#wild how wide and dry this fandom is

[mistatsunrise]

Shards of Loyalty

Amidst the shadows of betrayal and loyalty, one rebel medic must navigate fractured bonds in the heart of the Empire's darkness.

Fandom: Star Wars, The Bad Batch

Pairing: Wolffe x Reader

Content: Angst as the reader briefly reunites with Wolffe on Teth

Warnings: Spoilers for TBB S3ep06+07

Word Count: 2,978

A/N: I watched the episode, cried, then spent all my time writing this. Also, I couldn't help but have Gregor simp for the reader in this one. Art in divider is by lornaka.

Sitting around the grey flexsteel table, laughter danced around you, as soft giggles spilled from your lips. Your eyes closed briefly as your cheeks rose, a toothy grin wide across your face in a way that made each corner hurt. Across from you was the other source of joyful sounds, in his worn, white plastoid commando armour. His features were spread into a similar grin, crow's feet crinkled about his chestnut brown eyes that glinted in the artificial light of the ship’s interior, and the worn lines upon his tan skin stretched about his smile. A small, stray strand on his dark, slicked-back hair had fallen out of place, which he brushed back into place with a quick swipe of his gloved hand.

As you calmed your laughs, you shifted your hand to take hold of your cup of caf that sat on the table in front of you, the earthy smell of it curling in your nose as you inhaled. Before taking a sip of it, you tilted your head towards the clone opposite you as he rubbed the side of his face, trying to calm his laughter that was greater than yours.

“As soon as we land, I’m going to go get Nemec to confirm that, Gregor,” you teased him softly, to which the clone burst into another bout of laughter.

“You don’t trust me?” Gregor cooed as his laughs subsided again, pointing an accusatory finger at you. It wasn’t serious though, the lop-sided smirk on his face making it evident.

You rolled your eyes softly, placing your hand around the warm cup and lifting it to take a sip. The caf inside tasted too dry and was bitter on your tongue. Yet, you focused on Gregor, paying the poor taste of the caf little mind. “That mission was wild, I need to hear Nemec’s account. I believe you… but, maker, I need to hear more.”

Gregor chuckled softly at that, raising his cup of caf to his lips as you spoke. Yet, you noticed his dark chestnut hues shift from looking at you, moving to looking at the stairs towards the cockpit. The heavy sound of metal prosthetic legs, slightly muted by boots, traveled down to the table. In the doorway, Echo emerged, his pallid features holding a sense of alarm. He cut to the chase, his caramel eyes settling upon both you and Gregor as he spoke.

“Rex commed. Imperials have discovered the base at the spire. They need extracting, ASAP. We’re about five parsecs away.”

You flicked your eyes back to Gregor, whose dark eyes had now hardened with solemnity. There was an unspoken understanding between you three. Your voice vocalized before you even registered it, holding an almost emotionless tone to it.

“Affirmative.”

You pushed yourself from your chair as Gregor simultaneously stood. You all knew what needed to be done, no orders were needed. That’s how this little group of rebels worked, efficiently like a well-oiled droid; not like the Separatist clankers, but like the whirring of a reliable R-series astromech.

Gregor shifted past you on your right, raising a hand to place gently on your shoulder. His digits gave a gentle, but brief squeeze before departing, a small gesture of reassurance. It was all you needed to push yourself forward, to walk down the familiar corridors of the ship towards the medbay.

Once in the dark room, surrounded by dim blue hues and softly blinking lights of green, red, white, and blue, you didn’t need to turn on the main light to navigate about; you knew this place like the back of your hand. You had transitioned from a medcenter medic to a field medic for the clone rebels, and this place was now as close to a home as you could probably get. You missed your life before, at the medcenter, but here, in this dim room, it was easy to put away the memories, the good and the bad, and be enveloped in the blanket of shadows and low light.

As you sought for your medical bag, fingers grazing against the embroidered section of the fabric, a memory surfaced.

“It’s a gift, for helping with… well, everything.”

Wolffe’s voice echoed in your mind as if he was there. He’d stood before you, a small bundle in his outstretched hand. It was wrapped rather poorly, the edges of the paper coming unfolded as it sat there, as if the commander either hadn’t bothered to find an adhesive, or he simply couldn’t find one. It seemed too awkward for him, in a way, and that was coming from the person who’d been there for… well, everything. At least from the moment he’d arrived, fresh red scar and painfully burnt eye from a lightsaber wound. There had certainly been some awkward moments in his recovery, but somehow, it was not as awkward as this moment. Perhaps, because for once, Wolffe was the one giving, and neither of you was used to it. You’d taken the gift, fingers pulling at the paper to unveil an embroidered patch in the middle, the symbol of the Wolfpack in the middle. “I want you to be an honorary member of the Wolfpack,” Wolffe had explained, still rather awkwardly. At the time, you didn’t know why, but when you went home, to sew the patch to your medpack bag, you’d found his comm details written in the paper wrapping too. That moment felt like a lifetime ago. All memories of Wolffe did. You had been so close. So close, that you’d almost admitted to him that you loved him. But that never came to pass. The world as you knew it shattered, and you had to rebuild. The medbay you currently knelt in was a testament to that.

A sigh, heavy and warped with longing, passed from your lips, falling into the air of the dark room. You had to focus; Rex, Nemec, Fireball, and Howzer were relying on you for the extraction, and you needed to be ready in case anyone was harmed… which was inevitable. Hopefully, all injuries would be minor. Pushing the past where it belonged, in the past and away from your conscious thought, you grabbed the medpack, pulling the straps over your shoulders. No time to dawdle. You stood straight, pack weighing on your shoulders, and you navigated the hallways the way you had just walked, back to the mess room, and then further, up the stairs to the cockpit.

At the very front was Echo, facing ahead as the blue streaks of light shot by like endless blaster bolts. A few seats back sat Gregor, leaning forward with arms crossed over his knees. Both sat in silence; apprehension hung in the air, the deep breath before plunging into conflict, something both clones were used to. You certainly weren’t, yet you were not one to let the unease overwhelm you. Taking a few steps forward, you plant yourself in the leather of the chair opposite Gregor, your voice cutting through the silence.

“How long until we get there?”

Echo tilted his head back slightly, the caramel hues of his irises glinting in the light of hyperspace, coming in from the viewports. “Another couple of minutes. Rex and the boys will need to hold on until then.”

Gregor’s voice quickly cut in after Echo finished his sentence, drawing your attention to him. He’d swiveled his chair to face you, having grabbed something from the small side sill at the edge of the cockpit. “Here, take this blaster,” Gregor extended his hand out, holding a DC-17 hand blaster to you. “Not sure if we’ll have to fight. Be safe than sorry.” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, momentarily going higher pitch before lowering to his usual pitch. After the voice cracks, a small burst of nervous laughter escaped the clone. It was not long ago that you and Gregor shared humorous laughter, and now all that joy had dissipated. You leaned forward, outstretching your arm to take the blaster from Gregor’s hand. Your fingers curled around the weapon and softly brushed Gregor’s hand, warm still through the gloves. As you pulled the blaster back to rest on your lap, Gregor offered you a small, yet warm smile, sincerity glinting in his eyes, wordlessly telling you not to worry.

At the console, Echo moved to pull the ship out of hyperspace. The streaking lights of passing stars shortened, congealing into pin-prick dots of light. Outside the transparisteel before you, the looming, dark shape of Teth emerged. As you got closer, you spied a bright white light at the location, and Echo deftly moved to send an alert to Rex that you were inbound. Gregor stood, leaning over one of the chairs closer to the console, and so you joined him, to get a better look at the scene. You saw a line of Imperial soldiers - you couldn’t quite make out their armor from here. Huddled before them, alert yet holding fire was Rex and the others… A glance over them showed you easily that some were missing - who you didn’t know. Blasted Imperials, you always lost good clones to them. What surprised you was that they didn’t try anything against the ship.

You pushed yourself to stand from your chair, and Gregor nodded to you, standing up straight himself. Echo swung the ship around for easy access to Rex and the others, and quickly you and Gregor sprinted down the halls towards the door. You gripped the blaster tight in your hand. If it came to blows, you were ready to take down a few of the Empire’s men in exchange for the missing troopers. With a swoosh, the door lowered, spilling white light from your ship against the bright spotlights of the Imperial ship. Before you stood the shadowy figures of both your men and the Imperials. It took you a moment for your eyes to adjust upon those who stood there. You looked to your troopers first - only Rex and Howzer remained, the rest were the Bad Batch, with their child and pet. Nemec… Fireball… Both of them were gone.

Anger surged through you, and you raised your gaze to glare at the leader of the Imperial troopers, intent on giving him the most venomous stare you could muster. Yet, as the details of the man were revealed to you, a crack suddenly shattered your heart in half. The blaster in your hand fell slack as you just stared… The one behind this, who’d allowed the deaths of Nemec, Fireball, and the others, was none other than the man you loved. Wolffe.

Beside him, the clone commando eased forward slightly, yet Wolffe raised his arm to tell the trooper, his voice quiet yet rumbling in a commanding tone, “Stand down.” You just about heard it, although his actions spoke louder than his words at that moment. He was going to let you all go, despite likely being ordered to take down your group. Before you, Rex nodded his head with respect for the commander. They were brothers, and loyal to each other even if they fought on opposite sides. That loyalty gave you hope, sparking up inside your chest where the ruins of your heart now lay cracked, perhaps to mend and bond that wound taken to it.

The Bad Batch, followed by Howzer, moved quickly back up to the ship, and Rex himself turned his back to Wolffe. With them, everything had been said and done, but you… You didn’t quite understand. Wolffe was disobeying the Empire at this moment, but he appeared to still be staying with them. You stepped forward down the ramp, brushing past the lanky figure of Crosshair, onto the rocky ground below. Wolffe’s gaze shifted from the turning figure of Rex towards where you stepped, pushing past those retreating in an almost defiant manner. Your eyes met, and the firm expression of the Commander shifted. His eyes widened in surprise, his lips parting softly; his left, natural eye with its caramel hues seemed vulnerable at that moment. Standing opposed to his brothers was different from standing opposed to the person he’d loved. Looking at him, you saw that too awkward stance again, echoing the past when he first truly opened up to you. There was hope, yet this was not a moment, or even such a thing, to be easily navigated. Not with the troopers at Wolffe’s back, and the Empire too. Not with your ship, your group of rebels about to depart. It wasn’t even as easy as giving commlink details on a crumpled piece of paper.

Rex’s hand met your shoulder as he stopped by you. It was hard to break away from Wolffe’s gaze, but you did. The look on Rex’s face told you everything you needed to know. That pair of amber eyes showed understanding, but an urgency, that nothing could be done now, and it was time to move on. You nodded your head slightly, your gaze meeting Wolffe’s, which had shifted to a more guarded look. There was still a hint of uncertainty in his singular natural eye, but his cybernetic one seemed dull and void. All you could do was offer the commander a nod, not unlike the one that had been shared with Rex, but this one told him that you’d be back, and that you’d both be able to reunite someday. Rex’s hand slipped from your shoulder, and with that, you too turned around. The captain allowed you to slip ahead of him so that he could secure safety as you finished boarding.

The steps onto the ship were hard, but you knew that this was not the last time you would see Wolffe. You did not dare look back, for if you did, you feared you’d lose your composure. Yet, thankfully, as you stepped back onto the firm flooring of the ship, you were surrounded by the clones that had supported you during this new reign of the Empire; Rex at your back, Gregor at your side, and Howzer at the front. The ramp raised and the door swooshed shut, leaving you standing there. The Bad Batch lingered around you too, and in that moment, you wished for them to be gone, to leave you with the ones you trusted, but you knew Echo would scold you for that, as they were his squad too. The conflict was evident on your face, it must be, because the pet of the Bad Batch snuffled its nose and came up to you, sniffing at you and rubbing against your legs in a friendly way. The child smiled at you, “Batcher’s just saying hi, don’t worry.” She seemed to have mistaken your expression for a reaction to the animal. It eased your mind a little, and you gave the kid a smile in response.

Rex shifted, stepping around you, and he headed over to the doorway that led to the corridor through the ship, “Come on, let’s settle down and… well… that was a lot. We all need some rest.” The largest clone in the Bad Batch, Wrecker, heartily agreed, followed by the child, then Hunter and the slinking Crosshair. There was no use in lingering here yourself, so you made your way down the corridor after them. In that walk, you realized that you felt as though part of you was missing, like there was a hole in your heart. It seemed that when it cracked when you saw Wolffe with the Empire, a part of it fell and was now left with him. You really would have to go back for it.

Once the ship was traveling at hyperspeed once more, and the Bad Batch was settled down in the cockpit with Echo, you found yourself sitting around that same table you’d been sitting at with Gregor before this all occurred. This time, you sat right next to Gregor, instead of opposite him, and Howzer sat in the chair you had occupied. Rex was standing to the side, stirring some sweetener into his cup of caf. Surrounded by your little mismatched squad, you finally felt able to breathe and to speak. Letting out a sigh, you voiced that which you’d been dying to say since you saw the commander. “I can’t believe Wolffe sided with the Empire.” Gregor shifted slightly, wordlessly putting a hand on your shoulder. These few clones were the ones that knew about your connection to Wolffe, so you felt safe to speak of it here.

Rex turned his head slightly, looking at you with his amber gaze, holding sincerity within it. “Wolffe doesn’t seem to know everything the Empire’s done. He’s likely still under the influence of the chip. But, like with all of us, he did show signs of resistance.”

Howzer added to Rex’s comment, shoving a thumb in the direction of the cockpit, “If Crosshair can be redeemed, then Commander Wolffe can too. That clone showed that he truly had changed today… and I still almost find it hard to believe, even though I saw it with my own eyes. If that can be done, then getting Wolffe to see sense would be like a sandstorm on Geonosis - inevitable.”

The missing clones from your gathering came to mind though, and you frowned, “But… Fireball… Nemec… Wolffe didn’t-”

“Actually,” Rex cut you off, “They were firing at us with stun rounds. There was one of those shadow troopers after us… That was who got Fireball and Nemec. Wolffe’s men appeared to be ordered to take us down with stun rounds.”

You exhaled softly. Wolffe was still loyal to his brothers, even those who fought against him, that was clear. There was no reason to lose hope, even under the dark rule of the Empire. It gave you purpose too; to keep fighting until Wolffe was finally by your side once more.

Thanks for reading!

[language-of-love]

Am I really writing fic again? Not sure...but I guess maybe...cause I wrote a thing. Colin and Penelope have me in a vice, y'all.

No idea which of my blogs to use since this is a new fandom for me, so I chose this one. (*waves hello*) Do I even remember how to make a post? LOL

Anyway...here's a tiny little kiss fic, cause that's what I do.

-------------------

never been kissed...

His first was an embarrassment. Fumbling fingers mixed with overwhelmed breaths, the memory built up in his estimation as more revelatory than it was in actuality. There were feelings, undefinable, but new and full and far from perfunctory. The stirring he’d imagined to feel in his belly he’d felt, but not for the nameless partner, but more for the act itself. He’d been left wondering if there was more, something beyond the fluttering like moths wings and mild nausea he’s still unsure was from the touch of another's lips or his nerves alone.

His second was rushed, drunken and hazy, the remnants of it only tickling at the edges of brown liquor-poisoned flashes of dimly lit sights and muffled sounds. His pockets were left lighter from too many coins spent for something so unmemorable. 

His third was better. Confidence and less alcohol proved to be improved bedfellows than his previous encounter, experienced lips matching his eagerness and hands finding purchase on areas before unexplored by soft fingers. He’d flushed at the intimacy of the act, thought back on it fondly, but remembered her hands far more than her mouth. Perhaps that is to be expected.

The few more that followed brought pleasure and exploration, but each one leaving him searching for that elusive something…something life-altering, something poetic, something… more . Looking back at his diary from that time, his confusion over his own feelings, or lack thereof, is etched into the pages with long dry ink. How could he have known something so seemingly unknowable to a man of two and twenty.

The next was his last, the last of the life he’d known before and first of the life irrevocably reshaped after.

Every millisecond of it is etched on his heart, forever being retraced with each minute that passes spent by her side. The warmth from the blush blooming beneath the impossibly soft skin of her cheek, it still causes his fingertips to flex at the slightest reminder. Her eyes, two swirling oceans of impossible blue, wide and questioning, slowly fluttering closed as he'd drawn her closer. He’d never felt so exposed, so uncertain, yet confusingly certain at the same time. That slight pull in his gut he’d felt before, it was nothing contrasted to the plummet his stomach had taken as the plump fullness of her bottom lip made contact with his own. If he’d known what electricity to feel like, he’d have been able to describe it with perfect accuracy. It was quick and searing, warmth being drug to the surface of his skin at the speed of a herd of wild horses tearing across a meadow. And then it was gone, over far too soon and leaving him near panicked and needy in ways when he looks back on he can’t help but feel foolish. He can’t give himself the credit of courageousness or strength for drawing her back in, for it had been born out of necessity, an inability to not have his lips back where they belonged. With each soft slide of her mouth against his own and the warmth of her breath igniting the space between them from the sighs escaping her throat...the formula, the construction, the intricacies of how a kiss was supposed to feel came crashing through the haze he’d been wandering through much too far away.

Entirely too far away from her .

How was he to know that this thing he’d been searching for had been here all along? 

Not this thing, this person . This singular being who made it all make sense.

Pen.

[princessmisery666]

Fake fic title: Wild Flowers at Sunset

Summary: Bucky uses an inopportune time to let you know how he feels about you.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: confident reader, Bucky being cocky (that’s a warning), sex work mentioned, prelude to smut, love confession. 

W/C: 1,134.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, you, OMC.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).

A/N: thank you @justagirlinafandomworld for the inspo (even thought it took a while to kick in 💟)

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: made by me on canva.

Master Lists: Made Up Fic Titles // Bucky Barnes // All The Fandoms

“You’re doing great,” Bucky talks into his glass, taking a sip of the amber liquid that is never going to get him drunk. “Guy’s putty in those beautiful hands of yours.” Though he’s sitting across the bar, you're wearing an earpiece. He has a clear view of you and sees the corner of your mouth quirk up slightly. Then he can’t help himself. “God, this dude is a loser,” he sighs, “He hasn’t even asked one question about you. No wonder he has to pay for it.”

There’s that half smirk again, hiding behind a sip of your Appletini - which he knows you hate - but your date insisted on ordering for you. 

“Head of a tech startup company,” Bucky scoffs, “that’s code for I’m a keyboard warrior living in my Mom’s basement.” 

You splutter around your glass, and your date, Oliver, has the sense to offer you a napkin. “Sorry,” you say to your date, voice as sweet as your drink, but the finger you use to scratch your cheek flips Bucky off, and then he’s the one laughing. 

“Sorry, doll.” Though he really isn’t. He’s bored as hell and knows you are, too. But he signed up for this to make amends, help the police and all the other agencies with letters, and some without, to bring down the bad guys.

That’s how he’d met you, an undercover agent for the FBI. He felt like he’d lucked out when they’d introduced you as his handler. He didn’t like that word, and the grimace on his face must have said as such because you’d piped up - “We’re partners, Mr. Barnes. We have each other’s back. No one’s handling anyone,” you stated, looking directly at your boss. But as soon as you’d turned back to Bucky and winked, “The handling comes after hours,” he knew he was in for a wild time. 

This Oliver guy is wanted in connection with a series of missing escorts. Back in Bucky’s day, no one cared about a missing prostitute, but times have changed, and the price has certainly increased. An intimate encounter with one of the ladies from “The Girlfriend Experience” - a very exclusive and high-end escort service - is upward of three thousand dollars for a few hours. 

“So, roughly a thousand dollars a minute,” you’d shrugged, smirking cheekily.

“I’d get way more than my money’s worth,” he countered, tongue slipping out to lick at the flirty smile he gave you in return.

You’d sauntered closer, pressed your body into his, and whispered, “Oh, I’d let you take a turn for free.”

So here you are, on a date with Oliver, earning his trust and waiting for him to either A-say something incriminating (which was likely given his affinity for talking about himself) or B-offer you money for sex (a criminal offense). 

But damn, this man is a drip. Watching paint dry would have been more entertaining, and Bucky felt deeply sorry for you having to fake a smile and flirt with such a wet blanket of a person.

“Go to the bathroom,” Bucky says. 

You subtly shake your head, eyes never leaving Oliver’s, hanging on his every word. 

“Just want to remind you, all of this is being recorded,” he grins, sees your eyes flick to his in the mirror, and lifts his brow, silently making his request again.

You look back to Oliver, lean in closer, place your hand atop his on the bar, and gently stroke your fingers along his skin. Bucky can feel the burn on his own skin, the scrape of your nails as your fingers trail higher with every delicate caress. Oliver grins widely. He thinks he’s got you, hook, line and sinker. 

But Bucky knows better. “Hey Doll,” he says cheerily, “remember our first date?” 

You give him nothing. 

“I took you for a picnic on the beach. I wore that blue suit you like, and you wore the lilac dress that hugs you everywhere. I was worried you’d get cold, but I shouldn’t have. By dessert, we were as naked as the wildflowers dancing to the sunset…”

You abruptly hop off the bar stool, “Excuse me, Oliver. Need to use the ladies’ room.”

Bucky knows better than to be smug about getting his own way; he’ll pay for it later in some form or another, but he looks forward to his punishment. 

“Pausing comms,” Bucky says, “bathroom break,” for when the brass listens later even though it's obvious what’s going on, but he doesn’t care as he taps the device in his pocket. 

He counts forty-five seconds after you pass through the door toward the bathrooms and then follows after you. All three stall doors are closed, but only one of the dials shows occupied. Before he can lift his hand to knock, the door opens, and you yank him inside.

“You’re pushing your luck, Barnes,” you warn. 

He surrenders, arms up, palms out. “It was the only way I could get you in here.” 

“For what?” 

“This.” His fingers pinching your chin are soft, but the kiss he delivers is anything but. He’s famished, as if he hasn’t tasted you in weeks when, in reality, it’s only been a few hours. But that’s how you make him feel. With every beat of his heart, he’s wild and aching and destitute until he has you in his grasp.

The Appletini is still heavy on your tongue, and he washes it away with hungry sweeps of his whiskey-laced one. His hands slip down your leg to the hem of your skirt, hiking it up with every squeeze and grope of your soft thigh.

Your hands roam under his shirt, nails digging into his stomach, before slipping down to the waistband of his jeans.

He holds back a groan when he reaches your inner thigh and finds no more material between his hand and your heated core. 

You pull back, a wicked grin revealing your teeth, and as he opens his mouth to tell you that you’ll be the death of him, you stuff your panties into his mouth.

You step back, readjusting your dress, “You can get me as naked as those wildflowers again later.” You wink. “Right now, we have a job to do.”

With that, you breeze out of the door and back to your date. 

He waits sixty seconds after you leave, stuffing your panties into his jacket pocket and giving his cock a chance to realize his punishment came earlier than expected before he follows after you.

He settles back into his barstool, catches your eye in the mirror, and the feeling tingles from the very tips of his toes to the top of his head, serenity, calm, absolute, unwavering belief. He mutters, “I love you,” into the coms.

Oliver ends up wearing your Appletini.

Master Lists: Made Up Fic Titles // Bucky Barnes // All The Fandoms

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[middleearthpixie]

Something in the Night ~ Chapter Seventeen

Something in the Night

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a seriously wounded Thorin Oakenshield returns to Erebor to recuperate and eventually ascend the throne as king. With the deaths of Azog the Defiler and his son, Bolg, Thorin no longer has to worry about the bounty the Defiler placed on his head and can instead concentrate on restoring Erebor to its former glory. 

Nina Carren of Esgaroth has one goal—to make Thorin Oakenshield pay for unleashing Smaug the dragon unto her home—where he destroyed the town and killed her family. The Defiler might be gone, but his bounty remains very much in place, and she fully intends to collect on it. 

Finally, the opportunity shows itself for her to do just that, only to have it go horribly awry. Wounded and now at his mercy, neither Nina nor Thorin stopped to think what might happen, should things not go quite according to plan…

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Nina Carren

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.4k

Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @legolasbadass @fizzyxcustard @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @knittastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @quiall321 @dianakc @msjava1972 @glassgulls @evenstaredits @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @sazzlep @night-ace

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here. 

Spring in Erebor was only discernible if one was out in the courtyard just off the infirmary, where wild roses of all shades grew along the walled off courtyard. Thorin smiled down at the pretty dwarf maid on his arm. He’d forgotten just how pretty Elisin was, with her wide dark eyes and lustrous nearly-black hair. Like Dís, she’d woven beads into her equally dark beard, tiger’s eye mostly, interspersed with silver runes. No braids adorned her hair, however. That would be left to him, when he proposed to her, which he thought he might do at Midsummer. 

He didn't love her, but she would make a fine queen and a good mother and maybe—just maybe—she would help him forget Nina Carren ever existed. 

He tried to ignore the thoughts of the red-headed temptress that continually crept into his mind, tried to dredge up that same anger he’d felt upon learning of her betrayal. 

He tried.

And failed each blasted time. 

Nina haunted him far more than any other ghost could. So perhaps marriage, and its permanence, would put an end to the torture. Perhaps knowing he belonged to another would finally make him forget Nina ever existed.

Or so he hoped.

“You seem far away today,” Elisin said, peering up at him, her head pressed now against his arm.

Fortunately, he did not jump despite the jolt from his thoughts. “I am a bit tired. We were up far too late last eve.”

She smiled. “A party is always worth being a bit tired the next day.”

“This is true, but I’m not so young a dwarf any longer.”

“You are young enough, Your Majesty.”

He bit back the sigh bubbling to his lips. No matter how many times he told her it was quite all right for her to address him by his given name, Elisin insisted it would not be proper, and so would not do so.

“Thank you for that.” He smiled down at her. “So, where would you like to go on this glorious day?”

“What is that up there?”

He turned in the direction she pointed, his stomach knotting as he found himself peering up at the gray and black stone tower of Ravenhill. His mouth went dry, his tongue feeling fused to the roof of his mouth. The sight of the tower unnerved him, although the orcs who had befouled it were long since dead or dispersed. 

“Ravenhill,” he said. 

“Where the last battle of the five armies was fought, wasn't it?” Her dark eyes went wide, sympathy flooding them. “You fought up there, didn't you?”

“Aye. And nearly died there.”

“Oh, how awful.” She release his arm to move to stand before him, then to his surprise, slid her arms about his waist to embrace him. “I am so sorry you went through that.”

“Thank you. I think. I’m afraid I rarely know how to reply to that,” he told her, glancing down as her head came to rest against his chest. A hint of lavender rose from her hair to tease his nose.

“You need not reply at all.” She lifted her head to gaze up at him. “I only wish I had been here when you were brought in. I would have taken wonderful care of you, you know.”

“I know.”

“Still…” She turned her head toward Ravenhill once more, “I would be lying if I said I was not curious about seeing it. Would it trouble you to take me up there?”

He hesitated, looking at the gray stone once more that blended so perfectly with the mountains around them. He had not been up there since the day of the battle. The thought had crossed his mind, but he could never quite get his legs to obey his mind’s order to bring him there.

But even at this distance, his gut burned, the memory of being run through by not one, but two blades, as fresh now as it was the day it happened. Freezing cold at first, but then scorchingly hot as his blood spilled from the jagged wounds. 

He swallowed hard as his free hand went of its own to his lower belly, his fingers damp as that blood soaked into his henley, then bubbled over his fingertips, the spattered against the ice. Drip. Drip. Drip.

At Ravenhill, the spatters were spaced apart when he’d pushed up and away from Azog after dispatching him on the ice floe. He’d staggered back, his knees threatening to go to sponge, and the spatters became actual puddles as the blood poured from his wounds, spilled over his hand. None of it mattered. He’d redeemed himself for his people, he had avenged his nephews’ murders. His life was a price he’d been willing to pay.

He would never forget the feel of his life slipping away, droplet by droplet, until the droplets became a stream and the stream a puddle. The cold of winter at Ravenhill was nothing compared to the cold of death as it crept slowly along his legs, up along his belly, his chest, until his eyelids grew too heavy to remain open and a tiredness unlike any he’d ever felt sank into him.

“Thorin?”

He glanced down, almost surprised to see no blood spattered at his feet, and the frozen creep of death receded as the sun warmed him again.

“Would—would you be terribly disappointed,” he swallowed hard against the nausea, “if I would rather not go back there?”

“No, of—of course not,” she assured him, her hand coming flat against his chest, heat from her palm sinking into him. “I would never wish you to relive something if you’d rather forget it.”

“I would much rather forget that.”

“Then why don’t we go into Dale and have a nice, romantic supper away from everyone?” 

“That sounds far preferable.”

“Good.” Her eyes sparkled like onyxes as she smiled up at him. A hint of a blush crept across her cheeks. “Would I be terribly wanton if I admitted how much I wish to kiss you right now?”

“No,” he shook his head, “you would not.”

With that, he bent to her and when his lips met hers, another face slid into his mind. Green eyes sparkling up at him in a semi-dark room, a hint of jasmine clinging to her glorious, fiery red hair, her body engulfing his to introduce him to a pleasure he’d never known existed before, but beyond that, Nina introduced him to an intimacy he’d never known before and with her, he’d discovered a closeness he didn't know could exist, one he wasn't at all certain he would ever find with another woman.

One he was certain he didn't want to find with any other woman.

He pulled back then, more sharply than he’d intended. “I beg your pardon.”

“There is no need,” she assured him. “I find no fault with your kiss, Your Majesty.”

There was simply no way for him to explain why he’d broken away from her with as much force as he had. At least, no way that wouldn’t end with him being slapped for his effort. It would be a slap he’d deserve, but if he could avoid it, even better.

“I’ll meet you by half-five at the main gate,” she told him softly. 

“Half-five it is.” 

They parted then, with Elisin making her way back into Erebor, while he sank on top the edge of the low stone wall ringing the courtyard. 

More than anything, he wanted Nina to stop haunting him. He wanted to transfer that yearning he felt for her to Elisin, wanted to desire Elisin the way he had Nina. He wanted to love her the way he loved—

Don’t.

How could he possibly love Nina, after what she’d done, after she’d betrayed him the way she had? No, it couldn't be love. Lust, yes. Love? Not possible.

Or so he tried to tell himself. 

He turned back to Ravenhill. That filth Azog was dead and yet he still had the power to make Thorin’s life miserable. And for what? He never did learn just why the Defiler was so determined to end the line of Durin.

“Uncle? What are you doing out here?”

He blinked back into the present and turned to see Kíli, Dís’ younger son, limping toward him. “Why are you limping? What happened?”

“I’m fine.” Kíli waved off his concern. “I took a spill from my pony this morning. Although,” he gimped over to sit beside Thorin, “don’t tell ’Amad. She doesn’t think I should be doing things like riding just yet.”

Thorin nodded slowly. “I won’t say a word, although I agree with her to certain extent.”

“Uncle, it was a year ago. I’m well beyond needing to be coddled. Even Narnerra tried to tell ’Amad it was perfectly safe for me to ride.”

“And what did your ’Amad say to that?”

“She told Narnerra to mind her own matters. Which,” Kíli shrugged, “is how I know she agrees with Narnerra in spirit if not in practice.”

Thorin sighed. Kíli had been run through, just as he and Fíli had, and had come a long way since that terrible day. But unlike him or Fíli, Kíli was ready to settle down and planned to do so with Tauriel. They’d not set a wedding date yet, but when Thorin was in Mirkwood, he’d overheard her talking to Legolas about Kíli and she mentioned wanting an autumn wedding, but when he’d broached the subject with Kíli, his nephew said they were still discussing it. 

“She worries for you.”

“She doesn’t wish me to marry Tauriel,” Kíli replied, his voice flat. “And I’m not giving in to her wishes, so you can imagine how that conversation goes each time.”

“I can, indeed. But, your mother’s heart is in the right place and she has not quite forgotten how close she’d come to losing you.”

Kíli shook his long dark hair away from his face. “She is smothering me. She smothers Fíli as well. Doesn’t like to let us from her sight. And before you say it, I understand why, but that doesn’t make it any less suffocating.”

“No, I don't imagine it does. But, the only advice I can offer is to be patient.”

“Which is not my strong suit.”

“It is not the strong suit of any of us.” 

“Ah, there you are!”

Both he and Kíli groaned softly as Dís strode toward them. Rising from the wall, Thorin said, “Which of us did you seek?”

“My son.” She smiled. “I understand you and Elisin are going into Dale this evening?”

He nodded. “A night away from here would do us both some good.”

“Should we expect you back?” A cheeky smile accompanied her words.

“Mind yourself, little sister.” He patted Kíli’s shoulder, adding, “Patience.”

“Easier said than done, Uncle.”

“I know.” He patted his shoulder once more, then stepped about Dís. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my chambers for the next hour or so, then it will have to wait.”

“We will be fine. Go and enjoy your evening out, Thorin. Anything that might come up, unless it is of utmost urgency, will certainly keep until tomorrow.”

For Nina, the worst part about working at The Black Swan were the hands. It seemed that no matter how many warnings a body received, their hands still found their way to her backside. Fortunately, Harald, the owner, wasn't at all shy about tossing the bodies from his tavern if they became too handsy. 

Other than that, she didn't mind the job at all. Harald, for all of his show some skin nonsense was a fairly decent man, she got on well with Margrete, and she was very happy working alongside Sigrid, who showed her the perfect way to deal with the owners of wandering hands. A good, solid cuff to the ear usually did the trick.

A month had passed since she’d left Mirkwood and at first, Nina was certain she’d have forgotten all about Thorin Oakenshield by then. But, it seemed to her that the more time that passed, the more she found herself missing him. It made no sense. Why should she miss someone she hated? Someone who hated her in return?

Because you don't hate him, you fool. That’s why.

“Nina, can you take the table in the corner?” Margaret asked as she bustled by with a tray laden with empty tankards and goblets. “Harald’s put me in the back room and they are driving me mad with their requests.”

“I can, of course.”

“You’re a lifesaver!”

Nina smiled as she made her way to the table in question, but then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Thorin Oakenshield at said table.

And he was not alone.

Her mouth went dry, her heart plummeting into her stomach at the sight of him and the dark-haired dwarf woman smiling at one another across a table softly lit with flickering candles. She didn't know what they were saying to one another, but judging by the slow smile Thorin offered up his companion, he wasn't miserable.

Her eyes stung, which was stupid, really. He’d moved on. Of course he had. She’d betrayed him. And it wasn't as if they’d had a relationship, even. It was one night.

One amazing night.

Stop it.

With that, she cleared her throat and approached them. “Good evening. What can I get for you this evening?”

Thorin visible stiffened with her first word and she wondered if his companion noticed. Nina didn't think so, as the woman smiled up at her and said, “What is the special this evening?”

“Venison with whipped potatoes and glazed carrots.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful. I’d like that.”

“Very well.” Nina wrote the note into her pad and then, heart hammering her ribs, turned to Thorin. “And you, sir?”

He looked up and as their eyes met, Nina almost stepped back from the crackle of electricity that snapped the air between them. “I think that sounds good, actually. I’ll have the same. And a bottle of wine as well.”

“Red or white?”

“Red.”

“Of course.” 

She couldn't get away from the table quickly enough, taking their order into the kitchen, and then promptly avoided that section of the restaurant until their order was ready. And when their food was up, she grabbed the tray, steeled herself to approach them, and then did so as if she had no idea who either of them was.

“There you go,” she said, setting each plate on the table. “Might I get you anything else?”

Thorin looked up and her heart skipped a beat. She’d somehow forgotten how beautifully blue his eyes were. She pasted her smile on, waiting for him to speak, and when he did, it was to say, “Thank you, but no. We are fine.”

“Very well. Enjoy.”

She managed to keep her smile in place and her step light as she moved away from them and to her next table, but from the corner of her eye, she saw him look back to the woman sitting across from him. He smiled at whatever she said, and that sank Nina’s spirits like a stone. 

“Are you all right?”

She looked over at Sigrid, who’d come into the galley where the prepared meals awaiting pickup were kept, and nodded. “I think so. Why?”

“I saw who you had to serve. I’d heard he’d died in the Battle of the Five Armies last year.” Sigrid’s gray eyes narrowed as she looked in Thorin’s direction. “I’d spit in his food if I had to serve him.”

Nina bit back a sigh. “At one time, I’d have agreed with you, but… well… much has changed. Unleashing Smaug was not his intention.”

“Intention or not, he did so. And look where we are as a result.”

“Again, a year ago, I’d have agreed wholeheartedly with you. But now…” She peered around the corner into the dining room. “I don't have it in me to hate him any longer.”

How could she, when she knew the side of him he did not present to the world? When she knew the man he was under that rough, somewhat fierce façade. She’d known him to be fierce and violent, but also to be kind and gentle, even when he thought her no more than a wayward boy. “He’s actually quite spec… decent.”

Sigrid offered up a queer look. “I didn't think you knew him.”

Nina smiled. “I traveled with him for a bit… met up with him outside Rivendell and we parted ways at Mirkwood.”

“You did this of your own free will?” 

She nodded. “I did, yes. He really is not so terrible. And he is making good on his promise to share Erebor’s wealth. I hope I’ll be able to move back to Esgaroth in the coming year.”

Sigrid shook her head. “Don’t be so certain. I’ve heard the houses are going to cost three times what they had. Only the wealthy Men will be able to afford them. At least, that’s what Da told me.”

“Isn’t he one of the wealthy ones, though?”

“He is, but I’m not and I won’t ask him to pay my rents for me. Not when I’m trying to prove I need no husband to support me, since I’m capable of supporting myself.” She smiled and draped an arm about Nina’s shoulders. “But, I’ll wager that with a roommate… we could afford something nice and not too shabby.”

Nina smiled. “You’ve a deal, Miss Sigrid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Table Three looks as if they could use more drinks.”

“Thorin?”

He jumped as Elisin waved a hand before his eyes. “Yes? Sorry, I… my mind wandered off for a moment, I’m afraid.”

“I was asking if you were ready to go? I’m afraid I’m growing terribly tired.”

“Oh, of course.” He wiped his mouth and then rose from his chair, coming around to off her his arm as she also stood. Another server had brought them their bill, but he hadn’t missed how Nina cornered the woman across the dining room to whisper something to her.

In fact, he knew where Nina had been all through supper and once he’d gotten over the shock at seeing her, he couldn't help but keep an eye out for her. 

He thought he’d been surreptitious about it, that Elisin hadn’t noticed, but now he wondered if he was wrong, as she offered up a look that wasn't quite a glare, but was damn close to it. 

“Do you know her?” She asked this as he let his hand come to rest at the small of her back to guide her toward the front doors.

“Know who?”’

“Our serving girl. Do you know her? I caught you watching her more than once.”

They stepped out into the cool evening air and he nodded slowly. “I know her, yes. But it was a while ago. I had no idea she was here in Dale.”

Elisin looked up at him. “How do you know her?”

“She lived in Esgaroth. I met her the last time I was there,” he offered up a pointed look, “before I set an angry dragon upon the town.”

“Oh. I see.” Elisin tucked her arm through his. “I thought perhaps you had a relationship with her at one point. I didn't know she was of Esgaroth.”

He didn't miss the sneer in her voice and his gut kinked. “You say that as if it was something unacceptable.”

“Well, of course I don't mean it that way,” she told him as they made their way along the wide, rock-strewn road leading out of Dale and across the plains between it and Erebor. “But they are mostly fishermen.”

“They lived on a lake,” he pointed out, “and people need to eat.”

“I’m not judging them, mind you. I’m simply surprised, is all.”

“Well, I know a few of them. Bard is now the Master of Dale. And Nina is apparently working at The Black Swan and that is all we need discuss about it.” He glanced up at the Lonely Mountain, which was a bit too far away for his liking, as the rumors of orcs moving closer to Ravenhill had begun to swirl about Erebor. 

“Very well.” She tucked her arm through his, leaned her head against his shoulder, and made nothing but small talk as they made their way back toward Erebor. 

[sp00kymulderr]

Silent Genesis

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+, PWP, voyeurism kinda, masturbation, light choking

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Another old one!

The Mandalorian is watching you.

Watching silent, leaning against the rear wall of the cockpit with his head tilted slightly as he regards your form splayed out on the pilot seat. He’s partially veiled in darkness, a stoic and unmoving figure in the shadows while you are illuminated by the soft light shining into the cabin from the repair dock the Razor Crest is currently sat in. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, caught in a place you shouldn’t be by a man who won’t hesitate to throw you off his ship for breaking the rules.

But that’s the game.

This is the thrill you’ve been chasing ever since you first met the mysterious armoured bounty hunter several weeks ago. He had taken you on board the Crest out of pity, that must’ve been it. To him you had been simply a poor lost girl, and he was the fool who needed an assistant of sorts. Perhaps he needed the company too, or something more, but he’d never admitted it to you.

Now he finds you a breathless, half-naked mess in his seat on his ship. Your breasts freed from the caging fabric around them, rising and falling with your careless breath. Your dexterous fingers dipped below the waistband of your pants, but stilled with your clit pinched between two of them under the fabric. Your gentle, too-quiet mewls of pleasure coming to a halt as he moves.

The game had started by accident, because you were too careless and liked him too much. It had very quickly become clear to you—after settling in to your role on the ship like a duck to water—that he was more than his profession, than his armour, than his creed. He wasn’t just some strong brute hunting quarry for credits. He was powerful and astute, a man of honour and of heart no matter how much he tried to bury it.

So naturally you wanted him more than anything.

You weren’t sure of his desire for you, although you had some inkling from the way he paid attention to you as you worked on the ship. Most likely he thought you didn’t notice him staring, thought his helmet made it impossible to tell, but you felt it every time. So you knew he had walked in on you as you thought of him, hands working underneath the fabric of your clothing, even before he realised what was happening.

“I- I’m sorry” he had stuttered in shock at the realisation, turning immediately but hesitating to leave.

“Stay. Please” was your immediate, unthinking response and you swear you heard his breath hitch at your request.

“Is that what you want? Me to- To watch?” he responded eventually, slowly, turning back towards you.

“Yes. If it’s what you want”

And it was.

So he had stayed, and watched. Again, and again, and again. It played out the same every time; him catching you in some immodest display, though no longer by accident, and watching rapt and unspeaking each time you brought yourself off for him. Never touching you, never asking you for more. Just watching, and never speaking of it.

“Keep going” he tells you now, bringing you back to yourself. He crosses his arms, leans back again and tilts his head nodding towards the place your fingers are splayed inside the fabric of your pants.

You gulp down dumbly, throat dry, before pulling back your hand to help you shimmy out of the pants and toss off the shirt that had been bunched up above your chest. You spread your legs wide, hoping desperately that the sight of you naked and spread for him on his seat will be driving him wild inside the mass of metal covering him. You let yourself imagine him wanting you, taking you. Think about his skin; it would be hot under you. How would he touch you? Would it be gentle, like you’re a glass ornament he’s afraid to shatter. Or would he lean in to his strength? You think about his large hand around your throat, squeezing. The image of it makes you moan and slide your hands back down your body.

It’s difficult to discern exactly what his reaction is to you. The man gives nothing away – always able to hide any slack-jawed admiration, reddened cheeks or looks of desire behind the helmet that never comes off. He’s not much of a talker either, choosing the simplest answers and instructions and rarely making real conversation with you. He has the advantage there. It makes you feel like he holds all the power, he is able to keep calm and collected where even the simplest brush of your body against his covered frame would cause you to stutter and stumble even when you were so sure of yourself.

This, now, is a rare moment when you perceive that you have at least some command. At the very least you know he’s captured; following your movements and paying attention only to you for once. The action of your hands, fingers gently grazing over your skin to return to their place between your legs while your other palms at your breasts, your touch frustratingly light as you tease your sensitive nipples.

The way the cool, dim light falls over you makes it seem like you’re bathed in ethereal moonlight, like some goddess of sin. The smallest gasp escapes your lips when you glide over your clit, and you know he can see exactly how wet you are. You keep your eyes firmly on him as you slide two digits inside yourself with ease, feeling the rush of heat as you curl them against your upper wall and desperately trying to hold on to the imagined eye contact you have with the emotionless visage before you. Odd, not to know the colour of the man’s eyes but still willingly give him this deeply intimate moment.

Pulling your fingers back, you hold them up to show him they are slick with you before bringing them to your lips. It’s obscene, opening your mouth and tasting yourself as he continues to watch in silence, statuesque. The slightest movement of his hand as you do so, balling up in to a fist, gives you more of a rush than any other person has ever provided you. So you keep going; saliva coated digits trailing between your breasts and further, down past your bellybutton, down to you slick folds to continue teasing that bundle of nerves that holds the key to your release.

So sensitive, more than you expect, you choke against the pressure of the small, concentrated circling motions. Throwing your head back until it bumps against the seatback and you’re whining, not just at how good it feels to touch yourself but how good it is to know he’s watching. Your other hand pinching the skin of your thigh hard, the tingle of pain mixed with the pleasure making you feel white-hot and on your way to the heavens.

“M- Mando” you whimper, wanting to make sure he knows it’s him you’re imagining.

But then he’s moving. You hear the slightest noise of his footsteps and open your eyes wide, stopping dead in your movements. He isn’t stopping, coming so close to you it would take nothing at all to reach out and touch the cool metal covering him.

This isn’t how the game goes.

Is this when he finally throws you off the ship?

“What…” you rasp out the beginnings of a question, unsure what to do with this unprecedented action. He’s never been this close while you’ve been this naked. Fuck, your heart is pounding and you’re frozen to the spot waiting for him to make his move, ready to be dragged out of the cockpit and left to fend for yourself.

Instead Mando drops to his knees with a muted thud onto the metal flooring, positioned between your open legs and his gloved hand hovers over your raised knee. Did you finally break him? The thought makes you shiver.

“Can I?” he asks softly.

You just nod, still wide eyed in shock, and when you feel his covered palm land gently down before moving slightly upwards you let out a breath you had no idea you had been holding. The caress is tender and slow, moving half way up the thigh then back down to where it started. You pray to the stars that this never ends, but too soon he’s moving away and leaning back slightly.

“Can you keep your eyes closed?” he enquires, something of a tremble in his voice as he pinches the fabric of the glove between the fingers on his opposite hand and pulls ever so slightly.

Another violent nod and you scrunch your eyes shut as tight as possible for him, never more eager for anything than what you think is happening now.

“Good” you hear him shuffle, something dropping to the floor.

You want to ask him what changed, why he’s offering you this unexpected gift. Want to know how this changes things. But instead you stutter in what you can only call absolute bliss when he lays his now-bare hand against your hip.

He sighs at the contact, and you nearly come undone at the sound alone.

“Keep going” he orders, but less commanding than before, with a squeeze where he’s touching you before he slowly starts to move.

You had almost forgotten about what you had been doing, slowly starting to move your fingers again at his request. Your entire body is buzzing, the places his palm roams scorching with the touch of his skin on yours. Finally. Your imagination is nothing against the real thing. There is nothing but this in your mind now, you want to stay in this moment for the rest of time. His touch will be the only memory you keep from now on.

When his fingers dance across your stomach then down to the opposite hip it’s feather-light and tender, but reaching your other thigh he lets his fingers dig in to the soft flesh making you cry out. He touches you everywhere but the place you don’t dare to even think about him touching, where you still work towards your peak. And oh you’re close, inching closer with every movement of his, every reminder that he is real and here and touching you.

His breath is heavy through the modulator, hitching as he reaches your breasts and kneads the pliant curve of flesh to his will. You groan, zoning in on that feeling but too soon he’s moving on, upwards, hand hesitantly settling around your throat.

“This is what you like?”

Of course, he knows it. Has seen you do this to yourself enough times now, always wishing it was him.

“Yes. Yes. Please” you murmur out, momentarily stilling the ministrations against your swollen clit to ensure you keep you eyes closed when he acquiesces and presses down just slightly at first – making sure it’s safe – then with a tiny bit more pressure and it’s enough.

It doesn’t take anything more than that; you choke, swipe twice more over your clit, and unravel in an instant, falling apart from an orgasm stronger than any other in your life. Your legs shake hard, muscles tensing then releasing. Calling out unintelligible expressions of sheer ecstasy, barely even aware of the fluid gushing from you in your overwhelming pleasure that goes on and on with no beginning or end in sight. Rapture, truly.

Eventually you slump back, completely undone and weightless. Your skin tingles where Mando now lightly caresses, soothing you as your heart-rate slowly comes back down.

When he pulls away, you let out a quiet sob, keeping your eyes shut waiting for him to tell you what to do. There’s some noise, but you can’t move through the thick fog in your mind to know what it is.

“Wait…stay. What does this-” again you try to ask but you’re cut off.

Soft, plush and sweet, you must be dreaming when you feel his lips press against yours. Stars, this can’t be real.

But his lips moving against yours like this, the quiet moan coming from him when you kiss him back, you would never torture yourself with such a beautiful feeling only for it to be completely imagined. Making yourself experience this knowing you could never really have it, that would be more cruel than anything else you’ve thought about with him.

This kiss, this is real. It’s the truest thing you’ve ever know.

And it changes the game forever.

[apamates]

Realm of the elderlings ask meme thing

Thanks for tagging me @khutsydoh !! I love thinking about my favorite wet dog of a man

Favourite Rote book: Fool's Errand

Why: I'm a romantic at heart, ngl. The domestic bliss, walks on the beach, late night talks sipping brandy by the fireplace, the Fool reading everything Fitz had written (!!!!! I can't think too much about that one without wanting to explode), Fitz getting every surface of his house lovingly carved by the Fool... Just the truly incredible way Fitz described that bubble of happiness and feeling whole (even if he was still forged!!!) just because the Fool was there with him and Nighteyes. I love it when a character is the most repressed being ever and the love still bursts through because it's just that strong.

After every awful thing that happened in Ass Quest, I definitely think Fitz deserved a time away from the Farseers to rest and find himself outside of all the roles he had to perform for the crown. Though, 15 years in nearly complete isolation except for Hap and Starling are a strech, he really was running away from life like the Fool said. Him coming back to Buckkeep and facing all the people from his childhood as an adult felt so amazing to read. I personally feel a lot for Fitz and his complicated relationships with his family. For him to meet Chade honestly and make him see how much he hurt him was !!!! Him hating Dutiful at first just bc he saw so much of himself as a kid in him and tbf Dutiful is a tangible reminder of all the trauma from his teenager years, so Fitz having to process all that was exquisite too.

Funniest mission ever to have to find a teenager that's unknowingly horny for a cat, but the Fool and Fitz can turn it into a secret identity rom com and I ate it up!!! Happiest book of the trilogy for me and it's because Fitz was happy to be near the Fool.

Top three favourite characters: Beloved in all their facets, Patience, Ronica

Top three least favourite characters: Regal, the Satrap, Civil

Favourite ship of the floating kind: Ophelia bc she's an agent of chaos

Top 3 ships of the people kind: Fitzloved, Althea and Jek (Robin Hobb really missed so much potential), Patience and Lacey

Would you rather be witted or skilled: Skilled

If you were witted, what animal would you bond with: Probably my cat bc we already spend nearly every hour of the day together.

Would you rather live in the Outislands, the Mountain Kingdom, the Six duchies, Bingtown, the Rain wilds, Kelsingra, Jamailia, the Pirate isles or Mercenia/Fool's homeland?: I haven't read the Fitz and The Fool trilogy so idk if I'd like Kelsingra but the Six Duchies seem like the better option just because I hate stuffy society and the cold, which rules out all others.

How were you introduced to the books: I love Chihayafuru and a wonderful artist I followed for that fandom posts about ROTE. I got the sense I would love to suffer about it and asked about the right order to read the books, thank you @leafykat !!!

Share a quote you love:

As I entered to set the pack on my table, the wolf was sprawled before the fire drying his damp fur and the Fool was stepping around him to set a kettle on the hook. I blinked my eyes, and for an instant I was back in the Fool’s hut in the Mountains, healing from my old injury while he stood between the world and me that I might rest. Then as now he created reality around himself, bringing order and peace to a small island of warm firelight and the simple smell of hearth bread cooking. He swung his pale eyes to meet mine, the gold of them mirroring the firelight. Light ran up his cheekbones and dwindled as it merged with his hair. I gave my head a small shake. “In the space of a sundown, you show me the wide world from a horse’s back, and the soul of the world within my own walls.” “Oh, my friend,” he said quietly. No more than that needed to be said. We are whole. - Fool's Errand

Sometimes a family is just two guys and their matchmaker wolf y'know

Tagging: @yevrosima-the-third @mistninja @leafykat

[linasofia]

Around the Riverbend

This is my entry for the TSF 2023 event. I teamed up with the wonderful artist @legolasbadass and the masterpiece above is her creation. Link to her original post. Give her some love!!😍

I had so much fun during this event and it's thanks to you, @legolasbadass. 💙💙💙

Fandom: The Hobbit

Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield x OFC

Summary: In Nordic folklore, the Neck is a malevolent water spirit who took the form of a naked man and played a violin or harp so beautifully that he would enchant women (and children) to follow the music and lure them down into the river—where they would eventually drown. This is a story about Thorin, a lonely Neck who one day witnesses a beautiful woman washing clothes in his river.

Warnings: A bit angsty

The sun shone brightly from a clear blue sky, and the horizon appeared to tremble from the warmth. The air was filled with tiny winged warriors, ready to defend their queen if a sudden threat to their miniature realm should appear. A narrow river cut through the endless green landscape, separating the fertile hills from the real wilderness. On both sides of the river, where its banks met crispy grass, wild thyme, lupins, and buttercups covered the ground, filling the air with their characteristic smell. The dark, glittering water followed the countless bends without obstacles, for the persistent river had tamed the landscape long ago. Only the ancient rocks—created when the world was still young and violent—refused to bow to its will, but time had made the stones’ surface smooth and slippery. No matter how strong the sun appeared, the river would always be there to offer all living things a chance to quench their thirst or cool off from a long walk. But the river was also treacherously deep in some areas, and it was said it had a soul. The river gives, and the river takes, was a saying well taught among the gentle folk living over the hills, and songs were sung to honor those who paid with their life when the river was capricious.

The air stood still above the river and reached a higher temperature than it had for a long time. The banks along the river were dry, causing any movement to stir the sand. Not even a gust of wind made the leaves rustle, and the only sound heard was the distant noise from a waterfall. During these warm summer days, the light never went to sleep—for this was the land of the midnight sun.

On a large rock by the shallow end of the river sat a tall figure who dipped his feet in the water. Sturdy trees in distinct shapes grew close to the banks, and their branches provided shelter from the merciless sun—and cover when the brooding-looking creature needed to remain unseen. From a distance, he looked like an ordinary man, a warrior even. He was broader over the shoulders than most men who came to swim in the river, with muscular arms and large hands. His wide chest was covered in curly hair, dark as a moonless night. The most unusual cerulean shade graced his eyes, causing his stare to resemble both the sky and its dramatic reflection in the water. Despite his thick fingers, the creature could play the harp more beautifully than any other tones ever heard. He was a Neck—a water spirit—and the only of his kin, as far as he knew. During the golden hour, when the river bathed in warm light and before the animals came down to soothe their burning throats with water, the Neck let sweet tones roll from his strings—to calm his loneliness. Many were those who had listened to his music and blindly followed him without thinking of their safety. A golden harp was his only possession, and its delicate strings were made of fair hair taken from the scalps of the innocent maidens he had enchanted in the past. The countless strings were thin but twisted hard to last a long time. Not even the sharpest sword could cut off the strings, and the fingers on whoever was trying to play his instrument would bleed. On one occasion, he had tried to replace a broken string with his own hair, but the harp made a shrieking sound during his first attempt to strum it. From that day, he learned that only the fairest of hairs could create the tones he craved.

The wind had whispered an unknown word to him for as long as he could remember. The word bore a resemblance to thunder, and eventually, the Neck named himself Thorin. He was a lonely spirit, bound to the life-giving river and unable to leave it. Some would certainly call his destiny sad—if they knew he existed. But he always stayed out of sight, and the animals who came to drink barely felt his presence. Thorin had no knowledge of his age, but he knew he had seen the oak closest to the river bank grow from a small acorn to the impressive tree it was now. His long, dark hair was marked by time and for every summer that passed by, his reflection revealed how the thin braids at his temples gradually turned whiter. Thorin lived off what the river provided him, but his restless mind always searched for the pure soul who would make his lonely misery end. He was certain she was out there; it was only a matter of time before his One would make her way down to the river. She was destined to pass the cruel sacrifice of drowning, and he would give her the ability to breathe in his kingdom, far beneath the glittering surface. Then she would be his to cherish—forever.

Slowly the shadows in front of the old oak became longer, indicating the sun’s journey over the sky. Thorin watched the stillness of the water around his favorite rock and snapped his fingers to create the smallest vibration. His harp lay next to him, and it glowed like fire in the sun. Suddenly, he became aware of a movement further down the river. Thorin usually stayed in the more narrow parts of the river where the water was shallow, allowing him to keep sight of both banks at the same time. When he squinted, he saw the shape of a person moving along the river, walking straight in his direction. A woman, more precisely. Without disturbing the water, Thorin slipped down from the rock and hid behind it with water up to his waist. He waited in silence as the woman came closer, but he knew precisely how to move to avoid discovery. She carried a large basket, and as she sat it down near the water, directly in front of him, he understood why she had come. From his position behind the rock, Thorin could easily observe her, and the first thing he noticed was her hair. The woman had long, fair hair—forced into a thick braid and secured at the end with a blue ribbon. In the afternoon light, her hair shone like the sun itself, and Thorin gaped at the sight. She wore a dress that reminded him of the many cornflowers growing beyond the sandy banks. The fabric was of a simple kind, as so often when hugging the body of a woman from beyond the hills. Over the years, Thorin had noticed that the peaceful people living near the water and traveling by foot often wore these kinds of fabric to shield their bodies. On a few occasions, he had seen small groups of riders and carts pulled by large horses. Those people often wore fabrics that glittered like frostbitten river reed in the sun, but they never stopped long enough for him to learn who they were or where they came from. Usually, their animals drank water, and then they were gone as quickly as they came. The folk from the hills beyond the river were of a different kind. They regularly came to the river to bathe or clean their belongings. Some of them were only children, and those were the times Thorin had most trouble remaining undiscovered, for young minds are curious by nature and far more reckless than their parents. And they liked his music.

The woman in the cornflower dress grabbed something from her basket and waded out in the river until the water reached above her calves. Then she sank the dirty fabric into the water and started to whip it with the piece of wood she held in her other hand. Water splashed around her, staining her dress—but she did not seem to care. Thorin watched her as she worked, and something about her intrigued him, and it was not only because of her unusual hair. The woman was young but not as young as the previous maidens who had failed to resist his harp. Her sleeveless dress was of a simple cut, offering him a fine view of her tanned skin. She was clearly used to working hard; her feminine muscles were strong and well-defined. With tireless strength, she carried on, working through the small mountain of clothes in her basket, and Thorin found himself wishing she had even more chores to do. Every time she stretched her back, he admired the curves of her body, and when she bent down over her basket, he could not tear his eyes from her behind. Thorin felt confused; he had seen beautiful maidens before, naked even—as they sometimes came to bathe, alone or in a group. Without knowledge of what waited in the dark water, they unconcernedly exposed their skins to his eyes. He had never been attracted to any of them as much as the fair-haired beauty.

As he gazed at the woman, Thorin came to think of another young maiden from long ago when his braids were still dark as the eyes of a heron. He had never forgotten the fiery maiden who came to the river evening after evening, yet always alone. The warm light of the sun made her hair glow like copper as she lowered herself into the river, and in the cover of the dark water, Thorin dived under the surface and swam very close to her. He had a feeling she knew someone was watching her, and she was not afraid—she liked it. The way she used her hands to clean her body was something he had never seen, and he allowed himself to take great risks to be near her. Hidden by the dark water, he could have reached out to touch her—but he never did. When he got bored of just watching her, he grabbed his harp and let his seductive notes fill the air. She was so easy to snare. Sadly, she was not who he was searching for, and she paid the ultimate price for his misjudgment. Thorin dressed her body before he left her at the bank further down the river. Such beauty was better to cover before someone with foul intentions found her. Someone like him.

Clear, light tones suddenly filled the air, and Thorin listened intently. A sweet melody floated over the water—like mist rising on early summer mornings. The young woman had stopped beating the dirt out of her laundry and was rinsing and twisting the fabrics. As she worked, she gave air to the feelings she carried inside, and Thorin had no problem understanding the longing behind her words—for they lived inside him as well. Long strands of hair escaped her braid and framed her face beautifully. She pushed the locks back repeatedly with her wet hands, but the hair had a will of its own, it seemed. The locks wanted to be free, to be able to dance in the wind on stormy days and caress her cheeks when she lowered her chin. Absently, Thorin stroked the strains on his harp. The length of her hair was perfect, but his harp was still intact. He had no need for it—yet.

The melancholic melody she was singing penetrated Thorin’s skin, found its way to his tormented soul and wrapped itself around his lonely heart. An unfamiliar and strange feeling spread in his chest, making his heart beat faster. Her words could have been aimed directly at him when she sang of all the beautiful things he had never known but still instinctively felt he wanted; tenderness, love, and someone to hold close. The young woman’s voice was unlike anything he had ever heard, purer than the morning’s first ray of light and softer than a swift summer breeze. Her tones would harmonize perfectly with his—if he caressed the golden strings. Together they could create something extraordinary.

Thorin observed her every move carefully, and from his hiding place, he could not spot any signs of belonging on her body. No rings on her fingers nor braids in her hair—nothing indicating that she already had a chosen one in her life. Even if her hips were wide enough to bear children, no man seemed to have claimed her yet. Thorin felt a rare stream of heat rushing through his body at the thought. He was suddenly warmer than he had ever experienced, not even during the year’s hottest days. The heat came from the depth of his core, created by the music of his pulse and her singing in his veins. For a moment, he wondered if he was ablaze, and he lowered himself deeper into the water to cool off the burning feeling on his skin. The water never failed him; it helped his skin to control its temperature, and his mind regained its usual sharpness. The young woman in the cornflower dress was special in a way he could not explain to himself—all he knew was that he could not tear his eyes from her. When he turned to the river for guidance, he was suddenly met with silence. It was as if the river was forcing him to feel for himself. Could she be the one he had spent a lifetime waiting for? Was he looking at his One? His grip around his harp tightened.

When the basket was filled with wet fabrics, she left it by the river. After a quick glance around, she grabbed the hem of her dress and lifted it in modesty as she waded out in the water until it reached up to her thighs. She wore no stockings, Thorin noticed, as he caught a teasing glimpse of her skin before the water shielded the sight. Her cheeks blushed like the sky during sunset, revealing how warm she was after her hard work, and Thorin marveled at the satisfaction she appeared to experience in the cooling water. How he wished for her to pull the dress over her head and throw herself out in the deeper part of the river. The water would wash away all her sweat and help her forget the chores for a while. Maybe she was a good swimmer—some of the people over the hills actually were—and could easily make it to the opposite side of the river. If so, he would follow her. Protect her. When Thorin was underwater, his eyes adapted well to the darkness, and it allowed him to see things others could not. It also made it easy for him to approach those he wanted to avoid being seen by. Humans’ skins sometimes glimmered like the scales of a trout in the water, but this woman was not that pale. The sun had kissed the delicate skin on her arms, yet Thorin suspected not all of her body had been exposed to the burning sun. The thought of seeing what she hid under her dress made him quietly groan. Greed slowly corrupted Thorin’s heart—she could belong to him. Her voice already had the power to brighten his inner clouded sky, and if he took her to his kingdom, she too would be bound to the river. She would never be able to return to the place she came from, and they could be together—forever.

When the first mellow note vibrated through the air, the woman looked up with a startled expression. She instantly let go of the hem, and the skirt fell down into the water and created a pool of wet fabric around her. Thorin let his fingers run along the strings—echoing her melody—and it made her smile softly. Her face was beautiful while frowning, but now, when his music made her features light up like the sun, Thorin realized he was smiling as well. At first, she seemed to hesitate, but then she took a few steps in his direction and started to sing again. Without thinking, Thorin gave his harp life, and the notes rose to the sky effortlessly. The woman’s soft voice harmonized with his music, followed the same winding path, and spoke of promises neither of them understood. He watched her as she came closer, and to his delight, he saw the same golden light in her eyes as he had seen in others several times before. When she fell silent, Thorin knew he had succeeded. She was defenseless, captured by his music, and she would follow him to whatever place he led. With a pleased grin, he dived under the surface, swam quickly further away and then emerged again. The moment he broke the surface of the water, light from the sun hit his wet skin and made it sparkle. His hair appeared to be even darker than before—as well as his eyes. But the beautiful fair-haired woman did not even blink; only the sweetest of smiles formed her lips into a sensual shape. Thorin lifted his harp again and tenderly caressed the strings. Another of his melodies floated over the water—tones filled with the deepest temptation—and formed an invisible leash to wrap around the neck of whoever heard them. It never failed to make the listener unable to resist following the sound of his harp. And it did not take many heartbeats before the woman started walking, her eyes resting on a spot far beyond what Thorin could see. As soon as she came closer, Thorin dived again, and then again, leading her away from the relatively safe parts of the river. Around riverbend after riverbend, she followed him, and he played with growing desire in his heart. He wanted her—needed her. Her body and soul would eventually be his. Blinded by greed, he ignored what would happen to her if she was not his One. The river got deeper, she was up to her waist in water, and the river started to become restless. It tore at her dress as if trying to wake her from her trance. But it was to no use, for no woman nor child could stand against the power of Thorin’s harp.

The rumble of the waterfall became louder, and Thorin increased his effort so he would not lose what he had worked so hard for. His music needed to drown the noise from the fall, or the woman with the fairest hair would wake from the enchantment too soon. He just needed to lead her around another riverbend, and then they would finally be looking down at the gate to his kingdom. Thorin could picture her falling, but he was supposed to follow her—and catch her—before she passed the point of no return. If her body were resilient enough, they would then be able to enter together.

The river banks narrowed the gap between them, the trees grew even closer to the water, and their long branches framed the magical-looking scene. The air was filled with mist rising from the fall, and it gave the area a spectacular light. The fall itself was dangerously high, and the river sent cascades of water over the edge, creating a mesmerizing—but violent—entrance to the Neck’s underwater realm. Below the fall waited a long row of black, large rocks, and only Thorin knew how far they reached—and how to avoid getting smashed against them. The melody changed to compliment the dramatic nature, and by the brink of the fall stood his woman—waiting—in her soaked dress. The water was less deep here, so he could see more of her, and while the dress clung to her body, he greedily took in every shape and curve. Soon he would be able to touch her. She would slip on the flat rocks he knew were placed right in front of her. They all had. In perfect harmony, the two of them would then spend the rest of their days together, and never before had his heart been more convinced he was right. All he demanded was a few more steps.

One of his precious strings suddenly broke and was left hanging by a single piece of hair, forcing Thorin to stop briefly and rethink his notes. Losing a string was not critical, for most of his melodies could be played in a slightly different way, but it disturbed him enough to shift focus. Instead of continuing, he came to think of her song and the meaning behind the beautiful words she sang while working. Parts of the song spoke of longing for someone who could heal a shattered heart, but at the end of the many courses, one line stood out from the rest, and he remembered the words clearly: I ask you to be mine.

Thorin was already holding his harp in place—ready to fulfill what he had started—when an unwelcome feeling of doubt erupted in his chest. He tried to ignore it, but the cold feeling spread with his blood to all parts of his body and made his skin itch as if he had a rash. Like a massive tidal wave, realization hit him, and it threatened his inner river dam to collapse. He was not asking her to be his, and even if her words of love were true, she had certainly not approved of what he was determined to do. Despite that, he was more than ready to put his own needs first and take what he wanted. Thorin took a deep breath to steady himself and bring order to his chaotic mind. But what if what he truly needed was something deeper? Something pure, formed by consent between two souls and spoken with mutual words. True love. He tasted the words. True love could not be forced, he knew that deep inside his lonely heart, yet he spent all his life denying it.

The waterfall roared his name, and Thorin started weighing his options. If he broke the enchantment and approached her, the risk of having her running for her life was exceedingly high. She could hurt herself badly on the slippery rocks. He was aware of their differences in appearance, and his natural nudity was not customary—maybe even disapproved of—among the gentle folk living over the hills. On many occasions, he had seen the men who came to swim in his river and none of them were sculpted like him below the waist. Never in his long life had he lifted an enchantment, and therefore, he lacked knowledge of what would happen when she drew her first breath without his invisible leash. Thorin knew he possessed a mighty power, and he sensed a risk she might not recover quickly from it. He watched the woman as she trembled. The currents tearing at her clothes were strong and cold, and her skin was silently protesting. Her beautiful smile had the power to wake the northern light, but his mind refused to leave him alone. Would she be able to love him if she knew how he captured her and sent her tumbling down the waterfall? Could she forgive him if he passively watched her body fight in the water until no air was left in her lungs? When the light of day finally disappeared from her eyes—and his kiss marked the beginning of their union—would she then accept him as her One? Thorin could feel every heartbeat vibrating in his chest, and his breathing turned shallow as he slowly shook his head in answer to his questions. When he lowered his harp, he perceived the truth; he wanted her to choose him out of free will—not by death.

Dark clouds started to gather in his inner sky, and his lonely heart tore at his soul. Together they could end his misery, and a lifetime of searching would be over. But the possibility he earlier refused to ponder crept over him. Another thought—cold and sharp—sank its massive claws in his exposed heart, and when it got a tight grip, Thorin knew he could no longer hide from his own mind. His self-doubt fed from him as a starving leech and rapidly grew stronger. If the woman he was about to claim as his was not the one he so desperately wanted her to be, history would repeat itself. She would fight a doomed battle against the river but eventually end up on the river bank—as so many had done before her. Thorin acknowledged the longing in his body, but the more he thought of the meaning behind the words in her song, the more he questioned himself. Even if her lips no longer moved, he could still hear her beautiful voice echoing somewhere between his hope and despair. Time was running out, and he needed to continue if he was not going to let her slip from his grip. But Thorin’s fingers refused to strum across the strings. He tried again, but no tones came. Desperation boiled in his blood until suddenly, he understood. He could not proceed. She deserved to make her own choices; her life belonged to her, for she was indeed special. With a heavy heart, he took in the shape of the woman he was convinced—until just a few breaths ago—was meant to be his forever. Her fair hair was damp, and she seemed to sway like a young silver poplar during an autumn storm.

By the river stood an old weeping birch, dipping its long branches in the water. Thorin had seen the leaves fall from the old tree every autumn, but he had never been more grateful for the shelter it provided under its green ceiling. From a distance it was impossible to see beneath the branches, but Thorin could peek out. When he was certain he was well hidden, he sat down—and waited.

Time seemed endless, and Thorin was just starting to wonder if the woman would recover at all when all of the sudden, she shook her head. With a confused expression on her sweet face, she looked around, and for a short while, her gaze lingered on the old birch. Thorin’s breath caught in his throat, and suddenly he feared she could see him. Or sense him. But then she turned her attention to the water and carefully took a few steps backwards. Her slender hands rubbed her naked arms as if waking them from a slumber or bringing warmth back to the skin. The woman reached for her skirt and collected as much as she could of the wet fabric before slowly walking to the opposite side. The banks were steeper on that side, and she crawled, visibly dizzy, up from the water. Her dress that used to bear a lovely shade of cornflower before, was dirty when she reached the safety at the top of the bank. She looked back over the river, and Thorin could only guess she carried a strange feeling in her chest. Even if she did not remember how she got to the fall, she most likely understood at least part of the danger she barely escaped from. The noise from the waterfall was usually enough to keep sane folks at a distance.

Under the tall weeping birch, Thorin remained unseen, and he lowered his head, ready to be judged by the river. Pieces of his shattered heart scraped against his lungs as dry sand on sore skin, and it made it harder for him to breathe. Very carefully, he plucked a few strings, and the sad notes reminded him of large drops of water dripping into an already filled bucket. His knuckles were unnaturally white—caused by his tight grip around the harp—and a salty taste lingered on his lips when he slowly ran the tip of his tongue over them. For the first time in his life, he had done an unselfish act, and even if he doubted the pain was worth it, he could now call himself honorable.

That night, the glowing sun unexpectedly came to rest below the horizon and abruptly marked the end of summer. The people living over the hills spoke about the strange whim of nature long after the remarkable event. As darkness fell over the landscape, Thorin slowly loosened the fair strings from his harp and let them float away with the river. They glittered like gold when they disappeared over the edge of the waterfall, and Thorin sighed deeply. Stars glimmered in the sky, and the moon’s pale light made Thorin’s temple braids shine like silver. He was a fascinating creature, but as so often with lonely souls, completely unaware of his beauty. Without even the slightest hesitation, Thorin took a deep breath of the warm evening air, then gracefully entered the gate to his realm for the last time—and sealed it.

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Taglist and others who might be interested: @lathalea @legolasbadass @laurfilijames @i-did-not-mean-to @enchantzz @fizzyxcustard @middleearthpixie @xxbyimm @mariannetora @haly-reads @sunnysidesidra @rachel1959 @knittastically @quiall321 @medusas-hairband @fulltimecrazy @s0ftd3m0n @emrfangirl @glimmering-darling-dolly @lilith15000 @clumsy-wonderland @theawkwardbutterfly @exhausted-humxn-being @beenthroughalot @chaikittie @piscesvancouverite @sotwk @dontaskmehowdontaskmewhy @mrsdurin

[multifandomhellhole]

Eyeless jack headcannons

Since everyone in the creepypasta fandom has their own headcannons on ej and his anatomy/abilities I decided to hop on the train and do my own finally. Seeing that I'm a creepypasta veteran who never did headcannons before...it's alot and very long...good luck ej soldiers.

decided to start from his physical attributes and slowly work down from there but slowly lost the structure I had so. Yeah.

He is a tall guy Just shy of 6'2, standing straight up that is, he typically is hunched over juuuust a bit for convince that only shaves off an inch or so.

Hes almost pure muscle but isn't at all jacked and swollen but rather lanky and lean, with a broader chest and shoulders. Designed for speed rather than brute strength. He has those hip bones and collar bones that potrude under skin that make him almost sickly looking…probably from malnorishment as he eats on the basis like a Wild animal.

He has thick, course, dark brown hair that is messy. And somewhat curly. Prior to being in your care/ treated it has not been washed and is muddy, tangled and feels more like corse fur than anything. He does wash it but that's when he showers and that only happens when he's killed a victim at a house that has a shower.

He is in fact missing both eyes and does have empty black sockets (since old dry blood is black) of where they should be. At one point when the injury was fresh they were Infected but he knew how to sterilize them. In public he usually uses an extremely tinted pair of glasses that cover them. Also with covid times a face mask helps cover his unusual mouth as well without being questionable. He does have Eyelids too fyi.

His mouth is definitely one of his most unsettling traits. His teeth are nothing but sharp and needle like, the worst part isn't that he has these types of teeth but how wide his mouth can get in to bite with them. His mouth looks normal size at first and when attempting to speak, make facial expressions, or mouthing words it appears like an average mouth. But when he has the intent of killing or frightening something his lips can stretch back and widen to reveal his teeth and his jaw can expand way past human limits. The reason for that is the cult sawed his bottom jaw into two, connected by a tendon and put it back together like that causing his mouth to be very snake like in the way it functions. Like a snake, his bottom jaw halves can move independently and stretch apart to a certain extent allowing him to eat faster, more, and do more damage.

His skin is a gray with a bluish hue due to his argyria( a skin disease caused by the exposure or ingestion of silver. Which I headcannon to have been caused by the cult.) This disease also causes neurological damage so ej does suffer from that effect as well which is why he can't remember many parts of his life before coming a monster and the parts that he can remember are quick flashes that set off at random times, if ever(he trauma of being tortured for months also contributed to his amnesia, those two combined have erased almost all his past life). Now this doesn't mean ej doesn't know that he once had a normal life. He's a smart creature and can deduct based off of the flashes of his memory that do occasionally come through, the basic actions of human kind that he knows instinctively ie human behaviour/concepts that he has ingrained in his brain, how he physically and mentally is closer to us than any other life form hes familiar with, and so on and so forth, that he was once human. that he came from a normal, merry life such as the ones his victims have lived… and that something spoiled that. And obviously that knowledge comes with heavy emotion.

He has two tounges that are always present, they are the result of his normal one tounge being split into two by the cult that healed as two seperate ones. they are very long and work Independently of one another as well. He having demonic influence has another set of tounges creating 8 in total.

His ears are pointed like an elfs, not so long that they extend past his head but they do stick out a bit from his hair. They have very sharp hearing and can hear the heart beat of someone in close proximity such as, shoulder to shoulder or fsce to face …of if bitting their throat. But it's not perfect/fool proof..as noises can often sound the same or be labeled off as something else if you can't see what made it.

He has clawed hands and clawed feet the claws on his feet are more curved. Both his hands and feet fairly human in terms of shape and size, his fingers are a little longer than normal but not to noticeable. The tips of his fingers and are darker than the rest of him. Not jet black but more like a powdered black so to speak. Nothing mittens and socks won't cover. His nails are particularly tough and almost straight. They function like cat claws, they are designed to slice, puncture, and rip rather than paw and pin like a dog's.

I feel like I should dig in a bit more with how his eyes function and just his overall bodily functions and how his general mind works.

starting with vision- He Is blind in terms of human eyesight. Waving your hand In Front him he will not see it. but if its loud and frantic enough will still be able to snap it off as if he could see. That's because he can get a basic understanding/blueprint of his surroundings by using all other senses(smell,taste,touch, hear) and also via vibrations (the main sense he uses). For example, if something drops, the vibration of it hitting the ground and it sending energy up and down the nearby walls and any surroundings would give him a basic outline of the fallen object and the surroundings that vibration/energy got transferred through . How hard the impact/drop is means the more vibrations meaning the more he can see. With that said when pursuing a victim his main goal is to make them give off intense factors of all 4 senses, such as making a wound or getting them to bleed for tracking the strong sent of blood, making them cry, Scream, gasp, etc for loud noises to pinpoint their location (also cause noise bounces of objects and works as impact) and obviously and most importantly make them run so that the impact of their feet works as a perfect radar but also a continuous, pulsing view of his surroundings with each harsh step. Obviously this takes a lot of effort and there are plenty of ways a victim could disorient him(if given enough time to observe him and if they were to think calmly and rationally). so that is why he perfers to strike at night and when his victim is asleep. Or at least at as much as a visual disadvantage as he would be during the day and swiftly enough that they can't evaluate him or even logically asses him. Speaking of which During the day it's obviously the worst time for his sense and for catching humans (especially at noon where human activity is at most). The loud rumble of passing cars drown out all other noises, the intense vibrations of the engines, dozens and dozens of voices, the thousands of differents sounds such obnoxiously loud radios and voices of crowds that bring to light every tiny object within the vicinity and bounce off of every wall overload him to torture. and his least favorite of all, the awful smell of exhaust that chokes his poor lungs and burns his nostrils. If I could pick a worst possible scenario for ej it'd be getting lost in LA during lunch hour. He'd probably just curl up into a screaming ball of pain lime a stressed frog. With this said he can be spooked off with excess noise. Screaming while banging pots and pans with multiple people will send him retreating like a racoon found in a dumpster.

With all that said the sky is the one thing he cannot distinguish. If you were to climb a tree in the distance without alot of noise/attention, he would pass by like nothing. That or a hawk soaring particularly high without beating its wings he would remain unaware.

Same thing for objects. For example let's say he broke into someone's house and ended up in the kitchen, if a cup dropped off the counter as he was feeling around he would most likely "see" part of the counter and the tile, but would not see the cupboards and such as the vibration caused by the cup falling would not be strong enough to bring the cupboard into view. so if he tried to hop over the counter to get to his prey that gasped or jumped at the sight of him and the cup breaking, he would most likely hit the cupboard with his head.

With that also said hiding behind object is also smart as small/medium vibrations would have a hard time mapping density. Using the same example, if you where already aware he broke in and kept you cool enough to hide behind the counter with no noise. The cup breaking would travel up the counter tile first, most likely not having enough vibrations to pass through it completely, let alone reach you, so you would remain undetected as long as you didn't react. (Also for both examples he's in your house so everything smells like you so he wouldn't be able to rely on smell all that well, if your uninjured.)

Sonic booms help him see a lot, almost the whole room his in from top to bottom with the rumble up the walls and sometimes even making dishes clatter. but the noise does make him jump. It's like he opened his eyes for about a second but hit a gong at the same time. Just pray one doesn't happen while you hiding or being hunted by him.

Hopefully that clears things up a bit and the examples where useful.

Because of his unique eyesight, he has great image memory and analysis.

Very animal like in behavior but still managable if conditioned right. As I've said he Remembers basic human behaviour/concepts and can recognize such, like clothes and the concept of being clothed in public and in general. houses and apartments, cars, age differences in people (such as who's an adult, who's a kid,and whose In-between), marriage and romantic bonds, parental bonds, fucking/the act of sex, drugs, alcohol, money everyday life stuff that has been ingrained in his mind so much that they stick even after he became what he is as its the minds instinct to recognize them, Since he was a very successful med student and regularly was observing operations as he was a star pupil and certain basic medical practices, tools, and procedures were ingrained into his mind just like the previously stated normal day things, so he can perform some specific surgeries, sterilize tools, basically all medical procedures he once practiced as if they were instinct and as common as one would tie their shoes. but his mind is still muddled in general, his past normal/human college life is in faded, shattered memories that pop up every once in a while and that Is something that will most likely never change.

His voice box was partially destroyed by the cult and therefore can no longer normally speak in the sense of forming audible and coherent sentences excluding grunts screeches, howls, squeals, hisses, and hence has adapted to using animalistic like behavior to exhibit language.plus when captured by the cult he eventually stopped speaking, they wouldn't listen to that.

He does in fact also use universal body language to communicate such as cocking his head to show confusion or observation, whistling to get somethings attention or alert something, nodding his head to show he agrees or understands, shrugging his shoulders to say idk or idc, shaking his head to show disappointment or as a no or disagreement. thumbs up and thumbs down and middle thumb to show his opinion on something, etc. Sighs and huffs to show dissatisfaction or annoyance, moans to show pleasure and/or pain, etc. He doesn't know hand language as he would need to see to learn.

He kinda stares alot...like alot alot. Just following you around silently at a distance, black eyes watching you cook, clean, Work or move in general unblinking. Usually if you aknowledge him with a "yes or can I help you he'll stop, silently walking the other way or busying himself with something on a nearby shelf

I don't personally headcannon him with tail but if he had one it would be small slender hairless tail, barely extends past his ass cheeks.

Actually now I do.

Body hair wise he has very little. It's still there but very thin and sparse.

Ej has lapses of mental states, some days he's more human and acts like it, he combs out his hair, he takes out his victims remains, brushes his teeth, etc.Other lapses are when he's a demon/more creature, here his behavior is more animalistic and basic. Such as instead of using huffs and sounds of disproval to show irritation hell snap and snarl, he may take off/rip off his clothes as they don't feel right, chew random things, drink dirty sink water, throw up, and might eat expired food or raw food, not that it would really hurt him, to slate hunger (that's usually when he eats humans recklessly, where people find his kills), etc.

Depending if his mind is more human that day or time, he walks normally, with flat feet and his hands in his hoodie. On less human days where he's more creature than man he walks on his tippy toes, alert, to pivot and dart quickly with his hands pulled up slightly like a raptor.That's a tell tale sign on what type of ej your dealing with that day and to change accordingly.

And now for what you've all been waiting for...

Yes he Does go into heat.....

Both a top and a bottom, basically just seeks pleasure on any form and doesn't really have a goal regarding his partner. Very basic thinking as in he wants to cum so will make himself cum. Definitely would need to be trained in the very basics of 2 people sex. Such as the importance of consent( . If you don't you'll most likely end up dead or in the best case possible severely inconvenienced and raked up.) Having a demon humping your leg at 3 am after an exhausting day is not exactly great. Especially when he decides to bury his needle like teeth in your leg to keep you still after you try to shove him off.

Or if your on your period/bleeding in anyway and he thinks your his latest kill and tackles you it's not gonna be fun.

Domination is the best to establish rules and his role. That's the only eay you'll probably survive living with him really is by dominating him sexually and just normally. Basically girlboss him.

He has a knot. I don't make the rules.You're a demon you have to have one.

his dick isn't grey like the rest of him but it's redish pink and very fleshy. Definitely not human looking either, it has odd fringes and fleshy "spikes" as well as the head being more pointed.

I feel I'm gonna cut it there for now so timblr doesnt crucify me and might make a part two if anymore headcannons develop/ come to mind.

[tinessensahthe]

Early this morning, before I go to bed, I'm gonna post what is my most widely known project and my first feature-length film that I ever made: "Tobias and the Half-Pariah"!

A widely known, prolific work amongst the older, adult fandom of Thomas the Tank Engine, this was my first truly huge project that I ever undertook. It took 2 years to make this movie, from August 2012 to its eventual release date on August 24, 2014, my move-in day for my freshman year of college.

It is wild, it is crazy, it is edgy, dark, and ridiculous - a very big departure from Thomas the Tank Engine's normal vibe, both in the official show and in most fan content at the time this was released, and even today.

Toby the Tram Engine is a steam-diesel hybrid in this film. His eyes glow blue like in sci-fi anime when he activates the diesel half of his body, and he gets into actual fights with other engines with very heavy, hard-hitting physicality. The story starts out like a slice-of-life storybook, as the original stories did, and then morphs quickly into an action-thriller-drama. The villain is a fan favorite character, Duck the Great Western Engine, here reimagined as a wrathful, deeply insecure weakling. He's a steam engine who used to be a diesel - until he got into an accident with Toby 18 years ago, and his diesel engine was used to make Toby into a hybrid while his consciousness was transferred into a tank engine body. There's even a Lord of the Rings-esque final battle with steam engine and diesel armies squaring off against one another with epic music blaring and a giant fight breaking out! There's even swearing and violent, shocking deaths! Very much within PG-13/12A standards, but still! Everything about this film was, as one reviewer put it, GO BIG OR GO HOME, and that's a pretty apt summary of my mindset making this movie.

So, a very far cry from "normal" Thomas's gentle, quiet storytelling, storybook world that you can get lost in, and dry, biting British wit. I made this on a then-8 year old computer which could barely handle all the work I was making it do. This is a machinima film, and my computer could barely run the program I used, Trainz Railroad Simulator 2009, even at its lowest graphics settings. I often was forced to film footage at sub-10 fps levels and then speed it up in post, often having to account for this while I was filming in terms of blocking, how fast characters moved, how fast the camera moved, and how I would coordinate multiple characters moving on screen at once, interacting with each other, etc. - often all at the same time. That old computer, may she rest well, nearly died on me 4 times during the production of this movie and nearly cost me the entire film, so, yes, this is a real film and I'll hear nothing to the contrary.

Despite all this, though, despite the film's age and all the technical limitations, and my own limitations, I still think the film holds up pretty well. There are definitely some things I would do differently now, but I'm still happy with what I was able to do with this movie, my first ever feature-length film, and if not happy, then at least - content. Satisfied.

Thank you to all who’ve stuck around for the last 9 years! “Arcane Merchant” is finally in post-production, but it’s turning out to be a lot more work than I expected, especially as I don’t have the energy I had when I was a wee 19 year old. I hope I can still make the December 2023 release date, but the good news is, if I can’t release the film for this year, then it will absolutely be released next year. We’ll see.

In the meantime, have a good one folks, and I hope you enjoyed the movie!

[shadowsong26fic]

In the Rain

Author: shadowsong26

Rating: PG

Fandom: Star Wars

Characters: Anakin, Padme, Obi-Wan

Warnings: Nope.

Summary: On a rare trip together, Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Padme get caught in a sudden storm.

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of their respective creators.

Notes: Written for the Year of the OTP event. June prompt: downpour.

I am catching up on the June prompts I didn't get to last month, and then the July ones will be coming not too long after that. I should be back on track and doing things in the correct month for August, lol.

(I am also doing this for BSG and some of my original ‘verses, if you’re interested in checking those out! One ship per canon. The fanfic ones will be posted to AO3 probably a day or two after they’re on tumblr. This fic is also available on AO3 here. Master list of all fills can be found here.)

It had been that rarest of things--an opportunity for the three of them to spend time together, alone, legitimately.

Padme had been specifically requested for a delicate series of negotiations on a neutral planet with a cache of valuable natural resources; that delicacy meant she hadn’t been able to bring security from Naboo, as that might indicate, symbolically, that she was representing her own people rather than the Republic as a whole.

But she was allowed a pair of neutral escorts for the three-day trip across the planetary divide (which had its own attendant rules and traditions); and as Anakin and Obi-Wan happened to be between assignments, it had all fallen into place so neatly.

An entire three days, with Anakin and Padme and no eyes on them.

Obi-Wan hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted something like that until the opportunity had arisen.

Especially since the terrain they were crossing was astoundingly beautiful; almost as beautiful as the two beings at his side. Mountains rising to staggering heights on either side of the narrow valley, capped by sharp white peaks; lush indigo grassland grazed by wild local fauna in varying shades of grey and brown.

Even when, late in the second day, those peaks grew shadowed with approaching stormclouds, it hadn’t dimmed the beauty, or the simple joy of the experience.

They had planned for that, of course; the local authorities had advised them how high into the hills they would need to camp to avoid getting caught in a flash flood if it rained, and, even though it would make them late for their rendezvous on the other side, they broke off early and hiked upward into a darkening sky.

And a good thing, too--the tent was barely up when the clouds opened on them.

Padme yelped and dove inside, Obi-Wan half a step behind her, but Anakin--

He had stopped, laughing, arms wide, head tilted up towards the sky.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan called. “Come inside!”

“In a minute,” he called back, turning in a slow circle under the rain to face them, grinning. “I just want to feel this first.”

Ah, yes. Some things never really change.

It was…nice, to see him smile like that. To fall back into the simple joys of his youth; the wide-eyed delight of a desert child in the rain.

Padme’s soft sigh beside him indicated that her thoughts were probably along the same lines.

“You could join me, you know,” Anakin called.

“Or you could come in before you freeze,” Padme called back, but she was smiling.

“All right, all right,” he said, and squelched over to the two of them.

Obi-Wan caught a fleeting hint of mischief from him, too fast to realize before Anakin swept the two of them up in a close, tight, and very wet hug.

“Love you,” Anakin murmured, kissing first Obi-Wan’s cheek, then Padme’s.

“Love you, too,” Padme said, before extracting herself. “Now get in the damn tent so we can all dry off. I’ll make hot chocolate.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” he said, laughing. “I’m coming.”

Obi-Wan leaned his head against Anakin’s for just a moment before pulling away too. “The rain will still be beautiful from inside,” he said, softly. “And a good deal more comfortable.”

Anakin flashed a smile, soft and sweet, and followed them into the tent to wait out the storm.

[melhekhelmurkun]

You know what I don’t think we talk about enough in the Tolkien fandom? Hair. Specifically Dwarf hair.

Yes, okay, we talk about it a ton, but not once have I seen anything like what I’m about to talk about, so buckle up friends and let me convince you of a thing

It is widely accepted in the fandom that Dwarves consider their hair + beards to be incredibly special. I’m talking braids, ornaments, hair clips with jewels on them, Mithril netting, all that. It is also widely accepted that only family and those with express permission is allowed to touch a Dwarf’s hair.

But, and hear me out here, what about hairdressers? What if there were Dwarven hairdressers who were incredibly well-trained in managing all sorts of hair, who had memorized every known braid for every family line and rank/title and job/vocation and age and gender and sexual orientation there is to have, who are also considered to be incredibly important to Dwarven society?

Regular trims promote healthy hair growth. One does not simply cut their hair with a knife, unless they either don’t give a fuck or don’t have scissors on hand but really truly need to cut their hair right then at that moment. Since hair is a huge part of Dwarven culture, I’d imagine HEALTHY hair is what’s expected in society, regardless of how wild and tangled it is. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t brushed your glorious mane in a week (though it is preferred that you have), it doesn’t matter that you have leaves or maybe bits of string or cloth or wood shavings in your bushy beard (all signs of a good and devoted craftsman), it doesn’t matter if you’ve got bird shit on your head (one must watch out for those pesky thrushes), as long as your hair is healthy.

So, if trims promote growth and improve the health of your hair, and a neat trim that removes all dead and dry hair is what’s preferred, would it not make sense that hairdressing is a serious craft for Dwarves?

Consider: hairdressers that also learned plants and brewing to make their own hair products. Dressers that are also jewelsmiths/silversmiths who forge combs and hair clasps to fit exactly what each of their customers need. Dressers who work specifically with children to help them learn the braids they’ll need for their age and (eventually) gender/orientation (family braids are taught by parents). Dressers who work with the Royal Family for events like coronations and balls, dressers who work with the deceased to make sure the dead person’s hair is proper for their funeral, dressers who work for free for orphans and poorer families, dressers who leave the Dwarven strongholds to learn the popular styles of other kingdoms.

Dwarven hairdressers!!!

[angryschnauzer]

Moonlight On The Sand

Summary: Stationed to the desert for a short mission, you are on terrain inspection when the full moon emerges from behind the clouds. However little do you know there’s something about the Captain accompanying you that may change things forever. Based on this ask from @fairndsquare​

Pairing; Captain Syverson x Female Reader (no race or size mentioned) Fandom: Henry Cavill, Sand Castle (Movie) Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Werewolves, Werewolf!Sy, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Unprotected Sex, Ovulation, Breeding, Outdoor Sex/Car Sex. This is NOT an ABO story.

I do not run a tag list, but please go follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications. You’ll then get an alert every time i post a new story. Masterlist got too big for Tumblr, so past works can be found at @angryschnauzerwrites​ or on my AO3

Only the finest, free range, organic typos for me, allowed to run wild and free.

Sy fumed silently as he drove the truck through the abandoned desert. He was furious that he had been overruled, but the general had finally done a site visit and his word was final; Sy had to show the new logistics planner the area, and there was no avoiding it.

What the General didn’t know was what Sy had been through during his posting in the dry and barren landscape. That mythical creatures didn’t always originate from leafy green valleys, or snow capped mountains, sometimes they dwelled in dry arid plains and rocky outcrops.

The truck hit a particularly proud rock on the dirt track and leapt into the air, your hands flying as you grasped for something to steady yourself on, one on the dash and one on the particularly meaty thigh of your commanding officer.

“Sorry” the gruff man uttered through gritted teeth.

“S’okay… the moon’ll be up soon and we’ll be able to see better as its full tonight” you casually replied, looking out over the desert surrounding you, surprised as the truck slowed down a little.

“The moon?”

“Yes, you know the big round rock orbiting the earth?”

“I know what the moon is darlin’, been cloudy the last ten days so hadn’t been keeping track…” he muttered to himself.

You used the small penstick flashlight to glance over the map;

“I need to see this valley, and get an idea of what it’ll be like to bring the trailers in with water tanks on”

The Captain glanced where you were pointing and nodded once, letting the truck veer to the right to follow the camel route up through the hills.

As the truck gained elevation Sy could feel his mouth watering. He could not only smell you, he could sense how you had grown wet in his presence. It was like a sickly sweet coating of pollen at the back of his throat on a spring day back home. Halfway through the day he’d been in a conference call as you stood in the corner of the room, observing as he updated his superiors back in Washington, when he’d picked up another sense, the only way to describe it was as if something had suddenly ripened in the room. It’d taken him until the end of the call to realise it was you and your body had just reached its most fertile point in the month. You were ripe and ready, you just didn’t know it.

That single thought had plagued Sy for the rest of the day, something in the pit of his belly was just telling him to flee, to get as far away from you as possible… for your safety. But then his military training had kicked in and he’d followed orders, and that’s how he found himself pulling the truck onto a rocky pullout on the curved track as it skirted around the hill, the view over the valley spectacular as the moon finally emerged from behind the clouds and illuminated the earth below.

Stepping out of the truck you used your night vision goggles to scan over the plateau in front of you, looking out over the wide vista. You felt the heat of his body first, standing behind you, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling up. You knew what he was wanting.

-

24 hours earlier.

Scrolling your phone you checked the calendar, relieved that the mission to the desert would be there and back in the space of two weeks, back in time before your monthly bleed would start again. If there’s one thing you didn’t want to have to deal with, it would be tampons and sand. It would mean you’d be ovulating whilst there, but you had enough sugary snacks packed to keep the hormones subdued, and this wasn’t your first time being overseas, although normally you were confined to a small base north of Washington DC.

The flight had been long and bumpy, little more than a glorified cargo hold, so by the time you arrived at the compound and finally got to meet the infamous Captain Syverson, you were tingling with anticipation for what the next two weeks would involve.

-

When he finally spoke, it was low and deep, resonating through your spine;

“You need to get in that truck, and drive it far from here…”

You went to turn but his hand caught your arm, keeping you looking out over the valley;

“Captain?”

“Private, do as i tell you… there are things in these hills, that you don’t know of and don’t need to know of…”

It was then that you sensed it: the connection. It was like a spark shot up your spine, and in a moment of foolhardy courage you turned, the air being sucked from your lungs when you saw him. The Captain stood before you, his eyes burning into your soul, the ring of fire in his irises and his canine teeth just a little more prominent. Your chest heaved with a shaky breath, and his nostrils flared;

“Private…” he warned one last time.

But rather than running in the opposite direction, you slowly took a step forward, holding your hand to his cheek and for a moment your touch soothed him. You took in how his hair had grown longer, his shoulders even broader, he was virile and potent. That’s when he felt it, his senses clouded as the moon took hold, but finally he realised; you weren’t afraid.

His body slammed yours against the side of the truck, his lips on yours as his tongue pushed into your mouth; tasting you, devouring you. Your hands clung to the sides of his weather beaten uniform, pulling him ever closer so you could feel every inch of his body pressing against yours until suddenly his hands were on your hips and he was lifting you onto the still warm hood of the truck. With expert skill he had quickly shed you of your cargo pants and sensible undergarments, his face between your thighs and you watched with fascination as he inhaled deeply, humming as your scent hit his brain before he dived in. 

His tongue was everywhere; licking and tasting you, running firm circles over your clit before descending and pushing the thick muscle into your velvet channel, his sharp teeth pressed against your soaked folds as he tasted you from within. When you came you screamed into the night sky, your legs shaking as the feral beast between your thighs growled in satisfaction, his eyes glowing.

He pulled you from the hood and carried you to the rear of the vehicle, opening the tailgate before sitting you on the edge as he made quick work of his cargo pants, his thigh holster holding them up as his thick cock unfurled from the worn in cotton. You swallowed nervously; you were far from a virgin but the thought of the thick gnarled girth splitting your insides apart had you pulling away for a moment. That was until he gently cupped the back of your neck, pulling your face to his as he rested his forehead on yours and you instantly felt calmer and relaxed. The first touch of his hot flesh against your soaked core had you trembling with anticipation, before he paused, one massive hand resting over your stomach, and he growled as the warmth of your womb almost burnt into his palm;

“Mine...” he muttered, before those feral eyes met yours; “...ours”

“Captain… now, please…” you whined, knowing that what he knew about you, and you were ready.

With a roar he surged forward, your ripened walls parting for him as if welcoming him home. With his palm still pressed to your stomach he could feel himself inside you, the thickness pushing out your belly as he moved slowly and carefully, working to get just the right angle until he paused and you saw that ring of fire in his irises again burn bright.

It was then that he moved faster, the pull and push hitting every spot inside you, feral and wanting, an urgent need to to fill you with his seed, to breed you took over. Faster and faster he pounded into your soft body, drawing orgasms out of you quicker than you could process them, before he slowed and pulled you up so you were sitting, your bodies still connected. In that moment it was when the connection, the bond was finally fully formed, and as he pressed his forehead to your and started to fuck you again, you felt your spirit joining with his. His thrusts got faster, harder, his breath hot on your skin. The angle of his pelvis meant it took just a couple more thrusts and you were coming again, this time he threw his head back and let out a cry-come-howl as he released into your womb, his seed flooding into you as your body eagerly milked him of it.

You stayed joined in the most intimate of ways until the cool night air made a shiver run down your back, the movement of your body making you realise the Captain was still hard and nestled deep within you;

“So… are we stuck?”

“No… but this is the first time i’ve done… this… whilst i’ve been like… this…” he let out a huff of air; “I’m not exactly sure how long i’m gonna stay hard Darlin’... we could be here a while…”

“All night?” you said, a hint of hope in your voice

“I’m yours until the moon goes down Darlin’”

“And after the moon goes down?”

He Captain paused;

“What would a girl like you want with a beast like me come daybreak?”

Running your hand over his beard your thumb caressed the skin of his cheek;

“Everything Captain… i want all of you...” It was only in that moment that Sy saw it, the ring of fire in your own eyes. He had found his mate and you had found yours; “Breed me Captain…”

[spookysweet-heart]

Chance

Request: No

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairings: Dimitrescu Girls x Fem!Reader

Warning: mention of a stab wound, homophobia.

A/N: Here's something to hold you over while I work on the commissions I have! I had an instant idea when I saw a prompt for coming out and having multiple people send the video of Lady Dimitrescu's voice actor saying Lady D supports gay rights! Happy Pride month everyone!!! Collage was made by me and this was edited by @semiproeagle!

You ran through the village you once called home, the shouts of the villagers ringing through your ears. This is what you were afraid of. You knew this would happen eventually, but you were hoping it would've taken a few more years, at least till you were able to move away. 

Putting pressure on the wound that was on your shoulder, you hissed, feeling the cold air hit your face as you climbed up the small steep hill that led to the entrance of Castle Dimitrescu. 

Stopping to catch your breath, you hunched over the open gate. You felt like your legs were about to give out. 

"There she is!" 

Turning your head, you saw the villagers running towards you with weapons. "C'mon, just...just a little further." 

Gathering your last bit of strength you could, you made your way to the castle door. Slamming your fist against it, you screamed out for help as the villagers started to get closer. Going to hit the door another time, you stumbled inside when the door opened, seemingly by itself. 

Falling to the floor, you turn to lay on your back. Your vision started to get blurry and you started to fade in and out of consciousness. The last thing you heard was footsteps approaching your body. 

"Mother! She's here! The woman we told you about!" 

"Daniela, keep it down, please. I'm trying to hear her heartbeat." 

"I'm pretty sure it's beating, Bela. She's still breathing, and pretty heavily, too." 

"Mother! Tell them to be quiet! I know she's alive! I'm trying to figure out how fast it's beating!" 

"Now girls, no arguing...Daniela, prepare a dish of warm water and get some clean rags. Cassandra, gather a fresh change of clothes for the girl." 

"Yes, Mother!" Both girls left Alcina and Bela at the front door to do as they were told. 

Alcina looked out the window, seeing the crowd disperse watching as some scowled or stuttered in fear of stepping too close to the castle. 

Turning back to Bela, Alcina glanced at the girl, seeing her chest rise and fall heavily and rapidly. "She's running a fever, mother." 

Alcina nodded. "Take her up to one of the spare rooms, I'll be right behind you." 

"Yes, Mother." Bela carefully picked you up in her arms, making sure you were as comfortable as can be before she started to move you even further. 

Stirring in your sleep, you quickly sat up, breathing heavily. Feeling your heart race in your chest, you placed a hand above it to help calm yourself down. 

Confusion was what you felt when you looked around, seeing you were in a very luxurious bedroom. You realized someone had changed you to a black silk lace nightgown. You shivered and winced in slight pain from your shoulder wound. You had been patched up in your sleep. 

Carefully stepping out of bed, you grabbed the white robe that was on the chair by the vanity. Slipping it on, you made your way out of the room. Looking on either side of the hallway, you heard laughter coming from your right. Following the sounds of giggles and wood crackling from a fire, you looked down, seeing four women. The one in white was sitting on the sofa, reading a book while the three in black were whispering to each other. 

Your head was spinning a little while you were focusing on the three that were by the fire, not noticing the fourth one looking at you. "Well, I see our little guest is awake." 

Startled, you quickly looked over at her. Your breath caught in your throat for a second when you saw her face. 

"Don't be afraid. You may come down here and join us." 

The three women looked up at you, their smiles wide as their eyes followed you while you slowly made your way down the staircase. 

Cassandra stood up just as you reached the last step. "Come sit with us! We prepared food and water for you. It's still very warm." 

Your cheeks turned a light pink when Cassandra grabbed your hand. Quickly pulling you towards the small table, you sat down between the other two. 

Fidgeting with your fingers, your eyes darted between everyone in the room before they landed on Alcina. 

Feeling a weight on your shoulders, you realized the anxiety you were feeling before was starting to bubble in your stomach again. 

Alcina looked over at you with a serious expression on her face before it softened when she saw how fearful you were. "If you're afraid that my daughters and I will do something to you, then have no fear. We won't." 

Surprised at this, you spoke up with a fragile voice. "Wh-why? I-I thought that-" 

"Stories are stories, my dear. Yes, we kill, but it's for survival. We don't kill for entertainment." 

"Oh...I'm sorry." Awkwardly picking up the glass of water, you drank some of it, welcoming the liquid that slid down your dry throat. 

Bela quickly refilled your glass before asking you a question. "Why did you run to our castle?" 

Daniela slid a plate of cookies towards you. "Why were your people chasing you? I saw you from one of the windows." 

"Oh, I-" Your chest started to feel tight, like your lungs were caving in. "Um..." 

Alcina rested her head on the palm of her hand. "It's alright. Nothing will harm you while you're here." 

Taking a deep breath in and out, you stared at the plate of food in front of you. "They....um. They caught me....kissing my friend- a former friend. She suddenly pushed me away and said I forced her to do it, and that I was mind-controlling her. I was stabbed in the shoulder, but managed to run away, and the only place I knew no one would follow me to was here. I'm sorry for trespassing. If you'd like, I will leave as soon as-" 

"No! You're injured, we wouldn't let a pretty lady out in the snow in your condition!" Daniela squeezed your hand when you jumped in your seat. 

"Of course you don't have to leave. Not with the way those barbarians treated you and, without hesitation, almost killed you over an accusation as wild as hers while you were just living your truth." Alcina stood, making her way to you. You stayed frozen in place when she knelt down, touching your unharmed shoulder. "This is your home now. Here in house Dimitrescu, we do not discriminate against anyone's sexuality, race, or gender. It's ridiculous in my opinion." She offered a warm smile. "This will be your new home, we'll protect you as a family should. So please, sweet girl, don't be afraid of us." 

Bela tugged on Alcina's sleeve. "Does that mean we get a new sister?" 

The four women all looked at you, waiting for a response. The tight feeling in your chest gradually went away with each breath you took. Your eyes started to water as everything became clear. "Yes! I would love that very much!" 

Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela all grinned while pulling you into a group hug, lifting you off the ground, and happy to have another sibling around.

[johaerys-writes]

Fandom: The Song of Achilles

Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

My entry for Day 1: Music & Day 2: Deities of @patrochillesweek​ 2021! Where the Greeks in Troy celebrate Dionysus' festival, and Achilles and Patroclus spend some time alone (~4.5k words, rated E for smut, check Ao3 link for full list of tags)

Read on Ao3!

Chapter 1: With a Shuddering Gasp

The music from the lyres and cymbals drifted through the camp, mingling with the crackling of flames from the many bonfires that had been lit. The celebrations for Dionysus’ festival had been going on for most of the day and the night before, and the scent of incense and wine hung heavy in the air.

I had never before attended such a festival. It wasn’t celebrated this widely in Opus or Phthia, where I had grown up. The Dionysia was among the largest festivals in Athens, celebrated with days and nights filled with drink, dance and theatrical performances of all kinds. Here, in the Achaean’s camp, where people from the farthest reaches of Greece gathered, it had quickly become a tradition.

I had been in the healers’ tent for most of the day, and now the moon hung high over the dark sea. My fingers were red from scrubbing, my eyes were tired, and the pungent scent of astringent was thick in my nostrils. I was weary, but it was a pleasant sort of weariness. When I worked, my mind was free of thoughts, of worries. I focused only on the act of healing, on helping the wounded soldiers as best I could. A bloody skirmish earlier that day had filled the beds in the tent to bursting, yet no lives had been lost. Perhaps the Trojans had been as tired of bloodshed as the Greeks were on that chilly February afternoon.

“Your wound needs to be cleaned and dressed once a day,” I told the soldier I'd been tending to, securing the bandage around his arm. “And stay away from the thick of the fight, if you can help it. Sweat and dirt will only slow down the healing.”

He nodded and stood up, limping away. I brushed the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, letting out a soft sigh, just as Philomela, one of the healers’ assistants, approached me.

“It’s late, Patroclus,” she said. “You should join the celebrations, before they are over.”

I smiled at her. She was small in stature, with her wild curly hair bound in tight braids. She was one of Menelaus’ women, taken after an attack on one of the northern villages of Troy. She’d been brought to me one day with a cut on her thigh, her knees scraped, her eyes wide in panic and terror. I had been the first to treat her, and she had since regarded me with kindness and reserved affection. Menelaus was kind with his women, and he often let her join me while I worked, helping me, and I taught her what I knew.

“I don’t often join festivals like these,” I told her earnestly. “There's too much noise and commotion, and I am not a heavy drinker.”

“What about your prince?” she asked, her gaze darting away before settling on me again. “Achilles?”

The name was uttered quietly, almost apprehensively. It always stung, just a little, to know that the captives thought of Achilles with so much trepidation. His exploits had earned him something of a reputation, as I understood it: the Greeks revered him, while the Trojans feared the very mention of him. Philomela had visited our camp once or twice, and had seen that Achilles was quiet, almost gentle, when he wasn’t in his armour, yet a hint of disquiet was always there.

I shook my head, dipping my hands in the brass bowl that we used to clean ourselves. The water was cold and refreshing when I splashed it over my face and neck.

“Achilles does not much enjoy noisy gatherings like these either,” I said. “He... prefers being on his own these days.”

It had not always been so. Achilles relished the attention of others; he blossomed with it, and there was bound to be much of it if he joined in the celebration. His campaigns over the last couple of months had been met with overwhelming success, filling his men’s coffers with gold and riches and their camps with slaves. The leaders of the Achaeans would toast him and drink plenty of wine in his honour, the bards would sing of his achievements and his skill in battle until the early morning. Yet, boasting such as this was not always met with alacrity. There were many amongst the Danaans that envied Achilles the power of his station, and sneered at his reputation when they thought he was out of earshot.

Achilles was proud, and rarely paid attention to rumours and gossip. Yet, when he sometimes refused to grace Agamemnon’s lavish dinners with his presence, I could tell it was because the leader of the Greeks occasionally had trouble holding his tongue, especially after a few cups of wine. That was when the older man would gloat and boast, often blowing his own achievements out of proportion, in an effort to measure up to Achilles’ greatness, his promise of glory, the prophecy that had followed him since the moment of his birth, his reputation that only grew, day after day.

One does not need the blood of a goddess, he would say, his cheeks flushed from the drink, eyes gleaming, after recounting a story that was supposedly about a hero of old, if they have the favour of one. Would you not agree, Pelides?

Achilles pretended not to hear, not to know. He would smile at Agamemnon with all his teeth and toast him graciously, as Peleus had taught him, but he was still a man. He had learned to hide his true feelings from others, but I could still see how the whispers fuelled his frustration, how they turned him bitter, even when he insisted they did not.

Achilles was sharp and direct from nature; it troubled him when others were not. He wanted things to be simple and clear-cut, yet, here, they were anything but.

I sighed again, patting my hands dry on a linen towel. Philomela was by my side when we walked out of the tent, and into the festivities. The bonfires were burning high into the night, and from the lit braziers tendrils of incense smoke curled towards the stars. Soldiers and their women gathered around the heat, drinking and dancing to the rhythm of the music that the bands were tirelessly playing. Not a few were wearing animal furs, their faces darkened with soot, as was the custom.

No sooner had I walked out than someone grabbed me by the arm and thrust a cup of wine in my hands. I blinked up, startled, to see Diomedes grinning at me.

"Come," he said. "Drink. Celebrate with us."

I smiled politely and shook my head. "I really should be going back."

"What for?" Odysseus was quick to appear beside him, his usual easy smile ready on his lips. "You've been working all day. Everyone deserves a break, from time to time."

"That's right." Diomedes' wolfish grin got wider, his dark eyes sparkling. "All work and no play makes people dull, haven't you heard?"

Odysseus smiled encouragingly at me behind the rim of his own cup. "Have a drink with us. Just because he doesn't join us anymore doesn't mean you can't."

Of course he was referring to Achilles. It had not gone unnoticed that he had been avoiding gatherings such as these of late. I swallowed as I accepted the cup and reluctantly brought it to my lips. If my presence there could smooth those ruffled feathers, then a drink or two couldn't be that bad, could it?

The wine hit my tongue in a rush of heat, honey and spices. It warmed me as it glided down my throat, pushing the edges of my weariness away. I took another draught, letting its acidic sweetness jolt me awake.

My mild surprise must have been plain on my features, for Diomedes clapped me on the shoulder, chuckling knowingly. "That's it," he said, "that's a good lad. Now, drink up."

I didn't need further encouragement. The wine was unlike any I've ever tried; before long, I had drained my cup, and a servant had filled it to the brim again. The wild cadence of the drums and the flutes matched the beats of my heart, and I wasn't even thinking about my tired and aching limbs when Menelaus' arm wound around my shoulders, pulling me towards the writhing, undulating crowd.

In the smoke of the fires, in the heat of so many bodies moving close together, I forgot about my troubles, my worries. The edges of consciousness blurred, a mist that curled around me, rendering me indefinable. I closed my eyes and simply moved to the rhythm, blending into the crowd like a single petal amongst countless falling cherry blossoms, swirling with the wind.

In the depth of that mist, in the midst of that insubstantial territory, I saw him.

Achilles.

I saw him as he was once, years before, far away from the fires and blood of the war, from the intrigue, the whispers, the jealousy. I saw him running down the beach in Phthia, the pink undersides of his feet flickering. I saw the rich honey brown strands that hid in the depths of his golden hair, the wind that combed through them and brought them before his eyes when he turned to look at me. I saw him swimming in the stream in Pelion, the water running down his limbs in laze swirls.

I could see him clearly in my mind's eye, as if he were there. I could see him laughing, singing, playing his lyre in the pale light of morning, golden and vibrant and carefree. And in him, I saw myself.

I opened my eyes as the beat of the music reached a wild crescendo, as the people cheered and sang at the top of their lungs. Cups were raised high up in the air, wine swirling, overflowing, spilling from its confines and mixing with the brown dirt underfoot. Menelaus was dancing with one of his women — Aristea, his favourite, the fabric of her colourful dress tangling at her ankles as he swirled her about. Her laughter was drowned out by the noise, fading away.

I took a deep breath to center my focus, and stepped back, away from the crowd. My heart was still beating fast, and the music was hypnotic, but I knew I had to return to my own camp before it got too late.

Odysseus and Diomedes were caught in the festivities as well, so no one noticed me slipping away. Only Philomela's eyes caught mine amidst the sea of bobbing heads, and pushed her way towards me. She was holding a bowl filled with the sweets that the slaves had made earlier that day for the festival, dried fruits stuffed with nuts and drenched with syrup.

"For you," she said, smiling warmly at me, "and your prince."

~

The music and noisy chatter from the festival had dulled to a hazy, distant thrum by the time I made my way back to our camp. I was still feeling lightheaded from the drink, breathless from dancing and weaving through the endless rows of tents and throngs of inebriated, laughing soldiers. My brow was damp with sweat despite the chilly night, and my pulse still thumped in my throat in a strange sort of anticipation, a restless hunger. I clutched the bowl close to my chest, and hurried on.

The soft, plaintive sounds of Achilles’ lyre reached me as soon as I caught sight of the Phthian banners, fluttering in the breeze at the edges of our encampment.

Achilles was sitting on a bench, my mother’s golden lyre nestled in his lap. His fingers ran over the strings languidly, plucking notes that were brighter than water from a babbling stream, sweeter than honey. In the fire’s trembling halo, he seemed ethereal, very nearly transparent, yet at the same time more vibrant than I had ever seen him, dispelling the darkness of the night beyond. His hair caught the amber light on the flames and reflected it in aureate strands, his skin shimmered like polished gold, the muscles of his arms rose and fell underneath it like waves with every movement.

Beautiful, my mind supplied, as it always did when I looked at him. I had been gazing upon him since I was a child; it still was not enough for me to get used to him, to the effortless grace of his presence, the perfect symmetry of his eyes, his lips. The festivities that had been raging for a day and a night may have well been for Dionysus, yet it was Achilles, right there before me, who looked like a god, one for whom people gathered on wintry nights like this, to drink and dance and fornicate in his honour.

Would people remember him with kindness, I wondered, many years from now?

His jade green eyes snapped up to mine, and the familiar heat rushed through me, brushing away my swirling, distracted thoughts.

He set the lyre beside him and stood up. “You stayed with the healers until late tonight,” he said.

“I did,” I replied simply, standing at the edge of the fire. The bowl with the sweets was still cradled in my chest. Achilles glanced at it curiously, then at me.

“Is there something amiss?” he asked.

Of course he could tell I was different, just by looking at me, without me having to say anything. He always understood so much more about me than he let on.

“I just like looking at you.”

Achilles tilted his head ever so slightly to the side in question, a tiny fox’s smile curling the edges of his lips. He stood up and paced towards me unhurriedly, his footsteps barely audible on the soft earth.

My pulse raced ever so slightly when his finger brushed carefully under my eye. “You’re flushed,” he said.

“I had some wine. At the festival.”

“Ah.” His finger travelled higher, tracing my cheekbone. “Your pupils are larger than usual. What did you do?”

“Nothing.” I smiled. “It’s so I can see you better.”

Achilles huffed a quiet laugh at that, his features softened by pleasure. He always liked it when I gazed at him, praised him. The sound of his laughter slithered down my spine like warmed honey.

I do not know what possessed me then. Perhaps it was the drink, or the moon that hung high above us like a silver coin, or the way the firelight danced in his eyes and caressed the side of his face, but I had to be alone with him.

I took his hand in mine, walking backwards towards our tent. I could not look away, nor did I want to.

“One of Menelaus’ women gave me these sweets,” I told him. “They’re for you.”

“Is that so?” he hummed, amused. He caught on the game I was playing instantly, by reflex. “Then I’ll be sure to try them.”

We stepped in the tent together, the leather flap closing soundlessly behind us. I set the bowl on the low table that stood in the center of the place that we had come to call home, ever since we’d come to Troy.

We stood opposite each other across the table, facing each other, our breaths the only sounds. I swallowed; I did not know why I was feeling so restless all of a sudden, like it was the first time we had found ourselves alone.

“Take your pick,” I said, gesturing at the bowl.

Achilles quirked a fair brow as he glanced down at them, like a lord perusing a lowly merchant’s stall. “I will not choose at random,” he replied in an artfully haughty tone. “You must choose for me. You are my therapon; I know you will choose well.” He was in a playful mood, smiling at me like a mischievous boy; I loved it when he got like this. I didn’t often get to see him like that anymore.

I picked up one of the sweets and brought it to my lips. My teeth sank in the supple flesh of a dried fig, the walnuts within it softened from the syrup. I chewed slowly, my eyes never leaving him.

“How is it?” he asked. “Is it good?”

I shook my head. “Not good enough for you, my prince.”

Achilles bit back a grin, eyes shining. “Go on, then. Try another.”

And so I did. I picked up the syrupy fruits slowly, one after another, watching him. Every time Achilles asked me how it was, I answered in the same fashion: “Not good enough for you, my prince.”

I tried one of every sweet in the bowl, until my tongue clung to the roof of my mouth with the sweetness. When I had finished my thorough examination, Achilles crossed his arms leisurely before his chest.

“So, what is your verdict?” he asked, smirking. “Which one amongst them is the sweetest for me?”

I licked my lips, sticky with honey and spices, as my heartbeat soared. I reached into the bowl and dipped two fingers in the syrup, then slowly, holding Achilles’ gaze, I lifted them to my neck, dragging them across my skin.

“I am, my prince.”

Achilles’ eyes flashed in the half dark. There was something feral about the way his gaze honed in on me; a hunter’s gleam. He circled the table, closing the distance between us in two well-measured strides. I could smell the sweet scent of his sweat as he leaned in close, and a deeper, muskier one; the smell of his arousal. I bit the inside of my lip as his arm wound around my waist, pulling me until I was flush against him.

“Then I shall have you,” he whispered in my ear.

I shivered when his tongue brushed the side of my neck, warm and slick, velvet smooth. My head tipped backwards and I clung to him, holding him tight against me. His skin was hot to the touch underneath the fabric of his chiton, hotter than my own. Achilles’ mouth traced the hollow of my throat, the line of my jaw, the curve of my chin, before brushing over my own.

“I believe,” he hummed, his tongue flicking over my bottom lip, “this, here, is the sweetest yet.” His hands were on the base of my spine, drawing me in, and I was helpless in his hold. “You chose well.”

A soft moan escaped me, my fingers sinking into Achilles’ fragrant strands while he kissed me until my breath was all but gone from me. I followed the line of his neck, his shoulder, undoing the golden clasps that held his chiton in place. I could feel the weight of his waking interest pressing up against my thigh, and I suddenly couldn’t bear the feeling of clothes between us, or anything else; it had to be just us.

I pushed the fabric down, caressing and kissing every inch of skin I uncovered. I looked up at him when I had sunk down on my knees before him, bare as he was, his form illuminated by the shifting light of the brazier. My pulse hummed in my ears as I let my gaze follow the muscled planes of his chest and stomach, the definition in his arms, the strength of his powerful legs. He was watching me, too, through eyelashes that gleamed like threads of gold.

“My sweet Patroclus,” he whispered, thumb brushing over my lips, and in his gaze that familiar fondness lingered, unchanged through the many years I’d known him.

This. This was how I liked him best. When he was naked before me, body and heart, looking at me like this, touching me like this. This was when I knew he was mine, and mine alone; the world could not take this from me. From us.

I leaned forward and wrapped my lips around him, taking him in my mouth. Achilles shivered underneath me, his lips falling open on a quiet moan. His emerald eyes were dark with wanting, bottomless, when he reached down and threaded his long fingers through my hair. I was caught, pinned under that gaze, magnetised.

“Achilles,” I breathed, kissing the smooth skin of his navel as I stroked him, breathing in the musk of his sweat, the scent that rose from him: sandalwood, pomegranate, almonds and earth.

His hold on the back of my head tightened. He pulled me up gently and nudged me towards our bed, and I followed, half stumbling over my own toes.  

My back sank into the furs as Achilles climbed over me, hovering above me. His smile was half-obscured by the trembling shadows, framed by the curtain of golden hair that fell around his face. The scent of the oil he used wafted in the air when he opened the vial that lay beside our bed.

“There’s more I haven’t tried,” he said.

“Is there?” I whispered. I spread my thighs wider apart, sighing when I felt the pressure of his fingers between my legs.

“Yes.” He kissed and nipped his way down, glancing up at me mischievously every time his fingers and tongue drew more shivers from me. His breath was hot over me when he said, “I have saved the best for last.”

I laughed, but the edges of my laughter broke on a strained sob of pleasure. I could feel him everywhere, his hands wandering all over me, the heat of his mouth swallowing me whole. I closed my eyes and surrendered to him, to this blissful, blessed torture. I was helplessly drawn to him, in his hands a mere plaything. Like the lyre he played, I was but an instrument, his touches drawing sounds from me that were meant for his ears alone.

When my heart had been filled to bursting, just when I thought that I would unravel in his hands, he pulled back, climbing back up the length of me again. His cheeks were flushed and so were his lips, his length hard against my skin where it touched me.

I reached up and cupped the back of his neck, heart beating wildly in my chest. “Is there more you’d like to try?” I asked in a teasing whisper. “Or have you had enough?”

“Enough?” His laughter was husky, a tad breathless. He kissed me deeply, reaching for the oil once more. “I’ll never have enough, philtatos.”

I gasped softly when he pressed against me, opening me up. My arms and legs wound around him, as if by rote, clutching him hard, pulling him to me. We were flush against each other, our bodies locking perfectly like two pieces of a whole. There was no one else but him in the world; there was no room for anything else. Just my skin touching his skin, the smell of his hair and the sweetness of his mouth, his quiet sighs in the half dark, and this hunger: these endless wells of aching want that existed between us, this fire that burned eternal.

We moved and breathed in unison, the edges between us blurring once more, our bodies melting into one. I closed my eyes and lost myself in that heat, that pressure, the pleasure that built and built, yet it was still him that I saw behind my eyelids. Even when my gaze turned inward and I drifted, swimming in the deepest recesses of my mind, I could always find him there, waiting for me, his image crisp as if he were right before me. He was a part of me, as I was of him; there was no me without him.

Achilles buried his face in the crook of my neck as he thrust deeper, harder, more urgently. His brow was damp with sweat now, his fingers digging into the flesh of my thigh where he held me fast. I was pinned underneath him, legs spread open at either side of his powerful hips, my hands roaming over the taut muscles of his back. Muscles that I knew better than my own, lines and angles that I could trace in the dark, with my eyes closed.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said in a shuddering gasp against my throat as his thrusts got faster, more erratic. “Patroclus—”

Achilles often got impatient, chasing his finish like a lion locked on to a deer, yet I didn’t want this to end just yet. I didn’t want to lose this warm, melding feeling. I hugged him tightly and pushed him to the side, flipping us both around.

I pinned his wrists above his head and held his gaze as I rolled my hips slowly, sinking down on him.

Achilles looked up at me, flushed and panting, his skin glistening, his hair spread in lazy golden swirls about his head. I leaned down, pressing my forehead to his.

“The fastest of the Greeks,” I hummed, “in all things, it seems.”

Achilles laughed, the sound vibrating through me where we were connected. “A champion in all things, you mean.” He grinned wickedly, yet it wasn’t long before his laughter turned into breathless, shaky moans again, his length stiffening within me. My name poured forth from his mouth with every breath, over and over, kissing it onto my lips, whispering it over my flushed and warmed up skin.

Achilles had never told me that he loved me, and I had never told him. It was always understood between us, a truth as natural as breathing, buried deep beneath our skin and woven in our bones. Yet when he said my name like this — Patroclus, Pa-tro-clus — repeated it like a chant, like it was holy, I knew well what he meant.

And so did he.

“Achilles,” I whispered into his hair, threading my fingers through his. “Achilles,” I gasped when he bucked, arching underneath me. “Achilles,” I breathed, when I felt the warmth of his pleasure blossoming inside me, when he melted in my arms, when his eyelids fell over his eyes like the petals of a nightflower at dusk.

We lay like this for a long while, arms and legs tangled atop the furs. I held him tight, long after our breaths had eased and our heartbeats had found their natural rhythm. The music and voices from the festival drifted through the leather walls of our tent, mingled with the trill of the crickets, the hoot of distant night birds hidden in the trees. Though I knew where we were, what lay beyond the safe haven of our small home; though the weight of a long day of healing death was quick to return to my limbs, it did not quite stir the peace between us. I had him, like this, soft and pure and unblemished like the first time I’d seen him, the first time I’d kissed him, the first time I’d laid with him. No one could take this from me. From us.  

“Patroclus,” Achilles sighed sleepily, nuzzling into the hollow of my throat, arms coming around me to hold me close.

Yes, I thought. I knew well what he meant, when he said my name like this.

“Achilles,” I whispered in return, and closed my eyes.

~

Thank you so much for reading! Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated :) If you enjoyed this one-shot, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have a great day! <3

[august-anon]

Tickle Monster

sequel to Tickletober 2020 Day 13 - “Wake Up!”

---

Someone on ao3 asked about a sequel to that fic literally in October of 2020, and mentioned it again in Jan of this year, and I’m finally posting this. I am so sorry this took ages, whoever you were, I hope you enjoy this lol

---

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Ship(s): Gen!!!!!!

Characters (lee/ler): Lee!Ford,Mabel,Dipper,Stan, Ler!Ford,Mabel,Dipper,Stan

Word Count: 1720 words

Summary: Dipper and Mabel complete their mission, distracting Great Uncle Ford, with flying colors. Unfortunately for them (and for Stan), Ford knows how to fight back.

[ao3 link]

ALSO: warnings for some light angst in the beginning because apparently i can’t write Ford as not angsty lol

------------------------------------

Ford sighed as he watched Stanley go, that lost, desperate look still in his eyes. He really didn’t know what to do to help him at this point, and that hurt more than Ford had been prepared for.

It seemed that he just kept failing people.

He started this whole thing. He came to Gravity Falls in the first place. He brought Bill into this world. He was foolish and naive and power-hungry enough to listen to Bill’s lies. He built the portal Bill wanted, not considering the dangers. And he failed to protect his family, Stan especially.

And now his own brother could barely remember him.

Ford forced himself out of his thoughts as he moved toward the refrigerator. He said he’d make breakfast, so that’s what he’d do. Eggs could be easy enough, maybe even omelettes? Or perhaps pancakes, they were probably easy, right? They were just flour and eggs… and maybe they had some sugar in them? He’d figure it out.

He let out a bitter smile as happy, childish laughter rang out from the attic. Stan was a far better great-uncle than he was, even with his lapses in memory. It wasn’t really all that surprising to Ford.

Ford hadn’t really made all that much effort to be good with the kids, after all. Yet another failure of his.

He continued to struggle with breakfast, his bowl of pancake batter looking more like foaming grey sludge than anything edible. It seemed his multitudes of knowledge didn’t extend to cooking. He was debating starting over, maybe trying to actually find a recipe somewhere in this old shack, when he heard tiny footsteps thundering down the stairs.

“Great Uncle Ford!” Twin voices rang out.

Ford turned away from the counter, plastering a smile on his face that was probably more of a grimace. Dipper and Mabel slid into the kitchen on socked feet, giddy and giggling. A far cry from the tear-streaked faces he saw when he checked on them at night, making sure they were still there and alive, and finding them curled together in one of their tiny twin beds, clearly shaken by nightmares.

“Hello, kids,” he said. “You’re rather awake for the early hour.”

Mabel gave him a mischievous grin. “We’ve been tasked with distracting you.”

Ford furrowed his brow. “What--”

The two launched themselves at him and Ford’s eyes went wide in shock. He reached out to catch them so that they wouldn’t slip and hit the floor (tile floor and heads did not mix, Ford remembered that well from tussling with Stanley back in the day), but in doing so he overbalanced himself, toppling backwards and taking the kids down with him.

Before he could even begin to process what had just happened, and just what Mabel had meant by distracting him, he had two tiny bodies on top of him, pressing him into the tile. They had matching devilish grins focused on him, and Ford wondered what the hell Stanley had told them, and whether or not he needed to get up and run.

“Grunkle Stan told us about a monster that you might not have in your journals,” Dipper said, leaning forward.

Ford scrunched his face up in confusion. Was this just a distraction, as they said, or was Dipper telling the truth? Just as he opened his mouth to ask for clarification, Mabel leaned forward as well.

“Yeah, yeah! It’s such a cool monster, too! You know what it is?”

Ford shook his head, playing along. “No, what is this monster?” Perhaps if he placated them, he could get back to making breakfast before Stanley came back down and saw his pitiful progress.

Dipper and Mable exchanged an evil glance and grinned down at him. They raised their hands, fingers shaped in claws and wiggling wildly, and Ford felt a spark of recognition run through him. His eyes widened before they even answered.

“The Tickle Monster!” They shouted in unison.

And then, before he could even blink or think to defend himself, he had four tiny hands wiggling into all sorts of sensitive places. Ford tossed his head back against the tile and snickered quietly, trying to keep the worst of his laughter in. He couldn’t let two children best him!

But Mabel’s fingernails were wreaking havoc on the nerves of his ribs and neck, and Dipper’s fingertips digging into his sides and stomach weren’t serving him much better. He forgot how uncoordinated he got when he was tickled, not having been subjected to it since before Stanley got kicked out when they were younger. His hands were flailing everywhere, unable to latch onto either twin and save himself from their playful torture.

“No no no, you’re doing it all wrong,” a voice called out from the entryway. 

Ford felt a mix of dread, excitement, and anticipation fill his belly when he saw Stanley standing there. It only grew when he saw the spark of recognition in his eyes as he stalked closer.

“You gotta do it like this,” Stanley told the kids, and unceremoniously stuffed his hands into Ford’s armpits, scribbling away.

Ford howled, curling in on himself as best he could with two almost-teens still sitting on top of him and Stan looming over top of them all. He cackled madly and he could feel the tears building up in his eyes the longer the playful torment went on. It was so embarrassing, so humiliating, so…

Fun.

It felt kind of nice to let loose and laugh like he was, something he hadn’t done in a long time. The fingers driving him insane left him with no chance to overthink things as he usually did. All he could do was laugh and squirm and gasp for air.

The tickling abruptly halted and Ford sucked in a much-needed breath. He was naive to think it was over, however, because Stanley only grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head before grinning at the kids. A nervous, playful, fluttering feeling filled his stomach, and he shot a look down at the kids.

“Have at it,” Stanley said.

Dipper and Mabel laughed before darting forward, burying their hands into his armpits. Ford was lost to his hysteria once more, only this time it was worse. His hands were pinned, he could even pretend like he was trying to defend himself from their dancing fingers, and he was too weak from laughter to tug his hands back.

Just when Ford was finally reaching his limit, he tilted his head back and made teary eye-contact with Stanley. Stanley gave him a smirk and a wink before releasing his wrists and setting Ford free.

Ford shot up, still laughing, and tackled Dipper and Mabel to the ground, careful to cushion their fall and avoid any injuries.

“Do you know what’s even worse than a Tickle Monster?” He asked, voice hoarse from the laughter his vocal cords were no longer used to.

Dipper and Mabel were giggling and squirming, clearly having picked up on where this was going, but neither made an attempt to escape. They shook their heads.

Ford raised his hands, fingers curled threateningly into claws, just as they had done to him. “A six-fingered Tickle Monster.”

Dipper and Mable squealed as his hands darted forward, the two soon lost to childish shrieks and cackles as he tickled away. The wide grin still hadn’t left Ford’s lips, even as his cheeks and eyes began to dry from his own mirthful tears. He even let out a few more chuckles at particularly silly sounds the kids made.

Maybe he wasn’t such a failure with them, after all.

But there was still one thing missing from their morning full of laughter. Ford turned around, slowing his ticklish assault on the kids, searching out Stanley. He stood at the counter, a new mixing bowl in front of him, making something that looked a lot closer to pancake batter than Ford’s attempt was.

Oh well, can’t win them all.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” Ford growled playfully.

Stanley froze, his body tense, and he slowly turned around to face Ford, a nervous smile spreading across his lips. His hands were raised in surrender, and he looked ready to bolt at any moment.

“You were just so sad this morning,” Stanley tried to reason with him, “I thought the kids could help cheer you up.”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, you were rather melancholy earlier, as well.”

They stared each other down, trapped in their little stand-off as Dipper and Mabel giggled quietly behind Ford. Then, Stanley tried to bolt, but Ford was much faster, the two of them crashing to the floor in no time. He quickly got Stanley pinned underneath him.

“Any last words?”

Stanley scowled (though Ford could see the amusement dancing in his eyes, so he wasn’t too worried), but Ford never actually gave him the chance to speak. He dug his fingers in, skittering around with no rhyme or reason as he mentally catalogued Stanely’s tickle spots. Eventually, he settled on Stanley’s ribs, the left side, the second rib from the top (that always used to get him screaming), as well as the little patch of skin on the right side on Stanley’s stomach, just a couple inches under his ribcage (that always used to get him begging for mercy). Stanley yelled and burst out into wild laughter, shoving at Ford’s hands but being too weak to stop him.

“You little--” Stanley started to yell through his laughter, but Ford cut him off.

“Ah ah ah, there are children present, Stanley.”

Stanley only cackled louder. Though that could have also been due to the fact that Ford had upped his tickling.

But speak of the devil and he shall appear, for the kids chose that moment to again make themselves known. Dipper attached himself to Ford’s back, shoving his hands into Ford’s armpits and clumsily tickling away. Mabel, on the other hand, launched herself into Stanley’s chest and started scribbling away at his stomach and sides.

Alright, Ford thought. The kids want a tickle fight? I’ll give them a tickle fight. And he dove back into the fray.

Needless to say, breakfast soon became brunch and the Shack was filled with laughter for a long time to come.

[lesetoilesfous]

Bounty on their head for Anders (from bad things bingo)! Very predictable probably, sorry 😅

@hoochieblues

Thank you both so much! I went A Direction with this but I hope you like it!!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Pairing: Kanders

Characters: Anders, Karl

Tags: pre-DA2, derogatory reference to sex work, casual reference to sexual abuse, graphic reference to sex / implied sexual abuse

Rating: Mature

“How much did they put on him this time?”

Karl is trying and failing to write an essay. He has been trying and failing to write an essay all morning. It’s supposed to be an article he’s hoping to submit to the Aequitarians on the use and limitations of Force Magic. It’s supposed to be good. He thinks it could have been. Except that Anders made his most recent escape attempt 52 hours ago and Karl has not been able to sleep, eat or write since. The pair of templars making no effort to keep their voices lowered where they’re standing against the wall opposite his table aren’t helping.

“Three. Gold. Pieces.”

The first templar lets out a low whistle that echoes strangely against the metal of his helmet, and Karl imagines Anders laughing at that and trying to hide it, and his heart clenches in a terrible twist in his chest. He keeps moving his quill above his long since abandoned parchment, the ink on its tip drying black like old blood.

“Aren’t they worried that’ll start a bidding war? Men have been killed for less.”

Karl presses his teeth together until they squeak to stop himself from crushing the feathers of his quill. He’s ruined too many, and Owain won’t forgive him another broken pen. The second templar speaks again - Karl thinks it’s Istyn, but it’s always hard to tell under the steel masks of their helmets.

“At this point, Greagoir’s counting it. Getting that piece of shit caught between two sellswords fixes his problems for him. And saves us another blighted trek through the bleeding wilds.”

Karl shuts his eyes, and images Anders with a rusty blade protruding from his chest, brown eyes as wide and young as they had been the first time he’d met him, when he was 13 years old and hadn’t spoken to anyone for a year. He puts down his quill. There’s the soft sound of cloth padded footsteps elsewhere in the library, and the sound of Annelise coughing. She hasn’t taken well to Fereldan winters.

Feeling as if he’s being puppeted by blood magic, Karl gets numbly to his feet and picks up his books, moving them to the wrong shelf and making a mental note to apologise to Tiffany later as he moves closer to the templars.

Number one, who Karl is beginning to think is Kay, makes a soft grunt of sympathy and leans back against the wall, folding his arms with a clank of armour. “As if we’d get that lucky. He’ll probably make them all his bitches and show back up with a fucking harem.”

Karl’s hand freezes, sweating, around the cloth bound cover of the book in his hands. He stares at the bookshelf, and tries to hear the sound of his breathing over the rushing of blood in his ears. Istyn snorts, and Karl tries not to jump at how close and loud it sounds. He does glance back over his shoulder, but neither templar is looking at him. The templars at Kinloch had long since decided that Karl was rarely a threat, and they paid him an according lack of attention.

“You kidding? Three gold pieces. You could retire on that, if your standards are low enough. Not even Anders gives head that good.”

Kay laughs. “Would you do it? Take the three gold, or keep him as your own personal cockwarmer?”

Istyn hums, and Karl tries to ignore the heat prickling up the back of his neck and the rising tension of his magic. The book in his hands is crumpling under supernatural force, hidden by the shelf.

Eventually, Istyn speaks. “I’d keep him. Not him, specifically, but hell. Anyone with an arse that tight. It’s like a wife who can’t complain.”

Kay clicks his tongue. “See that’s the problem with nobility. You forget, three gold pieces will get you a hundred whores. And no chance of them turning into a fucking demon.”

Istyn roars with laughter, then, startling a new Dalish apprentice who’d been brought in a few weeks back. With a scrape of metal on stone like nails on chalkboard, the pair of them push away from the wall and walk further into the library.

Karl stands next to the bookshelf for a long time. The thin letterboxes of light at the top of the bricked up windows have gone dark and orange on the walls by the time Annelise gently touches his arm, her nose red with what was either hayfever or a cold.

“Karl. Are you alright?”

Karl blinks, and becomes suddenly aware of the numb pins and needles in his hands and feet. He lets go of the book on the shelf. There’s a thumbprint shaped indent in the cover. “I’m - I’m fine.”

The worried frown on Annelise’s brow doesn’t ease. Karl follows her gaze to the floor beneath his feet, where the tile of stone on which he’s standing is fractured in a hundred fissure lines as if it had been hit by a sledgehammer. Karl assembles his features into an appropriate expression of surprise.

“Oh. How strange. I'll make sure to tell someone about that.”