre narrows her eyes at her mate. “I don’t like it when she mouths off like that.”

“Well, how about fixing those misconceptions instead of punishing her for them, hm?” He counters, returning to stroking your hair, liking how your sobs subside beneath his touch. “You want to encourage her behaviour?” She snaps irritably, prowling forward a little, making you tense up in his hold.

A low laugh rumbles from his chest at that, but he continues petting you, allowing you to start softening beneath him. “I think our previous method clearly isn’t working. Or rather, it’s worked enough so that now we’re going softer on it, she’ll know the difference. Isn’t that right, little lynx?” You blink bright, gleaming eyes at him, and he smiles.

“If we’re both more gentle with you…would you like that?” He asks, softly stroking your skin. You manage to blink away your tears, getting a hold on your wobbly lower lip. Then you give a near imperceptible dip of your head.

Violet flicks smugly to blue-grey, and you shiver in his arms, wondering what you just signed up for.

“So, we compromise?” She says, drawing your attention to her. “Is that what you want, sweetness? We’ll be more careful with your frail self, and…what? You’ll stop being so difficult?”

“You killed my husband,” you hiss out, weakly. “And you’re upset about me being—”

Faster than you can register, Rhys’ hand has slipped between your thighs. You tense, bracing for another smack that will have a fresh wave of tears surfacing, but instead he softly touches the pad of his finger to your sopping entrance, dragging back up your centre to gently roll over your puffy clit, gliding across the taut bud with ease.

A quiet moan spills from your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut, toes curling as he plays with you. Heat washes over your body, and you hate how you’re reacting to him. How you’re stumbling straight into his lap.

“We’ll be more careful, and she’ll fall open for us,” Rhysand murmurs, smug grin on his curved lips, enjoying how you’re melting at his fingertips. “Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

You try to think it over. Them being more gentle with you means no more nights with the High Lord and his whips. No more biting and unending pleasure torment. Your eyes flick away, dropping to the rug. What if this is the best deal they’ll offer you? What if this is the best it gets? It seems like a way to escape their torture. At least, in a way.

Rhysand hums with satisfaction as your head dips, shame warming your cheeks—because you’re considering it. Considering bargaining with them.

“Either way,” he drawls, hands sliding beneath your arms, pulling you up with him as he stands. You whimper, the intimate area between your legs aching, vision blurring at the edges. “I think you two should do some making up. Isn’t that right, sweetness?” He grips you tightly as he guides you from the cage, toward their large bed. Fear spikes in your blood, and you try to dig your feet into the ground, attempting to push away from the haunting structure.

“Uh, uh, uh,” the High Lord tuts, stopping behind you. “I thought you were going to be good for us.” Darkness swirls at your feet, humming and lulling, imploring you to follow his movements. Your toes curl, pressing back into him. “This is wrong…” you whimper, trembling beneath his hands.

You try to turn, and he lets you, keeping a light grip on your hips. “This isn’t right, Rhys,” you say softly, peering up at him pleadingly. He takes a step forward, and you obediently yield. Take a subconscious step back. “What isn’t? What are right and wrong, really?” He counters, taking another sweeping step forward, and you’re aware of the bed closing in on you.

“This,” you say, emphasising as you flick your gaze over him. “I don’t—… How else can I make it clear?” You cry. “I don’t want this. Either of you. I never have. Not like this.” The mattress presses against the back of your thighs, and you stiffen. Your time is up.

He takes a final step forward, so you’re tight against him, hips digging into you, chest to chest, craning your neck upward. “I think you’re lying, again.” And with that, he’s grabbing you by the waist, lifting you up and tossing you onto the mattress with terrifying ease. You squirm and scramble but darkness has already constrained you, tying you to their bed as hunger darkens his violet eyes.

“Like I said, I think you two need a little make up session. Get nice and messy,” he purrs, prowling round the bed, only to settle behind you. His arms wrap over your tummy, pulling you back into him, so you can feel the firm hardness of his length. You writhe, attempting to contort away from his dominating hold.

A secret conversation passes between the High Lord and Lady, then she’s slinking forward, pushing your legs open. You whimper, squirming away in fear of what she’s going to do to you. You’re so sore and sensitive…

“Behave,” she snaps, brow narrowing at you in silent reprimand. Rhys snarls in warning, but she snarls back. Blue-grey eyes flick from his in favour of yours, and you shrink away, a whine building in your throat as they pierce into you. “Feyre…” you plead softly. You need her to be gentle, or…

Something in her features softens, and she uses a slight bit less force as she spreads your legs, baring your gleaming heat to her. “Want me to be careful, sweet thing?” She asks lowly, the pads of her fingers pressing into your thighs. Your lower lip wobbles, but you nod, slowly. “Not going to get in my way? Not going to try and stop me?” She drawls, settling comfortably on the bed, mouth prone to attack your clit. You shake your head, muscles tensing the closer she draws.

“No? You’re going to let yourself enjoy it, this time?” She purrs, hot breath brushing over your heat. It’s her own sort of test—to see if you’re really willing to compromise. So you nod, dutifully, praying for forgiveness.

Her eyes spark, locking on yours as she delivers a small lick to your inner thigh, nipping at the skin. Rhys hardens further at your back. “Say it. Tell me you’ll enjoy it. Say how you like it when we do this to you.” Again, there’s a warning growl from Rhys, and your heart drops.

Feyre’s lips quirk, and she moves a little closer to your heat, a wolf circling in on her prey. “Go on,” she goads, “tell me how much you want me.”

“Feyre…” the High Lord warns, her name ripping from the back of his throat. “I thought you wanted us to make up, Rhys,” she snaps, “these are my terms. Either she can accept them, or…” She leans forward, lips latching over your heat so he’s unable to see as her teeth tug on your clit.

You flinch, whimpering, but push your legs wider. “I…” you stammer, softly, hands fisting over your stomach, still slumped against Rhys. “I’ll enjoy it,” you whimper, thighs shaking with the effort of not trying to close them. “I won’t— I won’t try to stop you. And I…” you swallow, arriving upon the hardest part. Tears blur your vision, but you blink them away. “And I like it when you do this to me. I want it.”

Rhys’ hips roll into you, grinding the hardness of his cock into your backside, groaning softly. Feyre’s eyes gleam with delicious satisfaction, removing her teeth from your sensitive skin, licking gently over your slick heat. “That’s better,” she says, kissing your clit softly.

You whimper, trying to ignore your words as they replay in your head, bringing one hand to your mouth, knuckles pressing over your lips. It’s an effort to keep your thighs spread with how sensitive you are, but you don’t have a choice in the matter. She’s lapping and licking, gentle flicks of her tongue sending warm zaps of arousal to your centre.

The High Lord noses your neck, hot lips brushing the sensitive skin as he moans quietly, a lustful exhale of breath. “What lovely things would you say for us, hm?” He asks, canines scraping the shell of your ear. “What sweet sounds could you make?”

You shiver in his arms, sorrowfully tipping your head to the side, giving him unrestricted access to your throat. He takes the offer eagerly, mouth attaching to your smooth skin, already sucking bruises into you, teeth scraping as he searches for a spot he wants to bite. Where he wants to stamp his mark into you, to be seen later. Serving as a reminder.

Feyre shifts, tucking her knees beneath her as she slides her fingers into you, the warm, wet muscle in her mouth swiping over your clit, making you bite back a moan. She suckles the taut bud, soothing the stinging from earlier and you push your teeth into your knuckles.

The High Lord sees, and doesn’t approve.

His hand grips your wrist, pulling it from your mouth as she curls her fingers against a certain spot. A high-pitched whine spills from your lips, and he finally bites down, canines pressing into the soft skin of your throat, printing his mark on you. “Don’t hide those sounds from us,” he scolds, roughly yanking your hand from your mouth.

You attempt to seal your lips, clenching your jaw shut, but they have other plans.

Rhys tugs your dress higher, darkness swirling around your bodice, then it vanishes. You squeal, attempting to cover yourself with your arms. Even now, even after all these times, you hate it. He shoves your hands away, tutting softly, “now, now. You said you’d be good. Or shall I let Feyre have free reign for the night?”

You sob weakly, coil tightening in your belly, resisting the urge to cover yourself, spreading yourself wider in attempts to make up for it. Feyre nips at your clit, and you hiss. The taut bud is sore and swollen, puffy from attention, every flick of her tongue sending sparks burning between your legs.

“Mm sorry…” you manage, opening yourself up to the senses, the pleasure she’s putting into you. “Yeah? You’re sorry for disobeying? For hiding yourself from us?” He purrs beside your ear, hands cupping your breasts as you squirm against him. He groans as your rear presses against his cock, the seam rubbing against him almost painfully. Deliciously so.

You nod, palms settling over his thighs, needing something to hold on to. “Say it,” he groans roughly. “Say how much you like it. How badly you want us to touch you.” Tears spill, rolling down your cheeks from the torrent of emotions they’re subjecting you to.

“Rhys…” you beg desperately. “Rhys, please…” You don’t want to say it. Don’t want to give them another word. Even if they were once your everything. He raises his fingers to your mouth, pushing them onto your tongue firmly, coating them in saliva. “Say it,” he commands softly, stroking the wet muscle. “Say it, or we’ll have to go back to our old methods.”

His wet digits retract from your lips, brushing over your nipples, making them peak, becoming sensitive to the air. You attempt to crane your head back, but are unable to with him so close behind. “Rhys…” you whimper, tears dripping onto your chest, Feyre eagerly suckling your clit, pumping and curling her fingers against spots she shouldn’t know about.

The High Lord tugs on your nipples, making your eyes squeeze shut, spine arching as your rear presses harder onto his cock, straining against the seam of his trousers. “Say it,” he growls, low in his throat, “say you like it. Tell us you want more.” His teeth scrape over the shell of your ear, and you flinch. “And make it believable.”

Feyre’s tongue swipes over your clit, making you squirm against the pleasure, deft fingers dragging in and out, rubbing against your inner walls.

“I…”

The High Lady adds more pressure between your legs, and your muscles go weak, melting into Rhys’ chest as your eyes roll back. Dizzy with warmth. In the back of your mind, you think you can feel his lips lift into a hellish grin, watching from a far corner in your head as one of his hands leaves you, trailing down over your tummy.

Feyre pulls away, a mix of slick and saliva connecting her mouth to your heat as Rhys’ hand takes her place. Her fingers are still pumping and curling, and that heat is still building, and you’re almost entirely relaxed against him.

That is, until he presses the pad of his middle finger hard over the tip of your clit, soreness blaring through your mind.

You squeal, panting and writhing, pushing her fingers deeper into your cunt, letting them touch sensitive, more intimate spots that have small moans spilling breathlessly from you. “Rhys…” you beg, eyes squeezed shut as your nails dig into the muscle of his thighs.

“I’m not stopping until you say it,” he says roughly, slowly oscillating his finger over your clit, the soreness sending blinding white flashing behind your eyelids and your hips buck. Feyre’s free forearm slides over your abdomen, pinning you to the mattress as you try to roll down onto her fingers.

“Come on,” he goads, amusement lilting his honeyed voice. “Just a few words, and I’ll stop.” The circles tighten, Feyre’s fingers brushing against spots you feel she’s intentionally targeting. “Say it, or I’ll make it worse,” he laughs darkly.

You whimper, mind spinning as you attempt to remember the words he’d ordered you to speak. Struggling to form them on your tongue. Heat builds; the coil tightens. “Rhys…” you moan, hips trying to buck up but she’s keeping you down. All you can do is take them. Every thing they force onto you.

Your lips part, head tipping back as you slide lower down the mattress. “I…I want more,” you whisper, heart splitting as tears drip down your cheeks, wetting your skin. “I—” You cut yourself off with a moan, nails biting harder into Rhys’s thighs and you wonder if he can even feel it. Maybe he enjoys it.

“Come on,” he urges, “just a bit more, then this can all stop.” You don’t want it to stop.

Fuck, you don’t want it to stop.

The realisation slams into you right as Rhys pinches your clit, and the loudest moan yet bursts from your lips. Your hands scramble about, searching for purchase frantically, trying to grip onto something as you feel the wave crest.

“F…Feyre…” you whimper, squirming and writhing. They hold you tighter, restricting your movements and louder sobs spill from your lips. “Please…please, please more.” Rhys’ breath catches and Feyre’s eyes flick to you, each of them memorising the way you move, the desperate jerks as you try to shift how you want.

“That’s it,” the High Lord breathes, letting up on your sensitive clit, only for Feyre to latch on in his stead. “So good. That’s our girl. So well—”

They let you go long enough to move.

You push up and flip over before his hands have your hips in a bruising grip. You cry out from pain but crawl further up his body, arms shooting over his shoulders as you press into him. His violet eyes widen marginally before your mouth opens over his, the echo of pain still reverberating around your thighs.

Feyre reattaches her mouth to your cunt, switching her fingers and her teeth as her tongue pushes against your entrance, thumb pressing into your clit, her nail scraping over the swollen bud. Your nipples graze his chest, and you shatter right then and there—with his fingertips still digging into the softness of your hips.

Your hips wind against her, hands threading in Rhys’ blue-black hair, the thick, silky locks feeling good between your fingers. Your hands fist as you pull him closer, and he groans—a sound deep within his chest. You feel it resonate into your own as his tongue flicks out, stroking over yours as he pushes after you. His canines catch on your lower lip and you moan, sweetly.

You don’t have the time to face what you’ve done as the aftershocks fade, taking the remnants of your strength with them, leaving you with mere scraps of energy.

Arms give out, and you collapse onto him, Rhys lying back on the pillows as he basks in the reassuring weight of your body against his. Quiet pants whisper from your lips as you remain stretched out over the High Lord, void of any clothing, mind still blank from the orgasm.

Feyre presses a kiss to your entrance, before dragging herself away from your heat, trailing a pathway up your spine until she’s draped over you. You feel the full press of her breasts against your back, and subconsciously arch your spine, curving into her shape so you can mould together.

Her lips press to your neck, and a soft sound of pleasure hums from your mouth, a quiet breath of ecstasy.

Rhys’s arms wrap around the both of you, making sure you remain tucked between them.

Right where you belong.

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Feysand Taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza

#Feysand #Feysand x reader #Feysand smut #Feysand x reader smut #dark!feysand #Dark!feysand x reader #dark!Feysand smut #dark!feysand x reader smut #x f!reader #x f!reader smut #[***]#dark fic #Tag You’re It #Tag Your’re It Part 2 #October

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morallyinept · 6 months

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Summary: Joel Miller comes back into your life unexpectedly after a gap of thirty years, and stirs up all kinds of memories and longing. Now, as you're stationed on an outpost for five days alone with the man you stupidly let go of all those years ago, you have a chance to confront him about your past life together and all the things you wished you’d said and done.

But Joel’s different now, and you know you need to tread carefully. Joel Miller is not the same man you once knew in another life.

A slow burn romance set in the post apocalyptic world, approx. twenty or so years after the initial Cordyceps outbreak.

Pairing: Post-Outbreak Joel Miller x MatureF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. However reader is of a similar age range as Joel; in her late forties/early fifties. Joel is slightly older at 56.)

Chapter Word Count: 5.1k

Series Masterlist

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Descriptions of an animal kill. Mentions and descriptions of suicide/self harm. Tiny mention of smut. You and Joel open up further, with a heavy chat.

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Enjoy! 🖤

Previous Chapter

Joel switches on the walkie-talkie and you both wait in suspended silence.

He remains sitting forward; his left elbow on his knee and the other on the arm of the wicker chair. His fingers tap and fidget restlessly, you notice.

You sit back fully in your chair and keep your eye on the green light. Waiting for it to pulse. Waiting for it to crackle into life and deliver bad news.

You can’t help it, years of ingrained pessimism have bludgeoned your optimism down to a flat nub.

It feels like an age before the time passes through midday and Joel switches off the walkie-talkie just after seventeen-past the hour.

“No news is good news.” He reminds you, glancing at your anxious face pulled tight, and you smile faintly, grateful for the ebb of reassurance, even though it barely makes an indent.

Your mind drifts to Kelper and Max in the main group, heading towards the horde with Tommy. To Sal, who’s in the second group bringing up the rear with the explosives. And to Guthrie locked down back in the commune, praying for you all incessantly no doubt. You wonder how he can still have faith, after everything.

You hope they’re hitting their marks, that they're okay and this God forsaken plan of Kelper’s goes off without a hitch.

You rub at the back of your neck and yawn and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Why don’t ya take a beat?” Joel nods over to the cot and the thought is too tempting; you’re tired and feel your eyelids become heavy and swampy.

“Mm,” you agree.

You stand and kick off your boots after unlacing them. The heat in the shack from the sun only makes you more sleepy, and you flake on the cot foregoing any blankets.

You roll onto your front, your head facing the wooden wall. Up this close you can make out the fuzzy fibres in the dark, splintered wood, and your finger runs over the rough surface, back and forth a few times.

“Did you miss me, Joel?” You put out there, pausing with the dull pang in your gut waiting to drop. “When I left, I mean.”

The question had been gnawing away at everything inside you. Now that you’d asked it, you weren’t sure if you wanted an answer.

You know it was a cowardly move; leaving whilst he was at work. Shoving your possessions into bags quickly and removing all trace of you from his life.

You keep your eyes closed, it's better if you can’t see his expression. Especially when his face is knotted up again, like you assume it will be.

You’re pretty sure it's a question that's winded him and it makes guilt sprout like moss somewhere when he doesn’t respond.

Why do you keep torturing him with this, and yourself?

“Sometimes,” he whispers, his voice travelling over towards you.

You hold your breath, your body tensing.

“Sometimes it felt like I never stopped.” You hear the wicker in the chair creak as he moves inside it. “Even if you drove me fuckin’ nuts.” Joel concludes.

You smile, opening your eyes. “I did, didn’t I?” You reply, your shoulders jostling a little as you chuckle.

“I liked it. Kept me on m’toes.” Joel husks from the other side of the room.

“I know.” You confirm, your smile dipping. "Do you..." You trail off and steady your breaths as they find an increasing pace. "Do you ever wish you could just go back, do it all over again?"

"Before the Outbreak?" He queries.

"Yeah. If you got a second chance, would you do it all differently?"

You hear him take in a deep, contemplative breath. "Some of it."

You hear more shuffling in the wicker chair and close your eyes again. You breathe out slowly trying to swim out of all the muddled thoughts pulling you under.

Were ya missin' me too, darlin'?

You can hear him as though he's right beside you. Feel the warmth of his breath in your ear, his lips nipping gently on your earlobe as his scruff tickles the skin on your neck. Feel his swamping hand that’s burning on your thigh as he squeezes and then runs it up your hip, towards your stomach.

Thick, rough fingers trailing along your navel gently, leaving goose bumps and making your nipples peak as he strokes with a featherlight touch around them, under your top, in giddy, teasing circles.

You moan out, biting your lip. Pushing back into him to be met with the swell of his hardness pressing into your ass, and his grunts braiding through your hair as he slowly grinds into you.

“Joel…” You hum, burning up. You turn over in the cot to find his lips, searching for the heat of them.

But you’re met with nothing.

You sit upright, dumbfounded and perplexed as you rub sharp, crusted sleep from your eyes.

You glance over to the wicker chair to see Joel slumped in it. His arms crossed over his chest and his head lolled to one side. His eyes are closed and he snuffles gently. He’s asleep.

Licking around the inside of your cotton mouth, you glance at the clocks that all read past four in the afternoon. The light still floods the shack and it feels stifling.

You sit forward, contemplating whether to wake him or not. Joel looks content, if not for an aching neck to suffer from later.

You smile, observing him and the way his mouth is downturned and pursed under the greying fuzz smattered above it. It suits him, you think. Ageing.

He appears more beautiful now than you remember, and you soon start to feel like you're burring up from the inside the longer you stare at him.

You stand, stretching out, reaching for a bottle of warm water, when you hear it.

You stop, the sound of it rendering you frozen on the spot and your heart racing.

It’s the sound of your own name passing from Joel’s lips in a soft, sleepy moan.

It comes and goes.

Bleeding into your subconscious like a dream, or more of a hellish nightmare lodged between the sinew and muscle.

This time it's the blood from the buck that stirs that sleeping giant.

One moment you're focused on the task of deboning the flesh from a blunt hunting knife that you'd recovered from one of Joel's knapsacks. The next, you're frozen, hunched over the infant carcass of stained, wet fur and reliving through it all over again.

You see it all, hear it in surround sound. Even smell it; the ripeness of it, the rot. Drawn to it like a fruit fly to fetid garbage.

You try to rationalise it; convince yourself that it's just some malignant trauma hovering over you, not done with roughing you up yet and that it’ll settle soon. But it’s hot, searing mercury in your veins, heavy mustard gas in your lungs that chokes you.

Nothing's affected you like this before, like this loss has. Well, that's not strictly true. Losing Joel is right up there. The scars of that run deep, deeper than the one on your wrist.

You glance at it as you carry on with the task at hand, physically shaking your head as though you could empty the incoming white noise out of your ears if you shake hard enough.

But it's still there.

You regard your hands soaked and slippery in the claret. It's so bright, fresh. The metallic scent of copper is tasted on the back of your throat as you breathe in and swallow it down.

You're not sure how it started, how it all went to shit in a blink of an eye. How you were complacent and allowed yourself a few moments of respite; to believe that everything could be alright.

You can see it clearly as you scrunch your eyes tight; willing yourself not to go there, but you do.

It always pulls you under.

You're walking with a basket, laundry maybe. Or is it something else? You look into the basket in your hands, but you don't see it, there’s just a void. A hole where a memory should be. What was in that damn basket?

You pass smiling faces, working hands and chatter. Laughter, such an alien sound, but full of promise and hope. These are your people, people who owe you their lives, but you're insistent they don’t. They really don’t.

The camp is thriving despite its lackadaisical appearance. Clusters of tents, makeshift tarpaulins wound around branches. Old RV’s being picked clean of pipes and bulbs.

It’s a good place to pitch up, rest for a while. Probably one of the better places Kelper has managed to settle you all. It's the longest time you've had to stand still, to soak in the peace. To let it all start to peel away in thin papery layers from your skin as you shed it.

Then you hear it.

Screaming. A single wail at first, but then more; more are mutating into a chorus of shrieks and panic that seem to be coming from all directions like sharp, precisely aimed arrows.

You drop the basket. Or maybe you throw it down, again, you can't be sure. All you know is that once you hear it, it's discarded.

You start forward towards the screaming, pulling your gun from your back waistband. Instinct fuels you to aid; it’s all you run on these days.

Then you see it.

The blood. It's on their faces as they dash past you, scrambling. On their arms and legs. You don't realise it right now, but the blood is from bites; flesh torn apart by teeth that infect.

It spreads quicker sometimes. Other times it lies in wait, hours of slow torture as the fever turns you out.

You're firing. More gunshots are heard echoing tinny around you. You take a couple out, but more rear through the camp.

Then more, then too many. Herds of them. You've never seen a cluster this big, this co-ordinated. They just keep fucking coming.

You remember being paralysed as they swarmed in like locusts, devouring everything. Taking everything from you in literal moments. You watch helplessly as faces you know are pulled under, devoured.

You try to shoot them, knowing it's too late for them; to end their suffering as a last kindness. They would want that. They would understand.

But your aim is sloppy. They're getting closer. Your gun jams. Shit. There's too fucking many.

Run.

RUN!

A hand yanks you backward, so hard that you're sure your socket has been wrenched out. You grip tightly onto Kelper who drags you away like you weigh nothing; a clumsy kite on the end of flimsy string.

Something clicks in you, brings you back as Kelper screams at the others to run. Some of them do. They scatter like marbles dropped from a little boy's pocket. No clear direction. They run straight into their deaths, with flailing arms and you can't save them.

Stop! You’re going the wrong way!

You run too. Your lungs are on fire already as you yell at people you pass and can't hear your own voice. You reach out for them. You latch onto one, Guthrie.

You toss your gun in exchange for his hand and he keeps that frantic pace with you. He trips, falls and cries out as you lose your grip on his sweaty fingers. You go back for him as he scrambles up.

A bullet passes so close by your temple and hits the infected sprinting for you both. It's thunder cracking in your ears and leaving a tinny din.

You turn to see Kelper aiming and hollering at you; he’s all teeth and spittle at the mouth. A rabid rottweiler unleashed with hackles, barking crazed and panicked.

You run. You and Guthrie together. You follow Kelper, footsteps stampeding as he dashes towards the treeline. Losing them in the camouflage, good idea.

You fucking run.

Your ankles are snapping at you to relent, every breath you suck in feels like liquid fire. You glance over your shoulder to see Max and Sal bringing up the rear. Their faces bloodied and you can hear Guthrie's exhausted moans as he keeps pace with you.

You drag him along. You make him work through the pain. He can't stop. You won't let him stop. You can’t lose another. You won’t.

Stray infected chase you. Kelper points to a clearing where it dips a few yards out. An opportunity to take those bastards on.

He glances at you and you know. You just know it has to be done.

You shunt Guthrie down the hill and he slips, rolling and yelling out. Max dives down after him. Kelper pulls Sal to him. She practically flies around the trunk as he pauses with her in his grip.

You pick a spot and get ready. You reach for your gun behind your back to realise you don't have it.

Fuck.

Seconds. You have seconds to react. Blood thuds inside your ears.

You don't remember, but you lunge.

Teeth are snapping at you as you grapple with the infected. Skin a sallow grey and fungal rot in a sickly pale orange; even its scleras are a disgusting hue.

You remember the smell. The stench of its breath as it comes for you.

You slam it backwards, reaching blinding for something, anything. Your fingers graze a rock and you pummel its head with it and keep going, long after it's dead.

Long after it no longer has a face to haunt you.

It takes Max and Kelper to pull you off as you scream ferally at it. The other infected that chased you have already met a similar fate, and the five of you are left standing there on the edge of the camp, hidden and listening to the sounds of your extended family die.

You pull them away, with Kelper; the sounds of their screams whistling in your ears.

Max wants to be a hero, wants to go back for them. And you love him so much for it, but you can’t let him. He tries to fight against you both, a small tussel, but stops when Sal speaks.

There's no-one to go back for. Her voice is cold, empty. She knows it too.

You walk for hours.

Until the sky is darker and the ringing in your ears stops, or maybe you just learn to accommodate its petulant wail. You walk until the blisters in your boots are plentiful and burst.

Until Kelper spots an old farmhouse up ahead, isolated in the vast fields and valleys.

You and Guthrie keep watch whilst the others do some recon. His arm is busted up pretty bad from the fall down the slope. You apologise to him as you tear a strip from his shirt and create a makeshift sling, and he tells you it's alright; a broken bone is nothing in the grand scheme of things. That you did good. That God was with you.

And it's at that point you crack. Fissures start erupting inside you uncontrollably.

You pace away, you don't want him to see it. Any of them.

You don't know where you’re going. You can't feel your feet anymore and you're blinded by tears that won't cease. You try to remember your mantra. Try to remember how you're still here and they're not.

Eventually you walk into something soft, warm. Arms pulling you tight. Telling you he’s got you as you sob, and your cut to shreds and exhausted feet finally give way under you.

He falls with you, settling into the ground and mourns the loss with you.

You don't know how long you and Kelper stayed out in the grass that night. All you know is that you never let go of one another. Even when you fell asleep amongst the tiny bugs.

You stand up; your back aching from being crouched for so long over the buck's carcass, and stare down at the bloodied meat you’ve salvaged from it.

And then it hits you and makes you feel unsteady on your feet. A renegade choke slithers up from the back of your throat and out into the open as your eyes mist over.

You know it with resolution, with utmost conviction.

The loss you suffered that day was insurmountable. The loss you suffered when Raiders came and took more than just scavenged possessions from your people still cuts deep.

The losses since the Outbreak have stacked up against you, that some days you don’t think you can physically take anymore.

Enduring and surviving is taking its fucking toll. The pain garnered from those losses will remain with you always. More scars.

But, as you stand here zoning out into abject realisation and determination, you know that there is a loss that trumps all of that.

And you feel wretched for even comparing them.

A single man for all that bloodshed and carnage? All those innocent lives lost? It's a heinous and selfish thought. One that rises bile to the back of your throat as you try to cough it away.

But you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that losing Joel again would be worse than anything you've endured and survived through. Worse than anything else that's possibly coming for you next.

And you can’t lose him again now that you’ve found him.

You just can’t.

After Joel’s annoyed rantings about you not waking him finally cease into incoherent mumblings, you both settle down to eat some of the venison that you’ve cooked.

Whilst he was asleep, you took the opportunity to hack the buck up outside; a messy job that left your top splattered with blood and your mind stained with rattled recall.

You washed up discreetly in the alcove, replacing it with another simple, long sleeved top from your pack, and then later laid the meat into pans cooking it tenderly.

The sounds of sizzling as the meat cooks stirs Joel at just past six in the evening.

You both sit down to eat as the approaching dusk begins to infect darker blues into the sky.

You share the remainder of the focaccia bread and you watch as Joel winces as his neck aches. He rubs at it listlessly.

“Ya should've woken me.” He pouts again, as he shovels in another mouthful of meat, chewing with a deep frown.

“You needed the sleep.”

“I should’ve been on watch,” he grunts. “Not fuckin’ sleepin’ with a bent up neck.”

You shouldn’t have been moaning my name either, is what you want to say, but you keep it to yourself. A secret that elates you as it thrills.

Your mind can't help but to wade into conjuring up images about what it was exactly that he was dreaming about. You try to contain the small smile ebbing as you chew, but it’s difficult - it pours renegade across your lips anyway.

“S’not funny.” Joel gripes. He reaches for some water still patting at his neck.

“I’m not laughing at you.” You state with a flat mouth free of curves or bends.

He eyes you carefully as he puts down the water bottle.

You clear the chipped plates when you’re both finished, and put the remaining cooked meat inside the Tupperware box. It’ll keep for a day or two.

Joel gets up and disappears outside, and you make the most of the few minutes of silence. Silence that is always somehow interrupted by wayward thoughts or unflinching desires as of late.

You think back to your dream earlier of being wrapped up on the cot with him pressed up against you, and it suddenly feels hotter inside the shack, even though the cooler air of the evening seeps inside now.

Your mind swims with his hands. His hands that were on your hips at the Hootie And The Blowfish concert he took you to as you swayed against him, mouthing the words of the songs into the air.

How his large palm would squeeze your thigh in the passenger seat fondly and you flare at the thought of him rising it higher and higher, until his fingertips would probe the edge of your panties that were always soaked for him.

The taste of his thick, salty fingers as you’d kiss and suck each one gently whilst he lost all his breath and sense of being, drowning in you.

A longing sigh settles in the back of your throat and chokes you.

Joel returns a few minutes later, zipping up his fly as he pulls the door shut behind him, and you turn away feeling as though you’ve been doused in gasoline and set alight.

He slouches down back in the chair and sighs listlessly. His hand is rubbing again at the back of his neck as he peers out the small window.

He tries to crack it out, bending his head from side to side and growls under his breath when it doesn’t release.

“Want me to massage it for you?” You offer after he grunts in frustration again.

His brown eyes dart to you as though you just shot him in the gut.

Your own mouth is appalled at the suggestion, and the origin of it, but the mutiny in your chest spurs you on.

“Might stop you complaining?" You suggest, standing and not giving him much of a choice. Or yourself, for that matter. Driven on drunk autopilot as you're there in a blink of an eye.

He caves, nodding hesitantly and scooches his chair forward a little.

"Ya sure?" Joel questions, a small voice that cracks like glass, flows out of him. His eyes are furtive, widening and he looks acutely terrified. His posture is suddenly more rigid, if such a thing were possible.

You nod like it's nothing, but it’s everything. A small reassuring smile greets him behind a skull of chattering teeth.

You step behind him, flooded with gumption, despite the fact your body is yelling at you that this is probably a disaster waiting to happen.

You feel him hitch a breath as soon as your skin makes contact with him. Yours does too. It stops time, space and gravity no longer exist.

Coherent thought dissipates and you're left with a head full of iridescent bubbles, floating with them. The sweat beads at your neck, you feel your spine pull tight. You clench between your legs.

His neck is hot and red from the constant pawing at it; the skin in his hairline feeling rougher and bobbly with large pores and coarser hairs, as your fingers sink slowly into it.

You press your thumbs at the base and wiggle them around in slow moving circles, applying gentle pressure.

Joel groans out immediately; a noise that is all too familiar to you, and so uniquely new. His shoulders instantly deflate.

“That’s the spot, huh?” You smile, wrangling it all out of him.

“Fuck,” you think you hear him murmur, as you knead and roll your thumbs across the top of his spine.

“Ya too good at this,” Joel says after a few minutes. You can see he has his eyes closed in the window’s reflection.

You beam, enjoying that he’s enjoying it, as you’re all fingers and thumbs, albeit with a tremor in them.

“Ya used to do this thing, you’d scratch ya nails into m’head.” Joel lets slip through a deep sigh.

“You remember that?” You ask, smirking.

“I 'member a lot,” he groans, as you push your fingers up the back of his scalp, snaking to his crown and then dragging them down again. Letting your nails rake through his salt and pepper waves and scratch against his skin.

“Yeah... like that.” Joel whines; a long, laboured husk pulling from his chest that causes devastating explosions inside of you, ten million Hiroshima’s.

You continue circling around his crown, behind his ears, to the front of his forehead, and back down his nape where your fingers knot around his unruly curls.

You let your dexterous digits run through the silk of them. You see goosepimples flood across the back of his neck and you pulse.

You could just lean forward and plant a tender kiss there. You can see yourself do it in your mind's eye; taste his skin, and you lick your lips unconsciously.

“God, I fuckin’ missed this.”

It makes you fly to hear it, fireworks sparking inside your core. The hairs stand up on your arms and your own scalp tingles. A deep ache pulls on your clit as you squeeze your thighs together again and try to stifle your own groans.

“Yeah?” You manage to swallow.

He nods slowly, pushing his head back into your fingers to get more of them. Chasing the sensations that leave prickles all over his scalp, running down his spine and into the end of his hardening cock.

“Feels good?” You prompt.

“So fuckin’ good, darlin’.” He croons with his eyes closed and jaw slack. "I could fall asleep again."

Joel Miller is literal putty in your hands. A stark contrast from a few minutes ago when the grump wouldn’t stop griping into the air. Now he’s languidly panting into it with soft breaths that move up in octaves when you find a good spot that makes him melt further.

Your hands slip down onto his broad, thick shoulders and knead with the pressure there, working him out. You’re no professional, but the amount of knots in his shoulders pains you a little.

He’s been holding on to a lot of tension for so long.

Your brain wanders off to wondering about how he releases some of it. The back of your own neck becomes saturated as you linger in that wanton territory of Joel with those hands wrapped around his large, thick cock and grunting as he comes.

You wonder if he still makes the same face...

The sting of you biting down onto your lip pulls you out of that illicit thought. You can't help it; touching him again, finally having your hands on him, brings it all back and makes your need physical and corporeal. It's been so long.

Joel sighs out again; the sound speaking to the ache between your legs, communicating with it as you feel it more intensely.

More contented hums follow from him, putting invisible smooches on your skin as they land on you and flower.

And then Joel reaches for your right hand, pulling it round to his face and goes to run his nose against it, inhaling the natural perfume of your skin.

An action driven unconsciously in that dreamy moment of his hedonism and own need. You're certain he's going to kiss you there.

But he stops.

You hitch your breath at the contact of his hand on yours, so familiar, and yet so new. His hand is so warm, a little rough on the fingertips that grip gently around your wrist.

You close your eyes as you feel his breath waft over your palm.

Then you freeze when you feel his fingers push up your sleeve and catch him staring at the scar on your wrist as it’s revealed.

It’s long, puckered and massively obvious. The skinny, zagged pink line is vertical and was once dangerously deep.

Joel twists in the chair, the sound of the wicker slicing through you. His brown eyes are back in that alcove of his frown as they ward up at you questioning, swimming in fury, and it instantly becomes too much.

You snatch back your wrist, breaking all contact with him as the dreamy spell shatters in reflective shards at your feet.

“What happened?” He asks gently, tentatively.

You can still feel it, the strange lack of any pain sensation; just the release of pressure as the blade slid up and into your wrist with ease. You’d thought it would at least sear or burn. That you’d scream out in agony as it ripped apart the fibres of your sinewy flesh.

But you didn’t. Instead you just watched, with some acquired peace; peace that you’d longed for so desperately at the time, and welcomed it, as you slowly bled out. It felt like you were high, floating almost.

Kelper had saved you, the bastard. You’d beaten against his chest, crying and cursing him for doing so, but in hindsight, you know why he did it. It was so you could save him later. Save the others.

Even save yourself in some way.

And as you breathed life back into his body, you understood that it was just a cheat’s way out of this world. Although the world was scorched and desolate, there was still love and connection to be found.

And that was fucking worth living through it all. Had to be. Because there was fuck all else.

You swallow thickly, unsure of where to begin, how to revisit that fertile ground that you've dug up and re-soiled over again and again.

“The same thing that happened there,” you swallow, tapping your right temple at him, and Joel senses the damage it would cause the both of you if he digs around that grave site, so he presses no further; just leaves withered roses on the ground before walking away.

Instead he sighs, and the frown that is so moulded into his features returns. “Ya needed me, so many times n’ I wasn’t there.” Joel utters.

The scar, not leaving his sight, taunts him of his failures to protect yet another person he’d cared about from all the rot in the world.

“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” You sigh gently. "Supposed to, anyway."

You turn your wrist around and look down at the scar that you used to loathe. You try to remember what your skin looked like before it was there and you come up blank. It feels like it's always been a part of you, even before it was physical.

“I haven’t felt strong in a long time.” Joel whispers out, and your head turns to him.

Jaded from years of craggy, cemented trauma, a hardened shell like the shirt pulled taught on his back sits heavy on him; even if it crushes him most days.

It's impenetrable, solid steel. Nuclear bomb proof. But you just witnessed him take the weight of it off for a second, lighten the load, and it leaves you paralysed to hear him say it.

In your head, you’re yelling at yourself to rush forward and scoop him up in your arms. But you sense he probably doesn't want that. Wouldn't know how to accept it and it pains you further.

“You’re stronger than you know. That’s why you’re still here.” You say, weakly. It's hard to believe that yourself some days.

He drops his head, his hands now a thick, clumsy ball of knots inside his lap and mulling over your words. He offers no words, but just the subtle shaking of his head as though you're wrong about that.

“Joel, I have to tell you something.” You begin with a little hesitation. But you can’t keep this from him. Not now.

He looks up at you with some mild concern. “What?”

You roll your lips over one another; they’re dry, chapped and don’t taste like your own anymore. You feel your heartbeat quicken.

“Tommy told me about Sarah.” You reveal in a low tincture.

You see Joel's cheekbones flex by his ears as he grinds his teeth. “I figured he might.”

His own voice is toneless and it makes your bones ache to hear no music in it.

“I know there’s nothing I can say-”

“I can’t,” he says, holding up a large palm and shaking his head.

“You don’t have to.” You confirm. “You don’t ever have to. And I’ll never…” You trail off. Perhaps you should heed him and actually stop as you fumble around your words.

“You can say it.” Joel nudges you, his eyes sinking further back into his skull.

You sit in the other chair beside him, dragging it close.

“I’ll never understand what it’s like. What it’s been like for you, without her."

"Ya never had any?" Deapite his warning, he asks you, and you shake your head.

"I bet she was incredible… But I do understand why-” you tap your scar, and he looks at it with a deeply etched sadness drawn on his face. “-Why you tried to make it stop.”

His expression makes your eyes water and you tell yourself to not falter, to not crack or break when he needs you now.

Endure and survive. Endure and fucking survive!

Joel reaches for your hand, resting it upright on his knee and trails his index finger lightly across the trench of the scar. It makes you shiver as you both watch him do it.

You feel the warmth flood through your body at breakneck speeds. Live through the way you shudder as your spine resets itself and you swallow like you're choking, dying.

He's killing you with a bare, featherlight touch and you can't abnegate yourself from heading to the light.

"Sometimes... it feels like we were never there. Was a dream, that life. I dreamt it. All of it. I dreamt her up... Must've, to have been so happy, so content. So fuckin' unprepared." Joel sniffs. "Then we just... lost it all. Everythin'. N' for what?"

His eyes find yours, his face softens and his fingers continue that gentle, heady contact. And you both sit there for what feels like an age, not speaking whilst he familiarises himself with your own pain.

"This ain't survival. This is fuckin' Hell. And I couldn't even..." You hear him whisper to you as he shakes his head recalling his own failure. "I flinched. The bullet missed. I don't know why. Somethin' kept me here. Punishin' me."

You soon feel your fingers brushing against his wrist, and then interlocking with his digits. You both squeeze tightly against one another and neither one of you falters that grip.

Not even for a second.

Not even when your palms sweat and your fingers ache under the crush of him.

“I wish ya both could've met.” He utters, head bowed in the direction of your scar, and you see a single tear drip from his face and land on the thigh of his worn jeans. "She would've liked ya."

You squeeze his hand tighter, and he squeezes back.

You don't say anything, because honestly, what can you say? Mere words are destitute. He carries more anger, more remorse; more guilt than a human being could ever drag the weight of behind them. It's crushing him on the daily.

Joel Miller had already crossed over into Hell and eternal damnation the moment Sarah was taken from him. He'd lost his baby girl. Ripped from his arms as he’d yelled at Tommy to help him frantically as she slipped away from her daddy's embrace; bled out all over him and he'd never felt more helpless. More alone.

He'd resided in that Hell on a daily basis; adding to his heavy life sentence with the onerous deeds he'd committed since. Heathen atrocities, blood stained hands, and stacks of faces haunt the darker trenches of his mind. Joel can never escape them.

There were things - depraved and animalistic things - you could never know about Joel, for he would never burden you with the horrors of their weight. Some of it's from a selfish point of view; he wouldn’t be able to stand the pity you’d tarnish him with.

Or the forgiveness.

He’d carry it all himself and save you that pressure, save you from the nightmares soaked in an iron tasting sweat. He'd been lost for a while, knuckles sheathed in the crimson of the innocent.

He had wielded a scythe and dealt the cards in the House’s favour. Death's bitch, who refused him an easy way out when he'd finished with him.

He’d done heinous, despicable things all in the name of survival and base instincts, that he was inherently ashamed of; carried demons that wouldn’t let him rest or sleep as they clawed at his face continuously.

And when he looks at your scar, it’s another thing to add to the pile of calcified bones that have mounted up behind him.

He should have been there for you. Should have fought harder to find you. Tore up the world in his search. He should never have let you fucking go in the first place.

You can’t pull him out of that fiery torment, walk across the hot coals and lead him out by the hand, not fully. Your comprehension of it wouldn’t even begin to pierce through that layered steel.

But you offer a moment’s calm in the swirling hurricane as you reduce it to a gentle breeze. You stop that ice from creeping up into his heart and denying it of it's beating.

You silence that voice that convinces him he's going to die, alone.

You squeeze Joel's hand and offer a moment or two for the hellfire to stop burning him and blistering his skin. You take his pain and pull blood soaked threads from it, finally speaking in a language that he can understand and respond back in fluently.

For a moment, you squeeze back. And that’s more than Joel will ever be able to ask for.

To be continued...

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Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

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Tagging everyone who asked to be tagged & who re-blogged my teaser.

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#joel miller #joel miller tlou #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller angst #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller the last of us #the last of us fanfic #joel tlou #joel fic #joel x reader #five days series #five days #jett's writing

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existentialcrisistime · 1 year

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D&D: Honor Among Thieves (Xenk/Edgin) fic rec list:

These are just based on those I've read and loved so far. There are so many incredible works coming out of this new fandom that I'm sure I'll have enough recs for a second post in another month or so.

Because this turned onto a bit of a long post, the recs are below the cut.

I've marked the rating by each fic, but please do mind the tags!

Curse of the Green Hag by @moorishflower (E, 16k)

Xenk contracts a fuck-or-die curse and turns up on Edgin's doorstep for the first time since Neverwinter. Also contains an excellent cameo from Holga, a bit of bondage, Xenk's first time, and A Lot of emotions. And of course the actual smut is top tier. Already wanting to read this one again.

High Praise Indeed by enchantedsleeper (T, 3k)

Xenk stops by Holga and Edgin's cottage to find Edgin in the throes of a breakup. In the process of trying to persuade Edgin of his many worthy qualities, he accidentally reveals a little too much. Short and very sweet, with cameos from Holga and Kira. Would recommend for fans of pining idiots.

in the absence of truth by @floralprintshark (E, 13k)

Five times Ed says that he hates Xenk and one time he doesn't. Yes, a 5+1 things, but oh it's so much more than that! There are heists and hijinks, accidental asshole Edgin, uncertain and inexperienced Xenk, and a hint of polyamory between Simon and Doric, but the whole party are featured and written perfectly here. Also contains Many emotions. I sent this one to the group chat, and we were ALL screaming about it (in the best way)

Universal Glue by Korwwa (E, 10k)

A rescue mission goes wrong, and Xenk and Edgin get caught in, yes, a glue trap. The premise may sound like a crack fic, but it's definitely taken seriously, whilst still being very fun. Plus a wee bit of angst for (delicious) seasoning.

Scraping the Moss Off the Standing Stones by @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (E, 4k)

Established relationship, Xenk comes home after a long time away and Edgin takes care of him. Oh boy, this fic sure packs a lot into just 4k words, and I feel like the author just Gets how I imagine Xenk - always seen as holy or evil, but just wanting to be treated like a person. Also very hot - I'm weak for some well-written dirty talk and this is perfect.

When the well runs dry by demon_faith (G, 2k)

Part one of the Time Heals All Wounds series, which can either be read as a series or as stand-alone fics. Established relationship, Edgin is badly injured, and Xenk is unable to heal him. A classic hurt/comfort with a good bit of Edgin whump, and Xenk struggling with the reality of that.

On the edge of a blade by demon_faith (T, 3k)

Part two of the series, again established relationship. This time, Xenk gets badly hurt, and it's up to Edgin to take care of him. Heavy on both the hurt and the comfort.

lay on hands by @hauntedfalcon (E, 2k)

A getting-together/first-time fic, with a healthy dose of body worship. Xenk gets off on Edgin's metaphors. Beautifully written, and also my initial thoughts were - this is an author who sure is clued up on the names of medieval clothing/armor.

half your life (you've been hooked on death) by roundtriptojupiter (T, 2.5k)

Edgin struggles to process the events of the past six months, when Xenk turns up at his doorstep. Or, Edgin and Xenk process grief together, then kiss about it. A great exploration of Edgin's emotions, not only regarding Zia and Holga, but of the other people he may have harmed along the way.

We can burn much brighter (if we don't look back) by enchantedsleeper (T, 6k)

Xenk apprehends Forge and learns of the events that transpired at Neverwinter. Grappling with the fact that his past almost repeated itself while he was too far away to help, he encounters Edgin. Such a lovely post-movie fic, exploring just how Edgin and Xenk are processing their feelings in the wake of it.

Do you know you'll never fly alone? by MayGlenn (T, 1.2k)

Something a bit more light-hearted to end the recs list on: a fix-it of sorts, but for the poor undead guy in the post-credits scene. Xenk takes Edgin on a late night ride, to fix an issue he'd left behind, but maybe for something more also...

And that's that for now! Please do feel free to recommend your favourite D&D: Honor Among Thieves fics in return, or yell about which of these you loved the most. My comments and inbox are always open :))

And to the fic writers (and all fic writers out there), thank you so much for sharing these stories with us! You're all absolutely wonderful, talented people <3

#dnd honor among thieves #dungeons and dragons honor among thieves #xedgin #edgin x xenk #fic recs #nic's recs #dndhat fic #nic watches dndhat #rec list

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interpolanticssuperfan · 8 months

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nothing natural | ken x fem!reader | part 5 | 18+ only

hi everyone!! wow, i did not mean for this chapter to be so meaty!! i sort of had fun setting up the building blocks for ken's return, so i hope it makes sense and feels necessary. thanks for reading and supporting <3 <3 SMUT IS COMING!! DO NOT WORRY (:

tags: @heyareyoulistening @itsametaphorbriansblog @alyeria @chrispontiass

After Ken leaves you, the weekend passes by without notable interruption. Life goes on, and you have no choice but to keep going with it. If the blues of the sky pale, the whorls of white clouds disentangle themselves into nothing; if the pastels of colored buildings all seem duller afterwards, you don’t say anything about it to anyone.

Not like you had anyone to tell.

Your supervisor ends up buying the flimsy lie you’d concocted as to why you were so behind on reports and emails. To compensate for the hindrance and cover your ass, you worked a handful of hours on Sunday, barely functioning after fighting sleep that night. Blinking blearily into your weak homemade coffee.

The first night without Ken was impressively quiet. Hours of tossing and turning, counting stippled designs on the ceiling and squeezing your eyes shut when the blue or white light of your television grew too intense, your mind repeating on a loop that you’d never see him again. Funnily enough, the obtrusive screen could have easily been turned off, but the idea of laying cocooned in silence was worse than any other punishment imaginable.

You remembered how clean and aromatic Ken had smelled in your kitchen, as you observed the featherlight movement of his stomach, his breath tense under your catatonic stare. Like fresh linen, the initial wave of those pink tulips planted in tiny little rows in front of the library, the relief of a clean, spotless home.

Ken had smelled like a long-awaited sigh, like comfort, like the warm tailend of a nap that you couldn’t be shaken out of. A home you’d never known. Each element of Ken’s ever having existed had blown out the front door and followed him back to a place that didn’t sound real. Maybe wasn’t real.

How could you miss someone you hadn’t even really known at all?

Perhaps you could traipse out of the bedroom, wait out there in silence to see if you could still pick up any lingering traces of him in the dark, if you could pick up any notes of the pure bleach of his hair, pungent like a drying ink stamp.

Something told you even if you had nuzzled against Ken’s head, it wouldn’t smell like chlorine, wouldn’t smell like sodium hypochlorite or aluminum foil, because Ken didn’t need to seek out alterations to make himself beautiful, didn’t need to add to or take away from any part of his physicality to fit some type of standard.

He was naturally impeccable. Easily unmarred.

(Astonishing, really, how little time it had taken for your every waking moment to be consumed with thoughts of Ken.)

But now your living space was stoic. Fragmented by a deficit of light and life and sparkling teeth that glowed like ethereal cave moss.

(Teeth you desired to feel with your own tongue, battling for dominance in his sweet, pink mouth that curved like a marble bow. You wanted to memorize the dips and juts of his molars, his canines, wanted to know them each by shape alone.)

The cold right side of your bedsheets felt freezing to the touch once you’d spent three hours awake in the small of dawn imagining how wonderful it’d be to share it with someone. Picturing the rise and fall of thin fabric as Ken rested, let his body go lax next to yours. The way he wanted to. The way he’d been angling for.

You frowned to yourself, twisting a fraying thread on the empty pillow around your pinky, the silk too plump, too… devoid of blonde companionship.

How could you have pushed Ken away? Was it mere loneliness that had conjured this visceral reaction out of you? The feeling that deep down, you’d never really been seen for who you were and subsequently accepted? Let alone fawned over?

Your head bobbed as if underwater, tumbling out of wakefulness and into disappointment.

The second night without Ken had been fretful. Restless. Two bottles of pink wine sent you straight to sleep, and after brushing Willa’s hair and ordering in ten dollar pad thai, the only flashes of blonde you saw in your conscience were drifting through sleep, hazy through lackluster dreams.

You tried cleaning. Tried scrubbing the tiles of the kitchen for something to do. Anything to remind yourself that you had responsibilities, that life carried on outside of the compelling stranger you’d met at the library.

When Sunday rolled around your work bag felt about as heavy as the ones under your eyes, twin weights that refused to be alleviated.

You wished you understood why this was taking such a toll on you. Even Willa seemed to be raising her eyebrows at you from her tiny enclosure.

You’d been the one to suggest that Ken leave. That he pack it up and go right back the way he’d came.

You’d never really been one for accepting good things that rolled into your life. Whether they made sense or not, had been earned or not. Displays of paranoia at even the most throwaway compliment.

It’s how you’d reacted to receiving a scholarship – awkward declinations that catapulted house parties or family dinners into palpable silence. “No, no. Really, it’s nothing, I don’t even deserve this. Don’t mention it. Can we please stop talking about this now?”

You didn’t even like celebrating your own birthday.

How ironic, that the pinpricks of attention from your loved ones made you shrink under the pressure, but the laser-tight surveillance Ken directed towards you had the opposite reaction. You came to life under his scrutiny. Felt your heart swell and twist with each moment he spent watching you.

The cashier at the corner store nearly dropped his jaw in horror when he caught a glimpse of how ragged you were looking. Hair a mess, eyes barely open, your fingers fumbling with your wallet as you paid for another pack of cigarettes.

“Been a minute, (Y/N). Everything going alright?” What he really wanted to say was, what the fuck happened to you?

You ignore the stilt of his worried voice. “Fine. Thanks.” The kid doesn’t push it, just adjusts his baseball cap and shrugs, watches you shoulder out the front door with a loaded sigh.

Setting up at the library reminded you too much of the sweet, breezy morning you’d met Ken, the sunshine that had wrapped itself around you. You just couldn’t anticipate how you’d react while trying to pay attention there, surrounded by so many reminders of the only interesting, worthwhile thing that had ever happened to you, so the most sensible course of action seemed to be the patio.

You lasted about an hour in the sunshine before the glare bothered you and all you wanted was darkness.

Monday proved to be worse.

Reluctant to leave the apartment, you work again for the day in the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine at noon and logging off early at four when the carpet starts to spin, when email subjects blur into train tracks of nonsense that you can’t make sense of.

Your sister calls unexpectedly at dinner time while you’re dozing off at seven, drooling on the pillow. It goes straight to voicemail. How nice of her to find time away from her son to remember your existence.

Rubbing your temples, you chide yourself. Not nice to think things like that. Grow up.

Not calling her back, you throw your phone on the bed and follow suit, dropping down again and sipping a crushed can of beer from the night before, stale and tasteless.

Tuesday plagued you with the promise of nice weather, a drop in extreme temperature, but again, the second you got dressed to head down to the library, you felt laziness tug at your mind, felt depression sink into your chest.

Why even bother, you wondered? Why bother when I’ve a perfectly comfortable bed just around the corner where I won’t have to be looked at.

It should have concerned you. The drastic, melodramatic changes you’d been experiencing, the intense highs and lows of your emotional wellbeing all because of some guy you’d only met last week.

Then again, you’d always been like this. Building up fantasy lives and scenarios in your head so fondly (stupidly) that when faced with reality, actual human beings tended to let you down, so this exercise always resulted in disappointment. Locking yourself in your childhood room, scrawling on the walls in pencil and then erasing what you’d written for hours. Your parents left clueless without any idea as to how to handle your outbursts.

Wednesday seemed to tease you. A pointless company retreat at corporate meant your supervisors were all out of town until Friday, inviting you to slack off as much as you wanted – ergo, no one would notice your idling.

So you slept diligently until noon, fed Willa her special pellets during a fleeting moment of salience, and then got ready to catch a taxi to your favorite bar.

Who said you couldn’t work from a sticky countertop surrounded by shots of tequila and boisterous strangers?

Not like you’d be paying much mind to your laptop anyway. You showered out of habit and slipped into a skirt that fit your hips nicely, in your opinion, and shimmied into a tight fitting brown top.

It occurred to you that calling your sister back would be a fruitful use of your afternoon, but shoving your phone into your bag, you decided to put that off for another time.

Perhaps when your head wasn’t spinning with pathetic visions of being shoved into a wall and forcibly kissed breathless, strong hands glued to your side and tracking down the outside of your pelvis, repetitive circles rubbed into your skin with soft thumbprints until you could finally, finally undo the zipper, hurry the rest of his clothes off, shove him backward into your bed –

The taxi blares its horn out front in the road, shaking you from the vivid daydream. Leaving you with nothing but emptiness and a heat pooling in your abdomen that had grown difficult to suppress. Arid summer air filled your weary lungs, and you hid behind a chunky pair of sunglasses which successfully concealed how tired you looked from the driver, who looked to be as old as your father.

“Dropping you off right at Paulson’s? Or you going to the cafe right next door? Place is pretty popular from what I’ve heard.” His attempt at genial conversation was kind, but it wasn’t what you needed right now.

“Actually, Paulson’s is fine. I’m meeting a friend.” Pulse still racing in your throat from what you’d been imagining earlier, it takes mountains of effort to keep your voice even.

“No problem. Just making sure.”

The bar is essentially empty save for you, two employees and a guy slouched into a newspaper near the television. Which is fair, seeing as it isn’t even two in the afternoon.

One tequila soda turns into two which turns into a blistering three which eventually turns into closing up your laptop in favor of chatting gregariously with the bartender, complaining about the weather and the price of gas (even though you don’t drive) and requesting ABBA on the ancient jukebox. Patrons start to trickle in as the sun sets and it’s just as well, you’d been feeling particularly lonely by yourself.

The pack of cigarettes you’d bought dwindles as you reach your fourth cocktail. You light another one, hold it to your lips just as a figure approaches from behind.

A guy with long, stringy brown hair takes the stool next to you, his scrawny frame swimming in a button up shirt too big for him. He’d given you a once over before picking this spot, and you knew it. You swallow, your throat clicking, and think to yourself that were it not for Ken, he’d be exactly the type you usually go for.

Quiet, unassuming guys who don’t have much going on in life besides perhaps their accounting job and a few friends they see in dingy bars. Maybe they play shitty music in shitty bands that you hate staying out to see.

You should hate how it reeks inside this smoking-allowed bar. You should hate that you’re capable of drinking so much in one sitting, that it hasn’t knocked you out, put you to sleep. You should hate the persistent way this skeleton-thin loser is eyeing you from behind his beer, but you don’t.

You should hate how easily you rip yourself open for men.

The guy tucks a strand of that hair behind his ear and it makes you squirm. Any music coming from the jukebox feels a hundred miles away.

“What are you drinking?” A beat of silence passes between you, and you flare your nostrils, unsure of how to proceed but honestly so sloppy from the liquor you aren’t giving it too much thought.

“Tequila.” You take another drag from the smoke, blow it away towards the propped open door, your mouth lazing in an “O”.

“How’s that going?”

“Pretty great.” It wasn’t a lie. If great consisted of your vision fuzzing at the edges and your mind falling blissfully quiet for the first time in days.

“You have beautiful hair.” The offhand comment makes your cheeks flush. It could’ve also been combining with the sizable amount of liquor you’d imbibed.

“Mind if I buy you another round?” You wonder if this a trap. If it’s a trick. The guy’s deep brown eyes swirl under the overhead lights, comfortably dim, and you can nearly smell the sweat circling the back of his neck. It’s like a starving lion fighting the urge to pounce at a wounded gazelle bleeding out profusely on a plain. Agony.

But the idea of Ken accepting a drink from a girl throwing herself all over him has bile crawling up your throat, and you pale at the thought. Absolutely not – no way.

Not like you owned him. Not like you wanted to own him.

“Sorry, I’m actually on my way out.” It’s a blatant lie, it feels thick on your tongue and it’s so obvious to the stranger too with his damp chest on display, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but it’s not smart for you to entertain him for another moment longer. You round the bar to a less occupied area, take another shot, and close your tab.

Your bag has never felt so heavy on your shoulder before.

The taxi heading back home is initially uneventful, but as soon as the driver peels onto the highway, something about your stomach doing cartwheels and the melting streetlights makes you emotional. You can hear Ken’s voice at your side, hear his words playing at your neck.

“That’s one enormous building, (Y/N). People work way up there? Even right at the top? Oh, man. Did you see that fountain – it’s like a lake! I bet you can ice skate there when it’s cold enough. Would you go with me? When it’s cold?”

You’re about to tell Ken yes, of course we can go skating, when you remember it’s not real. It’s so seamless to place him here, to envision how he’d react to the different sights and sounds of the city. Feels so correct, like it was preordained or something. He’d wrinkle his nose at the way you smell right now, but he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to be next to you.

It’s impossible to hide the tears that flow from your eyes as you rest your forehead against the chilly window. Choking back an audible sob, you dig your nails into your palm, everything so small and futile and fucking lonely. The covered seats smell like patchouli and you just want to get home.

Thoughtfully, the driver clears his throat, turns the radio down a smidge.

“Is there… do you have anyone you can call?” He asks politely and clearly despite his noticeable stutter. For some reason he surmises that you’re in a state to have a conversation.

“Uh, I... do I look that bad?” You question.

“I wasn’t trying to insult you, miss.” He seems offended.

“Well. My sister’s the only person I know within a fifty mile radius of the city, and she’s so busy with her kid I don’t think she’d give me the time of day. ‘Specially not when I’ve been drinking like this. Thanks for asking.”

He peers at the road like he’s ready to drop the subject, but he gives a light cough after a few seconds.

“A boyfriend, then?”

Oh, Jesus. Not this guy, too? Can you ever catch a break? His bizarre advances and body language were about to make you cry even harder.

“There was this guy. He was. He was everything. I pushed him away… I feel like I’m going crazy. Didn't even know him that well. He was so exciting. And he treated me like I was the interesting one, but I'm not. I'm not. And I told him to go home. I always do this.” Snot trickles from your nose in time for your bare wrist to catch some of it. If you weren’t so drunk, you’d apologize to the driver for being such a nuisance.

“I’m sure if he was feeling the same way you are, he won’t be upset to hear from you again. Distance can show a guy what he really cares about.”

Thumb scraping at the mascara clumps under your eyelashes, you nod, surprisingly agreeing with the driver.

“I guess so. I don’t know, it just feels like I screwed things up with him. I have never met anyone like him before. Like if I lost him, I feel like I might die.”

“Sounds pretty serious.” He clucks his tongue, listening intently as the road whizzes by.

“That, or I’m just an insane person. He relied on me for a lot of things.”

“Were you living together?” The driver wonders aloud, flipping to a local late night talk show. It occurs to you to check the time. Ten past nine. You’d been at the bar for that long?

“No, he was just… getting used to the world. He had been away for awhile. If that makes sense.”

The driver nods knowingly, a glint in his eye that you catch from the rearview mirror. “I see. He did some time and now you’re helping him get acclimated to life again?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility to put on your shoulders. Doesn’t he have family who can help too? Unless he cut ties with his family. Getting tangled up with the law can put a lot of stress on everyone involved. I know from experience. My brother robbed an electronics store when he was nineteen, he’s still paying for it.”

Normally, this sort of long winded back and forth would annoy you, moreso after you’d been crying. But the driver’s words lulled you back down to earth, reminded you that other humans and situations and problems existed outside of your own insulated world.

“Sorry to hear that. To answer your question, I’m kind of his only lifeline. The only one who can help with all the things he wants to know. Like I’m a mother sometimes. I know how that sounds, but it’s not a horrible thing, not really. I have no idea how he’s going to find a job. I don’t know how much I’m supposed to be involved, or if I should just let him be an individual and figure things out on his own. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

The driver shakes his head curtly, rolls the windows down a pinch for you. You’d been hoping he’d answer affirmatively as you’d already pulled another smoke out from your bag.

“Well, not that you asked my opinion. But I say just be realistic. If you see a need you can fill, I say there’s no harm in helping. Oh, I almost forgot. I volunteer at an animal shelter right outside of town. You know where the Lyons Bridge is?”

“Yeah, my dentist is over there on the corner of Orwell.”

“It’s right across, you can’t miss it. Point being, I can probably talk to my manager, see if we have any work to offer. Not sure how your hubby does with animals, but it’s a start, right? And for someone jumping in fresh, you can’t really beat it.”

The unprompted offer caught you off guard, and you barely had the sense of mind to give him a smile, or positive acknowledgment. You flicked your cigarette with your thumb, watched the ashes dance away. “Wow. I mean. Thank you so much, seriously. That’s so kind of you. If I see him again I will definitely tell him that.”

“You’re very welcome. It was hard for my brother too, getting back on his feet. For years I was the only one in his corner supporting him, so I know how you feel.”

When he pulls up to the half circle parking loop in front of your apartment building, the driver scrawls the name and number of the shelter on a business card. He cracks a lopsided grin, and you realize that this guy is probably way too old to have been hitting on you.

“I really appreciate the opportunity, sir.”

“Call me Mike.”

“Mike. Thank you.” You made to pop open the door handle, ready to face the nothingness of the rest of your night, visions of the wine coolers in your fridge calling to you sweetly, but Mike piped up again.

“Not so fast, little lady. I think you should dry your tears and give him a call. Put on a nice dress, you know? Put your best foot forward. Lord knows he missed you while he was behind bars!” Obviously it was meant to be a joke, but the heart behind it felt a little too real, though you’d lied about the nature of your relationship with Ken.

Ken. Even saying his name had your palms growing clammy, your eyes welling up again with stupid, childish tears. Mike noticed this falter in your face, and he shifted his body fully in his seat to face you.

“No more of that, okay? It’ll be alright. Just get yourself cleaned up and give him a call. Think positive.”

“You’re right. Sorry for making a fool of myself. I’ve just had an incredibly weird week.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

It occurs to you that perhaps Mike is angling for a nice tip. He was your taxi driver, after all. You fish out a ten dollar bill from your bag and hand it to him, taking the business card and sniffling quietly.

“Thanks again. Have a safe rest of your night.”

Wisps of the night air knocked at your ankles, the exposed skin of your arms, and you scolded yourself for not bringing a sweater. Your bag hung heavy at your shoulder, but you just stared down at the business card. Second Chances Animal Haven, the card read. Ask for Dominic – tell him Mike sent you!

As usual, the unexpected generosity of strangers is enough to make you weepy again, so instead you read the card aloud to yourself, digging absentmindedly for your keys as you head towards the back row of apartment units.

“Here at Second Chances, we believe animals and people deserve to be seen at their best. We’ve been proudly partnered with local rehab centers and addiction programs for twenty years to provide employment opportunities to convicted felons, or those reintegrating back into society. Are you or someone you know interested in volunteer or career information? Give us a call at three zero four…”

You trailed off, flipping the card over to assess the cute graphic of a man petting the head of a labrador, absolutely beaming. The dog’s fuzzy snout brought tears to your eyes, and you wanted to scream at yourself, why does everything make me so goddamned emotional? It made you feel so puny and vulnerable, being affected like this.

“Stupid card. Stupid drawing. Stupid tequila, stupid fucking –”

Your embroiled utterances fell flat as if smashed into a wall, your eyes slamming shut instantaneously, registering that you’d just ran straight into something bigger than yourself, something moving –

Something wearing long, chocolate brown corduroy sleeves, expert tailoring obvious even under the flickering sidewalk lamp; something waiting at the bottom of the steps leading up to your unit.

The hard thud of your foot railing against a solid surface drowns out when you fumble backwards, nearly tripping onto your ass, your eyes widening at the speed of light when your vision focuses and drains of moisture.

There was no mistaking it. Waiting at the stoop with what appeared to be… five or six baby blue suitcases (each embroidered delicately with swooping, elegant ‘K’ headings) of varying sizes all stacked up against one another, was Ken, who towered above you, clouded in the veiling mist of the summer evening air.

Through the shadow his piercing blue eyes met yours, startled like a baby deer and even more innocent looking.

Were you hallucinating this? Was this really Ken, standing right in front of you, clad in brown and stunning, silky mustard orange pants that felt otherworldly in its softness, though your arm had only grazed it?

Etched into the face he gives you is instinctive surprise, as if the last thing he thought would wander around the corner was you. You drop the business card to the ground, don’t watch its descent as it flutters down to the sidewalk. Clutched under Ken’s left arm is a thick folder (maybe a book?) filled to the brim with papers stacked neat and horizontal.

For a sickening pause that lasts thousands of centuries, you wonder if Ken’s here to tell you off. To tell you that he was only dropping by before his departure, that he was going far away and only wished to tell your guinea pig goodbye for posterity.

You couldn’t have blamed him. In fact, you would have understood. I deserve that, you tell yourself, but Ken doesn’t say those awful things. He bends at the waist and plucks the business card you dropped, holds out his arm to return it. It’s then that you remember to breathe, remember to say something, and it’s then that you notice Ken’s gripping a bouquet of flowers in his right hand, pink and white thick petals wrapped in yellow that repel the light landing on them.

Ken’s so tall above you, his legs so lean through his almost sheer pants, and you swear you can make out the swells of his kneecaps, the curve of his hip. The incline of muscle in his neck works as he cocks his head slightly, eyes persistent, dancing and twining with yours under the moon, the feeble crackle of the dying, cheap lamp.

Handfuls of silvering blonde hair tumble down across Ken’s tender eyes as he waits patiently for you to take the card. Blinking is an uphill battle. Moving your lips to form a sentence is some sort of sisyphean curse that you’re unsure of how to break.

“I – I’m. Ken. You’re.”

Unflappable, Ken elects to hold off on exchanging the card, and slips it into his pocket. Instead, he takes a brave step forward, and like he’s rehearsed this a thousand times on the sidewalk, puts on his most hopeful smile, extending his pristine hand that holds the flowers that you are starting to suspect might be plastic. Shrouds of crickets kick up their serenade around the both of you.

“(Y/N). These are for you. I tried relentlessly to keep them perfect on my way here, but you would not believe how difficult it is to stop objects from floating while you’re in a spacesuit, I will tell you that much right now.” You hear his heartfelt words but all you can stare at is his face, every inch of him that you can see, the imperceptible flat of his cheekbones, the angular jut of his chin, all of him so illuminated and real and right in front of you.

“You came back.” It’s all you can manage to say. Like as if a prank had been pulled on you. Could it be the case – all these days of torture and self hatred and drinking yourself to sleep had been completely in vain?

Ken’s smirk widens, crinkling the lines of his cheek, but it just makes him look even more like a timeless painting of someone who once had been real. Boyish charm bled from his every move, his honeyed words, every response he could give you.

“Told you I would, didn’t I? Do you like them?” Ken nudges the bouquet even closer to your line of sight, practically begging you to accept them. “Barbie told me – sorry. My friend Barbie who is a florist told me that these are quintessential spring colors. I wanted purple ones too but Barbie said that wasn’t staying on theme.” Ken enunciates every word, relishing in sharing his newfound knowledge of flowers. They appear to be roses, as if they were somehow handcrafted, each one made painstakingly, lovingly.

Jolting at a realization, Ken raises his eyebrows hastily. “How could I forget? I also brought you a banana. From Barbieland! So that you can really understand what I’ve been working with my whole life.”

Something in the lowest part of your heart snaps entirely in half, and with fingers trembling like a leaf, you finally take the flowers from Ken, cautiously placing your nose to the tips.

By some sort of miracle, though they’re obviously not real, they smell exactly like roses.

“Riveting, aren’t they?” Ken’s adding, watching through his curled eyelashes to see how you like them, but he doesn’t notice the stinging tears that rush down your cheeks until you’re crushing the bouquet between the both of your bodies, impatient to feel him for yourself, just to affirm this is real.

The petals don’t budge or compress, they just twirl in different directions to accommodate the pressure, and the breath leaves Ken’s chest at once with the force of it. “(Y/N)? Tell me you’re not crying. The one thing I didn’t bring was a hanky with your name on it, which I was planning on having my friend Barbie who is a seamstress make for you, but my schedule was pretty tight. Here, let me just –”

There aren’t words for how you’re feeling, the relief, the overwhelming adoration, the incredulity that Ken had actually traveled all the way back for you, the sweetness of everything he’s telling you. It manifests as tears that race to escape your eyes and make you look even more disheveled than you already had been.

Ken carefully wipes at your cheeks with the edges of his jacket sleeves, folding the fabric over his thumbs like it’s brain surgery and he cannot afford to mess it up. Without asking permission, he sticks his hand out and tips your face up so it’s level with his. Gentle, so gentle, so endlessly attentive.

“Why are you crying, (Y/N)?” Your brain should be throttling ahead, formulating a cogent response, but all you want is to hold his shoulderblades in your shaking hands and feel his body flush against yours, make him feel what his presence is doing to you, how it’s making you breathe and sway, unsteady on your feet.

“I thought I would never see you again.”

Ken quirks his eyebrows, dusted blonde and light brown, like he’s taken a punch to the gut. His hands don’t move from their spot on your chin, affixed.

“You can’t be serious. When I accept an ultimatum, I never back down, and that’s a fact.” He seems to not mind the brazen tears and snot he’s wiped onto his (expensive looking) clothes, he just looks right down at you with a dizzying openness. Your fingers twitch around the stiff flowers where you’re still clamping them tight.

“I. I can’t. I didn’t know…”

“Look at me.” You don’t have the inner energy to fight him. Maybe it’s the liquor that’s rounded out the edges of your usually combative reflexes, or maybe it was the repressed emotional floodgates breaking, and suddenly you weren’t afraid for Ken to see what you’d really been feeling for him. The seeds you’d been sowing of your own destruction. “You really missed me that much? I thought you’d be working away like nothing ever happened.”

It’s Ken’s turn to feel flummoxed now, analyzing what you’d said, but you can’t allow him the time to rethink. To backpedal.

His chest rises and falls in rabbit-fast motions. You swear he smells like aftershave, but you can’t pinpoint the precise scent, just that it’s minty and pleasant. Ken’s body is like a barricade of warmth and there’s roses in between you and desire gnawed at your stomach like a profanity.

“Please. Please don’t leave again. I need you, Ken.”

“You – what?”

“I need you. I n-need you to be here, with me. Don’t leave again. I. I made myself sick without you. I have a two bedroom place, I don’t h-have to use it for storage, you can have your own room and everything, I’ll be the cleanest, tidiest person in the world. Just. Please, just. Just promise. Can you promise me that? Ken?” It’s embarrassing. It’s humiliating. There's so many things you could've led with: I may be able to help you get a job, I turned into a complete and utter hermit without you here, I think you may be the best thing that's ever happened to me, I've had so much to drink tonight I shouldn't even be standing. But no, it was mushy garbage that decided to tumble out and settle in the cool air.

You know that you should have shut yourself up after the first sentence, but once the first syllable let loose, there was no taking it back.

Ken continues to wipe at your face where you continue to cry, and he rests his chin quietly on top of yours, somehow managing to hold onto everything he’d been grasping and still making just as much room for you as you needed. Your words move Ken to the point that his pulse has quickened, and –

His pulse? Laying your browbone against his neck, just to see if you’d dreamt that forceful thrum of blood, Ken gives a submissive sigh for the contact. “I will never go anywhere ever again unless you want me to.”

“Your heart.” You mention, tucked against his frame but eyes wild with shock.

“I won’t even look out the window unless you think there’s something I should see.” Ken persists.

“Ken.”

“In fact, I think I’d be most comfortable just waiting for you to lay out what we’re doing every day, first thing, so I can get an adequate idea of –”

“Ken?” Your tone is sharp now, because he’s getting carried away – not that you weren’t receptive to his idea of what living together should look like.

“Yes, little firefly?” Ken muses, pulling you even closer to the front of his body.

“Your heart. It’s beating.”

#ken x reader #ryan gosling ken #ken #ryan gosling #barbie movie #ken x fem reader

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deepperplexity · 5 months

Text

Prompt 1. Chimney Soot [A1]

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem!Reader

POV: Second, Reader

Setting: Delaford Estate

A/N: IT'S THE FIRST OF DECEMBER AND RICKMAS2023 IS STARTING! 😍👏 We're kicking it off with our sweet Colonel Brandon - tbh it feels like a tradition to start with him now 😂👍 - and I'm so, so, so ready for this year's event to unfold. I have so many stories in my head I hope to write this year and there will be more longer fics (several parts) this year if all goes as planned too! IIIIIIIH I'M SO EXCITED!

Thank you for being here and know that no matter at what time you read my fics I always, always, always love to hear from my readers so even if you're here in 2027 don't hesitate to leave comments if you want to 🥰 I hope my writing shenanigans can spread some joy and warmth up until Christmas Eve and I am so THANKFUL to all who has messaged me through the year about being excited for this event - your encouragement means so much! THANK YOU! And let's get this show on the roa-, err, screen! 🤭❤

Tags/TW’s: Mentions [past lashings, past family trauma, lack of family], Hunger, Being Cold, Being lost in life, Old friendships, Being afraid/Feeling fear, “Want/Longing at first sight”, Hidden identity, Running away, Accidental embrace.

Abbr.: Y/N - Your Name | Y/L/N - Your Last Name

Word Count: 2.9k+

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

Snow flitted toward the ground; little lifeless flakes of frozen water droplets turned to crispy beauty. The first sign of the approach of true winter. You shivered and pulled your tattered cloak closer toward your body while the hem barely reached your ankles. The basket within your grasp was too heavy, the breaths you drew too cold.

Life would soon turn ruthless beyond compare for you. No home, no family, no sanctuary from the biting chill nor the clinging wetness of melting snow resting upon your shivering shoulders. Yet still, you walked on. The only one left in the world who would possibly offer help lived just beyond the hill you shakily climbed while the ground beneath your feet began to turn white.

Miss Mary had been a friend of your mother. The only one remaining after all the years of seclusion crafted by your father. He had always been a man of madness — of possessive rage, and harsh fists. Life, as you knew it, had always been cruel and unkind. From the moment you were able to hold a broom somewhat upright you’d been put to work by the man who created you and no protection had come from the woman who birthed you. May you burn in the fire pits of hell for all the years to come, you thought as you gripped the wicker basket with whitening knuckles.

The wind whipped your hair about, loosening it from both clips and bonnet alike. You lowered your gaze and trudged on, avoiding the flakes endeavouring to stab your eyes as you came to the top of the hill. You took no time to rest, merely following the road down toward the fork where you would take a left and hopefully within no time at all arrive at the estate. Please, please let Mary be there at this time…

The forking of the road came and went, your body turned nearly numb while the wind picked up all around. Then it appeared, like a fairytale castle nestled between old oaks and stretching walls of moss-covered stone. Light flickered in the windows, a warm glow calling out to stave off the encroaching night as the sun said its farewell and abandoned you.

Your feet felt like blocks of ice as you moved up the narrow stone steps at the back of the building, where servants entered the estate unseen by its owners and guests. You reached out and knocked, your frozen hand feeling the echo of the impact yet the numbness made you wonder if perhaps you’d merely graced the old wood.

The door opened a moment later, a wave of warmth from within flooding you for a second. “Yes?” said the older gentleman while holding a candle up to shed light upon your harrowed face. “Sir, I am Miss Y/n Y/l/n,” you began with a shake to your voice as you shivered profusely. “Does Miss Mary still hold a position in this household?” you enquired while raising your gaze toward the man who seemed somewhat friendly, there was no glare of distaste in his eyes at the very least. “Oh, she does, are you a friend of hers, Miss Y/l/n?” “My mother was, I do not know if she remembers me very well though.” “Well, step inside, Sir Brandon would be most unhappy about keeping a woman out in the cold while waiting,” the man continued and you scrunched your eyebrows, you were not sure who Sir Brandon was beyond being the owner of the estate and a colonel.

The man walked off in a quick stride while you stood just inside the door. You were too cold and wet for the warmth in the servants’ entrance hall to be of any real use to you so you kept shivering while remaining in your wet clothes which still had little flakes of snow stuck in the fibres.

“Goodness me,” a familiar voice said on a gasp. Miss Mary appeared in the doorway with her hand pressed against her chest in something you could only describe as shock. “Miss Mary,” you said with a quiver to your voice. “I’m sorry for appearing in such a manner, without an invitation nor a word of my arrival beforehand,” you continued quietly while you tried your utmost to hold on to the basket while your numb fingers ached with the prickling of needles as the warmth slowly began to thaw you. “Y/n, dear oh dear,” she whispered as she walked up to you, a sweet worry half visible in her features that had you sigh a deep breath of relief.

***

When morning came you were warm and comfortable for the first time since early summer. You hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in months and the rest had done wonders even if your entire body still ached from the backbreaking work you had managed to procure in recent times.

You wasted no time getting up and dressed. Just as you secured your tattered bonnet a knock came from the door. You opened it only to find Miss Mary with a bundle of neatly folded clothes in her arms, a warm smile tinted with worry gracing her lips.

“These are for you, dear,” she said and stepped inside before you closed the door behind her. “Master Brandon is a fine gentleman and I spoke to him on your behalf, you now hold a position here at Delaford.” You blinked at her words, unable to fully grasp them, or the ease she spoke of her master with. You had yet to meet a kind master; your doubt of the man was not unfounded but not supported either.

“I have work? Here? With you?” you asked, dubious but also relieved beyond measure. Grateful for Miss Mary’s kindness. “Not with me, dear. I am one of five housemaids, I am sectioned to the upper west quarters. I have procured you work as a scullery maid, Cook is a strict woman but fair. She sees hard work and those who do their due diligence under her are rewarded thusly. You will also keep the main fireplace in order, sorting the coal and wood stocking, sweeping the ashes, and polishing the spark guard. Mrs Thatch is old of age and struggles with this task of her allocated quarters, hence it now falls to you,” Miss Mary said, rattling it all off with precision while moving about in your newly acquired room — tugging at the faded curtains, straightening a pillow. The familiarity with her mannerisms and speech was a comfort to you, remembering it from many years ago when you had been but a tiny child.

“Thank you, Miss Mary.” She nodded at you with her tight but kind smile. “Miss Mary,” she said quietly, “been many years since I was called that.” “Oh?” “It’s Mrs Garber now, Y/n. And, as I’m sure you are aware, you are below my station and hence will call me by that name from now on. I shall call you by your first name, as is practice.” You nodded at her words, they weren’t spoken harshly, just in a no-nonsense sort of way.

“Well, Mrs Garber, thank you for all of this. I will do my absolute best so you’re pleased and stay in good grace with the master.” “Oh, I do not doubt it. Now, change into your new clothes after you’ve bathed, you reek of street and dirt. We cannot have that.” You blushed deeply. “I shall do so instantly.” “The kitchen is to the left of where you entered yesterday, you will find your way to Cook on your own?” You nodded and smiled at the kind woman before she left the room with another smile aimed at you.

***

Mrs Garber had been right. Cook was a strict woman, ruling her kitchen with a sense of urgency to everything. But you managed to keep up, managed to not be in the way while doing your tasks around the others flying about with spoons, pots, pans, chopping boards, and all types of food going from one part of the kitchen to another in a flurry.

You were putting back a giant pot you’d just scrubbed to an inch of its life — making the iron nearly shine in the dim light — when Cook told you to pay attention. It was first then you noticed the little bell to your right (one among many) was chiming gently. You wiped your hands, stowed away the rag, and grabbed one of the coal baskets before leaving the hectic kitchen behind. With the heavy basket in a tight grip you silently, stealthily, moved through the estate toward the main part where you’d order the fireplace as the little bell indicated needed doing.

The room was grand, with large pillars lining the walls in stony white and shining floors reflecting the warm glow of the chandelier high above. You did your best to keep to the outskirts, blending in as well as you could with the environment despite there not being anyone in the room. You picked up the pace, sat the heavy basket by the fireplace, and got to work clearing out the old ashes after placing a sheet beneath to protect the flooring.

After emptying everything, sweeping the last bit of dust out, and wiping the grills you leaned in to inspect the stone — making sure there was nothing left — only to look up and see a whole clogging of soot just beyond reach from your seated position. Oh, fabulous… That’ll take me up the chimney to clean. You sighed deeply and grabbed the poker next to the fireplace before crawling inside the fireplace to reach the clogging. T his hasn’t been cleaned in ages.

You squinted, aiming for the clog, only to halt mid-motion. You grabbed your handkerchief and tied it around your face to not inhale whatever was about to come down on you. You grabbed the poker anew, aimed, and jabbed at the nearly rock-hard piece. It took three hard jabs before you broke through the exterior and the heavens rained down soot and ashes atop you.

You didn’t have time to turn away, to back out of the tight space, or even cover your face before you were covered in grey and black. Glorious, perfect, now I’ll be dragging dust and soot all through the house! Mrs Garber will be scolded for making the master hire such a travesty for a scullery maid. I’ll be out on the streets again… Your thoughts swirled while your eyes watered as you kept working on clearing the clogging, you were already a complete mess of chimney soot either way, why not spare the others the suffering if you were already to be scolded for messing up the newly swabbed floors. Your hand fisted, but you resisted the urge to hit the hard surface around you in the tight space, breaking your hand would do nobody any good.

“I believed Santa Claus to be a red-dressed man,” came the most delicious, gravely voice. It echoed all around you in the tight space as your entire body froze. “It seems, I was mistaken,” the man continued and it sounded as if he were even closer. You looked down only to see the most handsome face peering up at you from below.

Your eyes widened, your mouth agape under the handkerchief as you took in the sweet smile, the flowy hair, the hooked nose and gentle eyes. “You are not the mysterious man of Christmas, are you, miss?” he asked and your knees trembled in secret — hidden behind your drab dress that used to be white with a black apron, it was now all grey. You managed to shake your head though, and he chuckled. The sweetest sound ever to grace your ears, amplified by the echo of the chimney you stood in.

“Miss, I believe this is the work of a chimney man, a sweeper.” “I-, I-, Sir, it was clogged,” you managed to say, even if it came out muffled. “I was cleaning the hearth, saw the clog and thought I ought to take care of it. It’s-, it’s a fire hazard. I wouldn’t-, wouldn’t want the grand colonel’s house to burn down, Sir.” “The colonel?” he asked, tilting his head, or, well, he tilted his head further — how was he even looking up at you? He must be bent most awkwardly. “Yes, Sir. The colonel who saw fit to hire even a scullery maid such as I,” you said. “Mrs Garber professes him to be a most wonderful master. I’ve yet to meet the man, but I dare say I shan’t have such a pleasure after the mess I’ve caused… Sir,” you replied in a near ramble, flustered by how the man peered at you most gently. Sweeter on the eyes than any man you’d ever witnessed before. The red coat with golden details you could just hint from his shoulder complimented his skin, his hooked nose was oddly beautiful paired with his strong cheekbones and thin lips.

“A wonderful master, you say, miss?” “Yes, Sir. Mrs Garber told me so.” “Will you step out of the chimney, this position hardly warrants for decent conversation, miss.” “S-sir, I am not one for you to hold decent conversations with, I’m merely a scullery maid.” He chuckled at that, again sending trembles through your already weak knees. “Miss, out of the chimney, if you please,” he said but his voice was gentle and calm, almost a hint of something warm to it. “We shall order a sweeper to visit, you ought not feel the need to take on such a task.”

The man disappeared from the chimney, making you realise his head had been right by those trembling legs of yours, far too close for decency but that was due to the lack of space of course. You drew a steadying breath and began to crouch, backing out of the fireplace with minuscule motions so as not to make the dust flare up. Your foot found the edge of the raised stone and you tried not to turn around too quickly even if your heart hammered at the prospect of seeing the gentleman fully.

You stood up too quickly. Your head banged the edge of the mantel, your other foot stepped right on the edge of the plateau, your trembling knees wobbled and you stumbled out onto to polished floor — your arms flailing, your dress swirling while spreading dust all over. No, no, no! You headed toward the floor in a dusty mess when the man caught you up, his strong body firmly pressed against yours as he took your weight with ease, not even faltering a single step at the sudden impact.

His hands squeezed around your waist, the warmth of his skin penetrating the two layers of fabric almost instantly while a tingle, unlike any other, shot through you. Your hands had grabbed his biceps, strong and unyielding beneath your palms. You blinked rapidly to clear the soot from your lashes while tilting your head only to find him peering down at you with those gentle eyes — a curiosity within them.

“Sir, I’m terribly sorry,” you exhaled shakily as he helped you straighten. Your eyes flickered away from him only to find a literal imprint of dust over his front, outlining you. “I’m terribly, terribly, terribly sorry,” you rushed out in a mere breath as you backed away from him, bowed and your eyes on the polished boots he wore. “Miss, are you well?” he asked while taking a step toward you. “Oh, I’ve made a mess of you, Sir,” you whispered while thoughts of being back out on the street swam through your head in a sea of fear and worry. Surely, the colonel will cast me out, making a mess of a guest of his. A guest so kind and sweet to boot too.

“The floors!” came a shrill old voice from behind you. “Maid! What have you done to the floo— And the colonel! ” the voice shrieked. Your eyes widened, your entire body draining of the warmth his gentle eyes and thunderously gravely voice had inflected upon it. The colonel? You wished to curl up right then and there, to disappear completely. “I’m-, I’m-, I’m so terribly sorry, Sir-, Colonel,” you squeaked, desperate to keep your tears from running down your soot-covered cheeks. It was useless. The clicking of servant heels from behind you, the nearly scrutinizing eyes from the man before you, the shaking of your shoulders, and the lack of breath in your lungs all had you in a vice grip of fear. Last time you left a stain on polished floors you’d endured four lashings over your naked hands. Hands you were now gripping tightly before you, wringing them and spreading the now moist soot all over them.

You couldn’t stay there. You had already made such a mess, made a fool of yourself, and created problems for the very man who employed you — probably out of pity, or worse because Mrs Garber stuck out her neck for you. You did the only thing you could do. You bowed as deep as your body would allow and just as the other servant with the shrill voice reached your side you bolted — spreading dust all around while running towards the kitchens to get to your room where you’d change into your own clothes and leave before any lashing could be given.

“Miss!” came that thunderous voice. “Miss, wait!” he called in a rush that managed to stroke your spine, within your skin. The most pleasurable sound you’d ever heard came from the man who employed you and whose clothes and floors you had just darkened with chimney soot and ashes — as if you were tarnishing the man himself with your very presence in his grand estate.

…To Be Continued…

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: THE FIRST FIC OF RICKMAS2023! 😍👏 Oh I hope you enjoyed this little introduction to this yeas event - as you've probably noticed I am using a system of numbers and letters to make it easier to find which fics that belong to each other this year, I hope it'll be of help as I have hopes for doing several longer fics with several parts this year.

Anyway, I hope you're ready for another December of fan-derful reading, darling! 👏❤ Please do say hello in the comments if you want to, and as I've noticed it's sometimes difficult to know what to comment or find the courage to do so without any prompting I'm promoting you from the very beginning! 🥰

MERRY RICKMAS DARLINGS! 💚

I'll be adding a question in the End Note of each fic, so if you don't know what to comment you can always answer that if you want to let me know you're here and having a good time. I'll add my own answer as well! ❤❤❤

Q: Who's your favourite Alan Rickman character? 😍 A: For me it's Judge Turpin! 👀

Taglist: @mamawolfsmith87 @snowblossomreads @ladykardasi @a-queen-and-her-throne @eternal-silvertongued-prince @lyrixsnape @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @lizlil @snapefiction @darkthought15 @monstreviolet @flowerdementia @marvelschriss @once-upon-an-imagine @ravennight14 @caseydoodles98 @grimmyhild @monster-energies @myobscureimaginarium @snowblossomreads @eternal-silvertongued-prince @cherryglossie @setsuna-meiou31 @helena211 @a-queen-and-her-throne @justsaturn0 @turvi @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @sunnylikesfrogs @mamawolfsmith16 @dianilaws @sassanoe @snapesrn @bernadette-peters12 @sammy-13 @smartowl999 @castleofthorns @serenanight87

Want to be tagged? 💚 You can tag yourself HERE! Or tell me and I’ll gladly tag you! 😍

[Dec:2023]

#rickmas2023 #rickmas #colonel brandon #brandon x reader #alan rickman #rickmaniac #brandon fanfiction #colonel brandon fic #sense and sensibility #christmas fic

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ofduskanddreams · 6 months

Text

Take Me If You Can [teaser]

Happy Halloween! This is not a trick, just a treat for all of you <3 Kinky canon-verse Azris is coming soon, though not quite in time to qualify as a kinktober fic. Minors DNI. Please be mindful of the warnings before clicking beyond the break. This isn't as edited as my usual stuff so please be kind to me.

I used my usual Azris taglist for this but if this snippet isn't your vibe than please disregard the tag. Have a great Halloween :)

CONTENT WARNINGS: CNC (Consensual Non-Consent,) violence, fighting, chasing/hunting, bondage, primal play, making the fae be FAE™, degradation, cutting off clothes, teasing, faebane is involved, toxic masculinity.

Azriel feels the faebane enter his bloodstream immediately, his shadows fade and the stones on the backs of his hands lose their light. As usual, his first reaction is panic. And since Azriel is no coward, he’ll choose fight over literal flight every time. His lungs tighten, gaze searching for any sign of the Autumn male as his heart beats too quickly. Even though this is something he chose, something he asked for, has begged for before, it still goes against every instinct that has kept him alive for the past five and a half centuries.

“You know you can make things easier for yourself any time, Shadowsinger.”

Eris’s voice echoes off the trees, the bastard is using a spell that makes it impossible for Azriel to guess his location because the sound surrounds him.

“Just say the word,” Eris taunts, “or stay still for once like a good little brute and let me catch you.”

Stay still? Like hell he will. Azriel takes off, sprinting across the cushion of fallen needles and moss.

He sidesteps a tree root arching out of the loamy earth, air already sawing in and out of his lungs.

Eris’s laugh sounds from somewhere in front of him. Azriel skids on the soil, turning so quickly he has to push himself off a sap-sticky trunk to stop from crashing into it.

“Running is pointless, you know?”

And Azriel hates himself for the way that coldly arrogant voice, those unmistakably posh vowels, sends a bolt of desire shooting down his spine.

“You will never outrun me. If you try to hide, I will find you. If you try to fly away, I will winnow to you in an instant and take you someplace where no one will hear the way you’ll be screaming for me by the end of the night.”

Azriel runs faster, eyes adjusting to the rapidly darkening forest. He thinks there’s a lake nearby and starts heading in that direction. If he can get to any kind of clearing, he’ll stand a better chance.

Eris doesn’t stop trying to bait him, still projecting his voice so it hits Azriel from every direction.

“You’re nothing without your magic, Shadowsinger. You’re just a helpless male. A coward running instead of facing me. Without your shadows, without your power, you’re useless. What good is a spymaster who can’t spy? A soldier who’s too scared to fight?”

Azriel sees a glimmer through the trees up ahead—moonlight on rippling water.

“What chance do you, a powerless brute, have against me—a high fae prince, the heir to the Autumn Court?” Eris laughs again, “The fact of the matter is that you don’t. I will always find you, Azriel.”

And fuck but the surety in Eris’s voice makes Azriel’s cock stiffen in his leathers. He palms himself hard enough to hurt—not the good kind of hurt—because he can’t afford an erection slowing him down, not when the lake is so close.

“And, when I catch you, I’ll show you exactly what use you’ll be to me.”

It’s a threat. It’s a promise.

Azriel breaks through the tree line and onto the gravelly shore.

But he hasn’t been thinking ahead, doesn’t know where to go because the only options are the water, back into the forest, or into the sky. Flying is the surest way to be caught. Illyrian wings are a hindrance to swimming. The forest means he loses any advantage this clear line of sight gives him.

Though these thoughts fly through his mind in an instant, that’s all it takes. A warm weight slams into him and sends both of their bodies crashing onto the gravel. Azriel lands on his back and the stones bite into his wings, dozens of small cuts on the sensitive membrane open as one—a symphony of exquisitely bright pain blooming.

“Hello, little bat,” Eris sneers above him, auburn curls falling onto his forehead from the chase. The princeling cocks his head, “Giving in so soon?”

“Never,” Azriel growls, slamming a fist into Eris’s side, just below his ribs and rearing up. His forehead meets Eris’s with a crack, shards of light splinter through his vision but Azriel works on muscle memory, throwing Eris off balance and flipping them.

But as he reaches to grab a fistful of Eris’s hair and pin his head in place, the male smirks. Heat wraps around Azriel’s extended wrist as the world darkens, the lake dissolves and he can’t breathe, can’t….

His shoulders burn as his arms are stretched above him to their limit, the rough bark of a tree trunk presses into the open cut on his cheek and Azriel hisses as the hand on his nape presses harder.

“Pathetic,” Eris scoffs, releasing his head with a shove.

Azriel tries to hit him, kick him, something, but his legs won’t move. Glancing down, he sees ropes of flame wrapped around his ankles, glowing orange against the darkness.

“Thinking you could run from me? Honestly,” from somewhere behind him Eris tuts disapprovingly, “this level of delusion would be cute if it weren’t so pitiful.”

“Fuck you,” Azriel cranes his neck and spits but it lands a few feet short of Eris’s polished boots.

“Oh, don’t worry little bat, you will. Try that again. If you make it, I’ll let you lick them clean.”

Despite himself, Azriel’s getting hard. He presses his forehead against the uneven bark, trying to stop the blood from rushing out of his head.

“Oh, I think you like the sound of that,” Eris croons, close enough for Azriel to feel the warmth of his breath on the shell of his ear. “Is that what you are, Azriel? Nothing better than a dog panting at my feet?”

Azriel throws his head back hoping to hit Eris, but all he succeeds in doing is pulling a muscle.

Then there’s cool metal and the familiar edge of a gemstone dragging down the central tendon of his right wing and Azriel’s breath leaves his lungs all at once as he arches into the touch.

Eris chuckles, “Look at you. The famed spymaster of the Night Court, the legendary shadowsinger, and you barely put up a fight. Already so desperate for me.”

“I’m not done fighting,” Azriel sneers, struggling against the restraints.

“Oh but you are,” Eris sounds gleeful. The heat of him presses Azriel into the unyielding tree. Azriel can’t help the noise that slips past his lips when Eris reaches into his leathers without warning and wraps his fingers around Azriel’s cock and strokes leisurely. “Just as I thought.”

The heat of Eris’s skin, the cool metal of his rings, makes Azriel shudder. Eris’s teeth graze the tattoos on his neck and Azriel’s torn between trying to headbutt him again and giving him better access to the sensitive expanse of skin.

“I know how much you hate this,” condescension laces Eris’s words. “You hate that I’m the only one who can give you what you need.” He sighs, releasing Azriel’s cock. “It must be so frustrating not being able to allow yourself the things you want, needing someone else to give them to you, needing me to be that someone.”

A vertical line of pressure lands between Azriel’s shoulder blades—a knife, larger than the one with the faebane.

“Stop,” he grits out, though it lacks conviction.

The moment Eris tackled him onto the lakeshore, Azriel realized how long it’s been since their last game, and just how tired he is. It’s been months since Nyx was born—since Azriel almost lost a third of his family in a single moment and has been doing everything in his power since then to make sure everyone is safe.

The blade cuts through the laces running down his spine, the night air eliciting goosebumps on the newly exposed skin.

“Eris,” Azriel warns. The knife stills halfway through its journey.

“Yes, Azriel?”

The waiting blade, the lack of derision in the words—Azriel doesn’t need to be told that Eris is giving him a chance to stop this now.

He should take it. Azriel should never have let things get this far. Eris is right that a part of him loathes how much he craves this, craves him—the male he’s hated for so long, who’s impossibly complicated, whose masks are so layered that he doesn’t know where they end and Eris begins.

This goes against everything he’s believed his whole life: vulnerability is weakness, weakness is shameful. The last place he should ever want to be is at someone else’s mercy. He’s Rhysand’s spymaster for fuck’s sake—Azriel is the one who binds, he’s the one who wields the blade. It’s who he’s always been: the person everyone needs him to be

— — —full fic coming soon-ish!

tagging : @iftheshoef1tz @damedechance @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus @foundress0fnothing @krem-does-stuff @octobers-veryown @born-to-riot @melonsfantasyworld @acourtofladydeath @secret-third-thing @lady-riel @chunkypossum @catboyjamesbond @queercontrarian @asnowfern @valkyrieassassin @wilde-knight @xtaketwox @itsthedoodle @areyoudreaminof @thelovelymadone @the-lonelybarricade @ablogofsapphicpanic @separatist-apologist @fieldofdaisiies @melphss @bubybubsters @nestas-workwife

if you want to be added to/removed from my azris taglist just let me know :)

#azris #azris fanfiction #azriel x eris #eris x azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #azriel acotar #eris vanserra #eris acotar #acotar fanfiction #cw: kink #cw: cnc #kinktober 2023 #kind of not really #it is in spirit

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dathomirdumpsterfire · 4 months

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Chat writes the plot! Time for more 👑🐲🐟 KotD!

🔥🔥 don't forget to reblog tysm! 🔥🔥

Want to be on the tag list? -> Comment with 'tag me!' Have an idea for next chapter or clicked the wrong option? -> Reblog about it! Check the bottom for the Ao3 link. Latest chapter is below the cut!🔥

~King of the Dragonfish: Chapter 16 ~

Obi-Wan is just about ready to begin figuratively climbing the walls…

…scratch that, he's just about ready to literally climb the walls.

‘Come with me…’ Maul’s voice echoes in his mind.

“No,” he says aloud, pacing circles around the magma ball. “No.”

But gods, does he want-

“No.”

The jedi spares a moment to be angry at the circumstances. Every jedi was met with challenges on the path of life. It was supposed to be that way. They were chances for self reflection and growth. But how many jedi had their mortal enemy return from the grave looking like something out of a wet dream -no pun intended- and kidnap them, only to change their mind and decide they just want companionship and sex? They just want him to stay with them, forever, simple as that.

It's absurd. It's enticing. It's sad. It's sweet.

It makes Obi-Wan want to punch something.

It makes him want other things too…

“No.”

He has to leave. He has to. It's only a matter of time before slick scales and stress levels mix him up into a cocktail of poor choices. Obi-Wan wants to rail Maul into the ground. He wants to see what all that mess at the apex of his tail tastes like. He wants to get on his knees and-

Blast it! It's time to try escaping, with or without help from local fauna.

The jedi walks to the water's edge, and gathers his mental fortitude. He knows he's unlikely to succeed in getting to the sparkle of his lightsaber crystal, or to somehow find his rebreather. However, Maul's force signature is far away. Now is a good time to explore, and hope, and trust in the force.

Obi-Wan jumps into the frigid water, grimacing as it rises around him. He swims as close to the exit tunnel as he can, and starts taking deep breaths, trying to hyperoxygenate a bit.

Then, he dives.

What follows is a slow and cautious exploration of the nearby tunnels that serves as a double blessing for how it takes his mind off Maul. He swims one way, and finds nothing but tunnel that goes on further than he can see. The jedi returns to air, catches his breath, and goes out again.

The other direction offers a split in the road. One way leads to a dead end, the other hits a second divide. Again, he reoxigenates, and despite the terrible cold he goes back down for a third attempt.

Then a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh… a hour passes and the chill sinks into his bones. He finds two more air pockets, not quite as fresh as the algae and moss crowded caves, but still breathable.

And then, he stumbles across another ‘room’.

Obi-Wan breaches the water's surface and finds himself in a trove. He crawls up onto land, and looks around curiously. This cave is a series of smaller rooms that connect, with an exceptional number of pock marks in the walls. Perhaps millennia ago this was living coral? Whatever the case, the larger pockets have been turned into shelves, and these shelves hold myriad items.

Droid parts, sea shells, and pearls as big as his head. Tin cans, fabric scraps, and a silver platter. An entire trombone, half rusted, sits in a footlocker without a lid. There's a pile of datapads which all look to be out of charge, and a statue of some long forgotten nubian queen. These and more, a flee market’s worth of curios.

His most unexpected find is an area of sand, which seems... combed? Gemstones and polished rocks in shades of blue combine with patterns in the sand to create a garden of sorts. Many of the stones are no bigger than a bean. The largest is a chunk of lapis lazuli the size of his fist. Obi-Wan ponders the rock garden for a few minutes before moving on, not quite sure what to make of it.

A sith with a sense of artistry... that's just... odd?

From what he had seen in the archives, the sith of old stuck to geometric patterns and flat colors. Their ideal temple was a barren monolith or an angular ziggurat with either no decoration, or, records of horrible deeds carved in words. Sometimes pictures.

Yet... Maul had made a lovely little garden, in shades of blue and white and beige. Strange.

Obi-Wan turns away from the mystery, and goes digging through the droid parts to see if there's anything that could boost his comm signal. It's a possibility, there's a lot to work with here. Rather than take anything, the jedi memorizes what he sees and makes note of it. He will plan what to take and where to hide it to work on before risking revealing the direction of his thoughts.

At the very back of the caves is a large cubby of stone that looks like it was carved into the wall with a lightsaber, then carefully sanded smooth.

On a shelf beside it sits a saberstaff. Obi-Wan can feel the song of the kyber from here, now that he listens. Two notes in harmony, one longing and angry, the other spiteful and determined. The jedi knows this blade, and has no desire to touch it… but it's good to know where it is.

He shakes his head sadly at the sithly melody, and sits down at the edge of the cubby, exhausted and sluggish. Obi-Wan rests his elbows on his knees, needing a minute to gather his strength. Even with a jedi's ability to propel himself with the force and slow his heartbeat, it was still a long swim back.

Emotionally Obi-Wan feels a lot better though. He's mapped a significant amount of tunnel, found three places to get air for further exploration, and most importantly he's gotten his mind off-

Oh, kriff.

The jedi master groans, flopping backwards onto the smooth stone with a wet smack, exasperated with himself. Truly? Truly. A single stray thought about beautiful black scales, and he's back in the thick of it like he'd never left.

Obi-Wan covers his eyes with a shaking hand, hiding from reality for just a moment. Two moments. Perhaps five moments…

He sighs, removing his hand to look up at the ceiling. This is, inconveniently, when he realizes his fingers are very pale. Bother. He needs to get up, and… and swim back to the radiant heat of the magma ball.

Just the thought of it is dreadfully tiring, and he is comfortable here. Very comfortable... So very…

Oh no.

He knows exactly what being sleepy when one is very cold means. The jedi curses under his breath, forcing himself upright. His vision is slow to catch up with where he's looking. He's pushed too far, and now his body is paying the price of that.

Obi-Wan draws in the force to support himself, and rises unsteadily to his feet. Every bone in his body pleads with him to lay down. He denies the instinct in favor of a survivalist mentality.

The problem? He is much too cold.

The solution? Getting out of wet clothes and closer to warmth, or barring that, some kind of insulting material.

He thinks through a mild fog, and recalls the cloth scraps. Obi-Wan goes hunting around in the treasure trove as he pulls off his belt. He dumps his clothes onto the floor, managing to lay them out to air dry for what it was worth in the relative humidity. Then he gathers up every last scrap of fabric he can find.

The pile of scraps. A sail cloth. Half a tarp. His best find is a pair of old wool socks, which he puts on right away. The lot of it he piles in the cubby, and curls in on himself in the midst of it. Obi-Wan knows he just needs to warm up, then he can put everything back, and return to where he was supposed to be. Maul's force presence was still far away. He wasn't in a rush…

…and that's part of why the jedi falls asleep precisely when and where he really shouldn't.

Obi-Wan wakes sometime later with his head tucked under a pointed chin. A scaled tail curls around his naked legs, and a lumpy magma hemisphere radiates heat against his back.

... kark.

Obi-Wan can't deal with this right now. He's beyond exhausted, possibly a bit ill. The jedi master takes a deep breath, and just... goes back to sleep, held close in red and black arms.

To be continued...

-Tag list- (Comment if you want added!)

@obimaulartfire @savageopressbignaturals @icequeen8043 @moonsickvampire @maulish @milkcioccolato @cyborg0109

New? Start from Chapter 1! 👇🏽

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hisui-dreamer · 1 year

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hello ˚ ༘ (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈) about mc angel's request, I was wondering if you could do the same but for malleus and lilia,.. also adding the fact that mc doesn't know how to land well and always crashes xd so mc have to practice constantly jsjs thanks! ^^

of softer landings

Characters: Malleus, Lilia

Synopsis: you're an angel, but really you don't act like one, even more so with your crash landings. Worry not, your lover is glad to be of assistance.

Tags: crack, fluff, bot proofread

Word count: 509

Notes: i just assumed the two of them do fly with wings, malleus being a dragon fae and lilia being a bat fae? also writing lilia's old man dialogue is so fun

Part 1 ✧ Masterlist

Malleus finds you so interesting

he appreciates the challenge your stubbornness presents, and the excitement your mischievous behaviour brings to his life

he thinks its another prank of yours when you tell him

"An angel?" he repeats, trying to make sense of it all. "I find it hard to believe."

but once you tell him you're serious, he'll believe you because he puts an incredible amount of trust in you

loves seeing your wings bc it shows you trust him

he's a bit clumsy when it comes to wing care, but he's more than willing to help you maintain your damaged wings

very concerned about your crash landings

honestly he's so excited to help you with flying, seeing it as an opportunity to assist you and spend more time with you

very patient in teaching but he's also the type of teacher that can't be specific in instructions

goes great lengths to ensure you're safe and comfortable during the practice sessions

he's gotten so good at casting slow fall spells quickly now

Malleus reaches for your hand, gently holding it. "Child of Man- no, my Sweet Angel, as dragon fae, I believe I can offer valuable guidance to you. Please do not hesitate to ask for my help, and I will do my utmost to ensure your safety and success."

He taps his chin, pondering. " When you're close to the ground, you want to bend your knees slightly. Think of it like preparing for a duel."

"Well done, my Sweet Angel! You have a natural talent for flying, and I have no doubt that you will master landing with practice and determination," he encourages, his dark wings flapping in excitement.

Lilia loves your energy, the two of you bounce energies off of each other and you’re quite a mischievous duo

he finds it amusing to be challenged and teased by you

he will be strict if you take a joke too far, but he can’t stay mad at you for too long

he has met many angels in his long fae life but you’re the first to be so mischievous

he believes you pretty quickly though, he’s seen more strange things in his life

"Well, I'll be. You're not like any other angel I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. But that's precisely what makes you so special and dear to me," he laughs

he loves helping you with wing care, he finds it so calming, and you often request his assistance with how you always crash land

he’s worried about you getting hurt, bad landings can be dangerous

he offers to teach you how to land, suggesting you practice on a softer surface like a pile of leaves or moss and also demonstrating flying

he’s determined to do whatever it takes to ensure your safety and well-being

also super patient with his training

Lilia smiles and wraps his arms around you. "I believe you," he says softly. "And I think it's amazing that you're an angel. You're unlike any other angel I've ever met, and that's what makes you so special to me."

"Dear me, that simply won't do," he says, his tone taking on a more serious note. "It's imperative that you learn how to land properly if you wish to continue flying safely. Allow me to offer my assistance in this matter."

Lilia extends his hand towards you, offering to help with practice. "Come, my dear, let us begin your training at once. I have been flying for many years, and I believe that with my guidance, you can learn to land smoothly and safely."

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

#twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #twisted wonderland malleus #lilia vanrouge #lilia vanrouge x reader #twisted wonderland lilia #diasomnia

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kit-williams · 2 months

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non Khorne canon

thank you @callme-cursed for inspiring me with this:

Khorne - Your father's astartes only got more temperamental with age. Small things seemed to become the greatest slight one could make against him. You left for your own safety quietly in the night. It was unfortunate to realize so late you were his favorite. Now he is on a war path to find you again.

And letting me write something that no matter how hard I tried just keeps turning lewd. I'm keeping him legion/chapter-less so that anyone can insert their favorite legion/chapter. (Since its lewd its why I'm tagging my usual people)

Normal taglist: @bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog @thevoidscreams

tw: dubious consent? maybe noncon? Can read either way I suppose but either way you're getting dicked down. Written in 1st person because I have a problem

I get a notification on my phone about a break in at my apartment and the pictures show your family's astartis breaking in and looking around most likely barking for your name. He had started to act odder and odder... getting angry and aggressive with everyone especially with everyone around myself... getting far too affectionate and starting to bring me home trophies. I decided to stay at my apartment more it's why it's there because I am a big girl... but he wanted me at home where he could watch me.

I decided it was time for one of my hiking trips. I call dad just telling him what he's done and just that I decided to take a hiking trip for a few weeks. I've been doing it since I was sixteen... and even then sure I'd be hiking with him. I swallow as I have to keep going to get to that dry spot as the rain picks up.

I'll probably take a different trail then I normally do to throw him off my trail but I'm certain dad can wrangle him in... he's always been a stubborn astartis but just him being a big bully and him... I don't even know what to call it? Online people called it courtship behaviors... others said it was just being overly affectionate and showing which person is their favorite... the internet was no help in dealing with his recent mood swings and it scared me.

Sure he was grumpy when I was younger but now he was getting straight up violent and it made me feel so unsafe even if it never was directed at me or the parents; I just had to get out of there so fast. I've always hated confrontation and just I was always a coward. It would be fine....

But it was not fine... I run my fingers through my long hair as I read the text in the morning... Dad: ... hasn't come home. He might be going to look for you. I close your flip phone as I quickly pack up my camp knowing I have less and less time to get to the trail split and if I'm lucky he'll just keep going looking for me and then go home.

It was always so pretty the morning after a rain... the way raindrops clung to leaves, to moss, hanging suspended in spider webs... just a breeze shaking those drops free from their perches giving me another mini shower under a canopy. But I didn't have time to enjoy the relaxing bit of nature as I headed quickly to the split and when I finally got there I made sure I didn't stop powerwalking down the path until lunch.

The rain was threatening to come back as I was upset at how much rain there seemed to be typical weather people lying... I hold my breath as I suddenly hear a humming as the forest goes quiet and I turn my head and see the bloody visage of him... the family astartis... freshly harvested skulls on his hip both animal and human. His breath comes out hot and heavy as he pants and I can see it in the air as he leans his head back just grinning like a madman to the sky as it suddenly unloads.

My legs get cuts as I sprint through the underbrush just running blindly as he calls my name rushing after me. My lungs burn as I run tempted to throw away my bag to run faster but he'd certainly use it as leverage if I do get away. I hear water as I realize I'm near that cute spot... with the little pond and the waterfall. I stop above the pond as the water is coming down... a jump into the water from this height would hurt, I would know the memory of me doing it one summer hike with him.

"Sweetheart..." He brays softly as he walks out of the woods looking at you as I stay near the edge of the rocks, "come on take a step away... you look so cold. I can help with that." I can hear the layered meaning in his voice no longer hiding it. I remember admitting it once that I had a small crush on him but that was when I was young and hormonal and crazy for anything man shaped. How he just laughed at that and found it cute... that was a decade ago it seems he's changed his mind on that.

"Just leave me alone." I say threatening to take another step back.

"Get over here now." He snarls and I nearly rush over to him in obedience but I just shake my head as he looks so angry at me it causes my eyes to water as I feel so scared.

He takes a step forward and I jump back and the look on his face is surprise before I know it he's right there jumping after me having to jump somewhere else to avoid crushing me. He wasn't the best swimmer so I think I have time... I think I have time... I crawl out of the water coughing slightly just taking a moment to rest my limbs. Its in that moment I feel a hand thread through my hair and grip my hair by the scalp.

I scream and claw his hand as its hard not to know who is dragging me by my hair given how his nails dig into my forehead causing me to bleed. The rain seems to drown my begging and screaming as he drags me to the "lovers cove". Rain hits a tarp hidden by leaves and vines as I remember finding this place as it was nice to camp here in the summer with the firepit roaring. Of course you couldn't stay here long having to explain to him why... because it was really only used for sex.

I'm too tired to move as jumping in my full gear was exhausting. I feel the flash of heat as he starts to pull on my clothes and I struggle as he snarls and fights me out of my soaking wet clothes. I'm trembling both from how wet and cold I am but also so afraid of being alone with him right now.

He seems to visibly relax as he pets my head and starts to dry my skin by rubbing a dry fur pelt against my flesh as he mutters and nuzzles my face just trilling as he continues to dry me off. His lips brushing against my cheek and temple as his thumb roughly swipes away my now flowing tears. Trying to calm me down as he rummages through my wet bag trying to heat up a ration for me. His eyes nervously darting over to me as if he is worried that I'll try to take off into the dark raining forest fully naked. I look over at him... the large two headed eagle tattoo on his back is still there though now holding what looks like a crown of thorns. It looks like a large back piece has been outlined in one of those chaos shapes... for Khorne you think.

He puts the ration in my lap and nuzzles me as he has me in his lap... and I realize he's naked too... I can feel his excitement against my back as he maneuvers my hand to pick up my spoon and I start to eat. I whimper and let out a soft sob as he hugs me tightly trying to soothe me. I rub my eyes as his hands move up and down my sides... trying to calm me down but it only riles me up and I try to move out of his lap.

His arms flex as he puts me in a headlock and his leg wraps around my own to keep me in place as he is snarling and barking at me in his tongue and I can't help but burst out into tears as he lets me go and I cower just afraid... I hate it when people yell at me... especially men... so loud so scary. He croons apologetically his body covering mind but then his breathing hitches as he starts to throb more as I realize his cock is against my sex... and to my horror... I'm not physically repulsed by the action.

I can't even say his name to try and stop him as he's already pulling your hips up as you manage to slip between his fingers to scramble away and he pounces on you. Your lungs hurt as you wheeze out the air feeling him rut against you licking the side of your head and you can't help but burst into tears as you moan out shamefully. You beg with a hiccupped sob for him to stop and he does... for a moment.

"Need... need to mark... need... need to keep." He hisses through clenched teeth. "No more separation... " He says before turning my head and shoving his tongue down my throat it feels. His fingers fumble against my sex before one slips so easily inside of me... roughly preparing me but there is not much to prepare... I'm so wet. "So sad... so helpless... " He moans into my neck pushing another finger into my sex as he does his best to prepare me for the burn of the stretch. He pulls his fingers out and shoves them into his own mouth tasting me. "Need me... need me to protect... I protect. Always protect." He says in stilted English as he pulls me off the ground before putting me on a shitty "bed" with a pelt he brought with him most likely thrown over it.

I try to beg for him to stop but he pushes his thumb against my tongue to stop me. He tilts my head up and I see several skulls around the bed. He practically purrs as I start shaking as they are all human skulls... some still stained red, "I protect... scared little sweetheart."

He says just hooking his hands under my knees tilting me up before sliding into me. He has to stop and close his eyes to not start pummeling his hips into mine but his pace is still just a bit to fast and little too hard and I can't help but cry up at him. But now I whimper and whine... he leans in and kisses me hard and passionately. I arch feeling the fur of the pelt against my back only leave ghosts of an impression on my skin... the skulls watching him fuck me hard are a ghost of a memory...I feel that pleasure course through my veins as he presses himself against me as deeply as he can as I orgasm and the clenching flesh around him causes him to spill over the edge.

We tumble over that edge as the rain picks up, lightning lights the forest, and thunder shakes the trees. Tears roll down my cheeks as he holds me close cooing at me. "Don't cry... I'm here... you're safe." He says between pants. Warmth is still spilling out between my legs and I feel confused about what's happened... but I feel so tired and will... I'll worry about it later. I sniffle softly and nod my head as I close my eyes and pass out feeling his warm body around my own and the fire... I'll deal with it all tomorrow.

#khornite #chaos space marine #space marine #non canon #non canon husbandry #warhammer 40k #inspired #mating press march #tw: dubious consent #tw: noncon

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hopepetal · 1 year

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Welcome to 5llsmp, an experimental hardcore series– gets smacked

Right! Us Tumblr folk decided to get together and play some good ol' fashioned third life! Just with four lives. And a Boogeyman. But no life trade function.

The colour system is as follows.

Four lives- dark blue 💙

Three lives- green 💚

Two lives- yellow 💛

One life- red ♥️

Every time after we have a session, the players send me summaries of what happened, and I write it all up in an official statement! Some people recorded, so be on the lookout for little clips here and there! The official tag for this smp is #5llsmp, so check that out for the artwork, fanfiction, and other posts about our little game!

Well then, without further ado...

Session One

Your players:

Stiff (any) @stiffyck

Bee (she/they) @applestruda

Jay (she/they) @happy-hermit

Chem (he/they/it) @chemdisaster

Star (they/zie) @scarring-lust (18+)

Ed (he/byte/chirp/gore) @frootyloopy

Space (he/xe) @space-apples

Phil (he/zir/ghost/it) @aresonist

Wilm (he/they) @whilmsy

Melou (he/they) @melouthechalk

Zera (they/he) That’s me!

Elle (she/her) @periwinklemoonlight

Brandy (any) @brandyy0moss

5ievel (any) @5-fievel

Moth (he/him) @evenmoreevil

Admins:

Console- Wren @wren-pineapples

Playing- Zera (me again!)

The session starts off with a bang (more like a vine boom)!

Stiff runs off with Bee and Phil to gather materials before eventually running into Moth in the mountains! They decide to base together, creating the Lads of the Valley! Stiff then goes looking for water and meets Zera, and they both get distracted and go mining together.

Space and Wilm meet at spawn and decide to stick together, watching Chem take the enchanter and run off! They run off to the desert where they meet Zera at night. Space unfortunately dies to a husk, becoming the first green name of the server! Wilm then leaves Zera and goes back to spawn to find Space!

Zera immediately runs off in a random direction alone, and manages to find a village. They get an iron sword from the blacksmith! They briefly meet with Space and Wilm before mining some iron and getting everything set. They meet with Stiff and give him a diamond! They find sculk with Stiff and start mining it, but fall into lava and die. They then meet with Jay and decide to team, becoming the Boatem Birdies.

Chem is the first to mine the surface iron and run off with the enchanter! The boogeyman is chosen, and it ends up being him! He tries to make a plan for killing someone, and lies when Zera briefly passes by and asks if he’s the boogeyman. At spawn, Chem kills Wilm in what is described as the “most pathetic chase scene ever” where Wilm begs Chem not to kill him and Chem says they will cry if they don’t get the kill. Chem then goes to find a cave, names it “the pits of depression and self-loathing”, and allows Star to use the enchanter for sugar cane.

Star goes on a lone adventure, taking care to slaughter every living creature they see, with a special vendetta against the donkeys. They find a mineshaft and an enchanted book! They find Chem in a ravine and they meet up with Brandy for a bit! Star then goes on a hunt for moss and nearly dies.

Elle, staying true to her adventure loving self, basically stays in a cave all session digging clay for bricks. This is because Elle wants to build a house to fight Bee in.

5ievel and Ed stick together, calling themselves the Iron Guys. They briefly met up with Wilm, Brandy, and Elle and mined for a bit. 5ievel died to a creeper before rejoining the group briefly before going to the nether. The Iron Guys decide to base underground!

Space has died two more times, becoming the first and only red of the server.

Meanwhile, the Lads of the Valley are trying to get goat horns, spending about fifteen minutes with varying amounts of success before killing most, if not all, of the goats. Stiff dies by getting shot by a skeleton, and chats with Wilm after respawning before rejoining the Lads of the Valley.

The Boatem Birdies make a mini boatem pole with only two boats, before beginning to make a tower base. They become frenemies with the Lads of the Valley and discuss how screwed they are if one of the Lads becomes the boogey next session. Moth puts up a cobblestone wall between the Boatem Birdies and the Lads’ property, which Jay and Zera later take down. The Boatem Birdies attempt to make a peace treaty with the Lads with flowers, but Phil and Moth burn the flowers while Bee accepts.

The session has ended!

Life count:

Stiff- 3

Bee- 4

Jay- 4

Chem- 4

Star- 4

Ed- 2

Space- 1

Phil- 3

Wilm- 3

Melou- 4

Zera- 3

Elle- 4

Brandy- 3

5ievel- 3

Moth- 4

#5llsmp #5llsmp official summary #5llsmp first session #life series

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 1 year

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Fic: Swim

Read on Ao3

Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO)

Ship: Joel Miller x you (cishet f reader)

Tags/warnings: Yearning, Joel is bad at feelings and doesn't understand hints (or just chooses not to), female nudity, ogling.

Summary: You take a swim in a lake while Joel watches. That's it, that's the plot.

Words: 2,046

There's something about moving through the forest where nothing is heard except for the wind in the trees and the birds in the sky. The smell of moss and resin fills your nose, and the air is so clean it's almost making you high. The ground yields slightly under your boots, making it seem like you're floating forward. This is a far cry from the crowded quarantine zone with its downtrodden pavements and smell of dirty people. If you didn't have this, you would probably have put a gun to your own head a long time ago. But you do have this, and you greedily grab each and every opportunity to experience it.

Joel's breathing heavily behind you. The two of you have been walking for hours and even here, in the shade of the trees, it's a little too hot for comfort. Your hoodie is tied around your waist and you're in your t-shirt and jeans only. Joel's still soldiering on in his flannel. No wonder he's boiling.

Between the trees, you see something glimmer. Water? You stop and stare, Joel almost walking into you.

"Watch it," he grumbles, perhaps more to himself than to you. When he realizes that you're staring off into the distance, his hand goes to the gun at his side. You hold out your hand to let him know it's okay.

"Is that a lake?" you ask, pointing in the direction you're looking. With a deep exhale, Joel wipes the sweat from his brow before squinting.

"Looks like it."

"Let's go there."

"We're making good time," he objects, but you can see he wants a break.

"We're not expected back yet, and we need to rest," you point out. "I'm getting hungry."

"Alright," he agrees, and you lead the way, your feet even lighter now for knowing they're getting rest.

The lake is just as lovely as you hoped for: clear blue water, surrounded by forest and with cliffs on the opposite side, a family of swans swimming in the middle of it. You find a spot where willows grow right by the water, and their crowns serve as giant parasols as you go down to the water's edge. The water is refreshing but not too cold, and you exhale in a satisfied sigh as you splash some in your face. A light breeze comes in from the water, and you close your eyes against it, smiling as you forget the state of the world for just a moment.

Behind you, Joel groans quietly as he sits down on a small, flat rock and picks out rations from his pack. Biting into the tough jerky, he looks as morose as ever when you turn towards him.

"Lighten up, Miller," you can't help but tease him, "when was the last time you went on a picnic like this?"

"Who says I've ever been to one?" he glares. You shake your head and pick up a piece of dry meat from your backpack.

"That explains so much."

You turn your back against him and look over the waters. The swans, two parents and four gray babies.

"Swan babies are called cygnets, did you know that?" you ask, admiring the graceful birds.

"No."

"My mom taught me that. There was a park near where I grew up... there were swans there every summer..." Your voice trails off. You and Joel never talk about the past. And although it's been so long, you still miss your mother terribly. Thinking about what once was can be dangerous. It can make you long for something better, and there doesn't seem to be any light on the horizon.

"Swans mate for life, don't they?" Joel asks in a low voice that makes the hairs at the back of your neck rise. Nobody can drop down as many octaves as Joel when he speaks about things he really doesn't want to share - or when he's trembling with held back rage, fists tightly closed, ready to start swinging.

"Yeah," you confirm, your tongue suddenly a little thick in your mouth. "They mourn their dead partners, too."

He grunts something at that, and for a moment you are at a loss at to what to say or do. It has been clear to you for a long time that Joel cares about you, although it's easy to miss if you don't know him. But you do know him, or at least know something about him, and you know for sure that he wouldn't have been with you for such a long time unless he cared. The easy camaraderie you share may not be physical or affectionate, but it is one of the few good things you have in this world.

That, and the forest. And this beautiful lake with its clear, fresh water that glitters in the sunshine.

You become aware of how sweaty and dirty you are, and it's very easy to make up your mind.

"I'm going for a swim."

"What?" Joel raises a brow at you, and his chewing stops for a second.

"I'm going swimming," you articulate, bending down to untie your boots. Joel gets up, frowning in discontent at you kicking off your boots. You straighten your back and meet his gaze.

"It's not a good idea," he tells you.

"We're too far away for infected, and we haven't seen anyone here for days," you shrug. "It's just a quick swim. We're far more exposed when we sleep in the forest at night."

Joel can't argue with that, but he tries.

"There's other things out here to watch out for."

"What, Jaws?" you scoff as you untie the hoodie from around your waist, and throw it on the ground. Joel's grim face lets you know he's not amused, but it's too nice a day for you to get into a scowling match with his grumpy ass.

You pull down your jeans, and he averts his eyes.

"It's not safe," he insists.

"You're here, aren't you?" you point out, your voice a little more subdued now. He glances at you before looking to the side again.

"We should get going." His objections are getting thinner and thinner.

"You are more than welcome to walk on," you shrug before pulling your t-shirt over your head. "I can take care of myself. You dont have to wait for me."

"I know - " He turns back to you and notices that you are, in fact, quite naked. Your panties are in a heap at your feet, and you're stepping out of them. His gaze is burning on your bare skin and you bite into your lower lip as you raise your chin.

"You sure you don't want to come into the water?" you ask him quietly. Joel tears his eyes from your body, finding your gaze again. He swallows, and that tiny crack in his composure is all the encouragement you need.

"Or maybe you want to watch?" you add, a little leery, but a tremble runs through you body as you realize that you are flirting. And Joel is not scoffing, not looking at you with contempt, not running away. He kicks a little at the ground, almost looking at you sideways, but his eyes are glued to the ground.

"Go ahead, then. But make it quick."

The water is wonderfully cool and you wade out slowly, testing your footing for each step. The bottom is rocky, but most of the stones have been smoothed flat, and almost slippery with seaweed. When your thighs are steeped, you lean forward, push off with your feet, and glide through the water. You gasp at the initial coldness but your body quickly becomes used to the temperature. Your strokes are first slightly clumsy, unaccostumed to swimming as you are, but your muscles quickly remember how to do it.

"Don't go too far out," Joel calls from the shore. So he is watching. You glance back to catch his eye, but he's busy scanning the surroundings.

The joy of taking a nice swim on a hot summer's day is not diminished, so you turn around, treading water, and call back: "Come on, Miller, don't be a landlubber! You can swim, right?"

He looks at you then, face resting in the shade of the willow, eyes scrunched up against the glitter on the surface of the lake. You wish he could let the his face relax, just for a little while, just for a moment so that you could see what he looked like before the world as you knew it ended, on a sunny day by a forest lake, with friends and family, maybe lovers, or by himself, perhaps fishing, just enjoying life...

"I can swim, but I won't if you get yourself in a situation," he now warns you, and you sigh. Sourpuss.

"The water is really nice..." you tempt him, floating on your back and wiggling your toes at him. He crosses his arms over his chest, gesturing a finality that you just don't feel like arguing with. There's a part of you that is angry with him for being so uncompromisable, but you can't blame him for being who he is. If he wasn't who he was, he might not be alive, he might not be the one who protects you, he might not even be here with you.

You dive, arms and legs carrying you back towards the shore, and resurface, drawing air into your lungs. Now Joel is staring at you, as if your disappearing underneath the surface wasn't of your own volition. His shoulders sink a little when he sees that you're okay. Your feet touch the rocky bottom and you stand up, the water reaching you to your chest. Slowly, you make your way to the shore, your eyes fixed on Joel's. Your nipples knot under his scrutiny, and when the water reaches halfway up your thighs, his gaze drops to the dark triangle fully visible above the water. Your skin has cooled off but heat begins to pool deep inside your belly, traveling up your spine before dripping down between your legs. You don't stop until you're standing right in front of him, blinking droplets from your lashes, lips parted to let your excited exhales escape.

Joel rakes his eyes over your wet body, takes it in like no one has in years, like you had never imagined him capable of, and you have often imagined him as a man of a significant amount of talents. You don't shrink under his scrutiny, quite the opposite: you relish it. You want him to worship you with his eyes, take his fill, feast on you until looking is no longer enough.

He raises his hand, that rough, large hand that has pulled countless triggers, hurt innumerable people. You're not afraid, you've never been afraid of him. Palm up and fingers slightly bent, his hand is moving almost in slow motion towards you, to touch your breast. You wait, heart skipping several beats, and you almost flinch when his calloused palm brushes against your soft flesh.

Something rustles in the shrubbery behind Joel, who reacts in a split second. With one smooth move, he has pulled his gun, spun around, and is pointing the gun at the edge of the forest. Your legs shake as you take a step back to get closer to your backpack, where your gun is. But before you get to take it out, the lower branches of a bush nod, and a rabbit hops forward.

You both stare at the damn critter like you've ever seen one before. Eventually, Joel lowers his gun.

"Fuck."

You exhale in a strained chuckle. "Shoot it, we'll have dinner."

The rabbit, however, has already fled at the sound of human voices, and Joel is clicking the safety back on his gun before he puts it away. Without turning around, he tells you in a tight voice to get dressed.

"I want to be back before nightfall."

Fighting to control your trembling hands, you slowly get dressed and grab your pack. Stomping past Joel, you swing the bag widely onto your back. It slams into his arm, but you don't apologize.

He never apologized for bruising your heart, so why should you apologize for trying to protect it?

#the last of us fanfic #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #my fic

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