#From my own Light and the thinking flesh of the black pieces I made a Queen. The Queen is your deliverance.
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My opponent just called upon the Oracles and scattered most of my pieces across space and time. Does anyone know the best counter in this situation?
#destiny 2#chess#These are the last words of D-File Pawn the Undefended#I have destroyed myself to do this. They have taken my Knight on E5. They are in my blood and brain. But now there is hope#I have made a wound in their defenses. I have pierced their back rank and let in the Light.#From my own Light and the thinking flesh of the black pieces I made a Queen. The Queen is your deliverance.#It will check the uncheckable. It will prevent their mate in 3.#Bind yourself to the Queen. Bind yourself to me. And if you abandon your purpose; let the board consume you as it consumed me#Now it is done. If I speak again; I am not the D-File Pawn
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Driver Roll Up The Partition, Please | Rockstar!Eddie x Reader
Anonymous asked: rockstar!Eddie fingering you in a cab or a limo or something like that… Oh my god.
Cw: rockstar!eddie x f!reader, fingering, oral (f receiving)
“Eddie, please… the driver” you moaned. Eddie couldn’t keep your hands off of you the second you sat in the limo.
“Driver the partition!” Eddie barked not caring how crass he sounded. He would apologize with a fat tip at the end of the night to make up for it.
Thank god, for the partition because the way Eddie’s hands were roaming your body wasn’t exactly rated PG.
You had been unintentionally teasing Eddie the entire time you were getting ready. You had been frantically walking around in your undergarments until the very last minute. Forty five minutes…that’s how long he gave you to get ready before heading to the club, but that didn’t stop the fact that Eddie was sitting there ready to go within fifteen minutes. Giving him a glorious half hour to eye your body like you were a piece of meat. Thinking of all the places he can grab and graze your soft supple flesh.
Now, here you were, bending in front of him to get inside the limo. Your short body con dress was hugging all of your curves. Your ass hardly covered as you sat. Eddie having the knowledge of what was underneath that dress wasn’t helping his boner go away either.
“Baby” your breath hitches and his hand grazed up your body to your breast while his lips here on your neck, nipping and licking at you like he was to devour you.
“You think I can sit by watching you get ready not to just get you unready as fast as possible? Such’a tease, Peaches.”
Your core was set ablaze as the nickname he uses for you in only intimate moments such as this leaves his lips.
“Eddie we don’t have time.”
“Shhhhh we have plenty of time.” You know Parisian traffic is awful but having sex in the limo? It was so scandalous.
“Oh-okay,” you nodded your head frantically in agreement. The way his hands were trailing lower from the grip on your breast down to your soft waist. He hiked you up so you were straddling him. Your dress hiked up, exposing your ass. The black lacy thong didn’t provide much coverage. Thank go for partitions.
Eddie guided your hips back and fourth across his hard crotch, forcing you to feel how hard he was for you. You let out another moan of pleasure as your clit grazed against his leather pants.
The driver caught a pot hole and you and Eddie bounced only aiding in both of your pleasure. You both let out breathy moans as the bumpy cobble streets made the vehicle bump up and down. Vibrations ran through your body as Eddie’s tongue explored your skin, while his hands gripped your ass so hard you’re sure there will be finger print shaped bruises tomorrow morning, only making you more feral for him. You loved when he marked you. Claimed you as his own, but only in places no one else could see.
“No hickeys baby, the paps will eat that up when we get out” your voice was breathy.
“Can’t help myself Peaches, you’re addictive.” He only sucked harder on your neck. “Mmmm you smell so good, I could devour you”
Your hands ran up his exposed chest, catching his nipple ring. He left his his mesh button up undone just under his chest. Detaching your self from Eddie’s mouth as you looked down at him.
“Than why don’t you, Mr. Rockstar?”
Eddie kissed you so hard your breath gets left behind. You find it again when he flips you off him replacing your body where his once was. The leather of his pants squeaks against the leather of the seats as you watch as Eddie gets up to crouch in front of you on the floor. He then parts your legs so you’re spread out for him.
“Please” you sighed as his ring clad fingers grazed your inner thighs, creeping closer and closer agonizingly slow.
He was soaking in the moment, watching as the street lights catching the glitter on your face with every passing car. He watches your eyes look down at him, glazed with lust.
“Please” you sigh again, your nails running through his scalp, only making Eddie groan in return.
Eddie listened to your plea. He hooked a finger under the gusset of your panties moving them to the side, exposing your wet lower lips. The pad of his index finger grazed down your slit collecting your slick before pushing it up inside.
“Oh Eddie!”
“Yes Peaches?” He smirks up at you. You grip his hair tighter as his fingers brush on your inner walls.
“Oh right there!”
“Shhhh or else you’re going to give the driver a show” Eddie smirked before dipping his head down to your clit.
“Eddie!!” Obviously your need for not having the driver here was out the window.
“That’s it Peaches, scream my name” he only let go of your clit for a moment and he was back on your wet lips. His mouth was like magic it made you arch your back into him. His hand that wasn’t working your pussy was gripping your hip pushing your body further into him.
He grazes your velvety walls as his mouth devours your pussy. Eddie continuously pumps his fingers in and out, making your eyes roll back into your head. You feel Eddie moan into your pussy. The vibrations from his mouth on your clit send you over the edge, your walls clench around his fingers, and the rush in your pussy consumes your body as all your muscles tense.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck” your body levitates or at least it feels that way.
You look down at Eddie and he is grinning from ear to ear, chin glistening from your cum.
The car suddenly comes to a stop and you scramble to fix your outfit.
“Nous sommes arrivés” the muffled sounds from the driver comes through the partition.
“But we didn’t get to you” you look down at Eddie’s tented pants.
“It’s okay baby. We have a private table, in the back” he winks before helping you out and pulls you inside of the club.
#Eddie Munson x you#eddie munson x reader#Eddie Munson smut#rockstar!eddie munson#rockstar!eddie x reader#rockstar!eddie smut#rockstar!eddie Munson x reader#rockstar!eddie Munson x you#rockstar!eddiemunson#rockstar!eddie Munson smut#Spotify
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I just have this silly little head canon that Wednesday knows much Enid would want to do matching outfits for the next school dance. Couples always have color coordinated outfits and look cute and fun and all the other things Enid loves.
So for the next dance, as they are getting ready - Wednesday in her black dress, same as before because why would she need two dresses, and Enid in pinks and neons and bold colors - Wednesday clears her throat.
Enid pauses from doing her hair - crimped of course - and blinks up at Wednesday.
"If you would like to add one piece of colored clothing or accessory to me, I will allow it for tonight." Wednesday isn't quite sure what Enid would pick, but she has plenty of things in her wardrobe. "So that we may...match."
And Enid lights up like it's Christmas, before stopping. "What about the whole 'hives and flesh pealing' thing? I won't sacrifice your skin for a couple's photo."
Wednesday is prepared of course and says "I've been taking benadryl the past month. I will be fine as long as it doesn't directly touch my skin."
Enid swoons because Wednesday really is romantic in her own way. Planning ahead for a week and taking meds to prepare for Enid to have something so trivial as a matching outfit at the risk of losing her skin. Ugh, Wednesday really is so much sweeter than she realizes.
(Not that Enid says it out loud.)
So Enid shuffles through her closet to find something to match with her own outfit, something that works with Wednesday's dress, but also her personality, and comes across the perfect thing - a jewelry set, ruby earrings and a necklace, such a deep red that it's too dark for Enid, and too colorful for Wednesday, so it lands directly between their styles.
Enid takes the earrings of course, Wednesday doesn't have her ears pierced, while Wednesday takes the ruby pendant and allows Enid to clasp it behind her neck (which, Wednesday willingly turning her back to Enid, is an act of flirting in itself for an Addams).
They show up to the dance - Wednesday in black and Enid in a rainbow - with their matching jewelry and Enid has never felt so connected with another person before.
---
I was just thinking about Wednesday's color allergy and the idea that she would take benadryl for Enid to dress her up a little bit and Enid falling so much harder, it made me so emotional for these two.
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i am a nightmare, you are a miracle // 3
do i get callous, or do i stay tender
series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
pairing: joel x ofc!reader, ex!tommy x ofc!reader (NO USE OF Y/N)
rating: explicit, MDNI 18+
word count: 8k
chapter summary: the boundaries of your new relationship with joel are explored.
chapter warnings/tags: no outbreak AU, soft!joel, age gap, alcohol, language, characters eating food, alfred hitchcock, allusions to verbal/mental abuse (not joel), dry humping (i guess?). let me know if I’m forgetting anything!
a/n: this feels very ‘slice of life’, but it’s important to me, dammit! I love each and every one of you (yes, you!) who read, comment, and reblog. this fic is my baby, and every interaction means the world to me. @nostalxgic beta’d for me, because she’s the best human in the world and I love her to pieces.
comments and reblogs are appreciated! support your creators!
There was, Joel knows, a depth to the things you had shared with him. He just doesn’t know how to piece them together.
You had led him, a proverbial blindfold over his eyes, to the darkest recesses of your psyche. Allowed him to graze those things with his fingers. Not to grasp, never to grasp, but to ghost the ridges of his rough digits against the truths they contained. Visceral and unrefined, flexing without giving, beneath his prodding touch. A reluctant invitation.
He had wanted to claw his way in. He had wanted to rip you apart, to gorge himself on your suffering. To lick your velvet bones and make his home inside your ribcage. Half heaven, half hell.
Instead, he finds himself turning your words over in his head again and again, whiskey a thick smoke on his tongue. The television is still on in the background, the light flickering across the angles of the room, casting everything in jagged shadow.
Frustration curls tight in the pit of his stomach. Understanding feels just out of reach — as if the words you had spoken had been in secret tongues. If only he could decode it.
It will take time, he knows, to learn your language. To speak the complexities, to articulate the syntax. To appreciate the nuances from the inside, wrap his tongue around the letters. It will be an exercise in patience, he is sure, but one that he will commit himself to. He hungers to be fluent in reading and speaking you, to savor the delicate flavors of your dialect.
You, the unknowable creature asleep just down the hallway. That his hands had been on; that had made his cock twitch and ache; that had looked at him with those wet, pleading eyes, desperate to be known.
He rolls the wrist that holds his whiskey glass in a circular motion, eyeing the contents intently.
Asking you to stay in his home was a calculated risk. It had been when he’d first done it, and it remains to be the longer you stay. Tommy’s involvement — even in the capacity of ‘ex boyfriend’ — makes things complicated, and Joel knows that those things will border on volatile once he finds out where you are.
Not if, but when.
And truly, Joel doesn’t know what he’ll do when that happens. He hasn’t thought that far ahead, his vision too clouded with you, you, you.
He had known, since the first time you stood in his kitchen, a case of Shiner in your small hands, that the hot knife of devotion he felt when your eyes met his would eventually destroy him. Inevitability twisting its hands into his gut, whispering in his ear to prepare for his own eventual decimation. Lamb, meet slaughter, it said.
He’d let Tommy beat the shit out of him, he thinks, if it keeps you in his proximity.
The acute awareness of it had caught him off guard. Mutual, useless damage — two unfillable voids recognizing one another from across the room. A collision of fire and the ocean floor.
You, in a little black tank top and jean shorts, the tender flesh of your thigh peeking out just below the hem. Shoulders bare, warmed from the afternoon sunlight, skin aglow. It took strength he didn’t know he possessed to not sink his teeth into you right then and there. Lick up the slender column of your neck. Feast.
Tommy, grinning and oblivious as all fuck to the cosmic shift taking place two feet away from him.
Joel wanting to slug the smugness off his younger brother’s face. He knows Tommy — knows him always as a collector of people, of experiences. Not handling things — beautiful, fragile things — with the care they ought to be handled with. Leapfrogging from one thing to the next, nothing but ruin in his wake.
And oh, how Joel wanted to ruin you — but not in the way he knew Tommy would.
Your words to him tonight make his skin itch with that same recognition. That same inevitability. Asking you to stay meant there was no going back — that you would either let him swallow you whole, or he’d die trying to.
Throwing his head back to drain the glass, he savors the burn of the liquor sliding down his throat before flipping the television off and rising from the couch. Retracing his footsteps past your room, a dull throb settles again between his thighs at the thought of your body pressed against his.
It wouldn’t be difficult, he thinks, to open your door and take. He knows you because he knows himself, and what little restraint he has left is stretched thin.
But he will be patient, because it is you. Because he knows how this ends. Because he wants you to want it, too. To need it like he does. To reveal yourself to him in your own time, fragment by fragment. To recognize the inevitability.
And so he closes the door to his bedroom, himself on the wrong side of it, knowing that that is what a better man would do. And like a better man should, he falls asleep to images of your supple skin rippling beneath him, your mouth open and wanting.
You are unknowable, but you have never been a stranger.
You’re still in your dress when you wake up the next morning.
The hem is bunched up around your waist, your panties on display for the four walls of the empty bedroom. The slippery material clings to you, flesh slick with sweat, in a significantly less flattering way than it did last night.
Everything about you is less flattering than it was last night — the shimmer and sugar of it all worn off in the sweltering light of midmorning.
With a groan, you roll onto your back, the hard edges of your phone cutting into the flesh of your hip beneath you. You can’t bring yourself to look at it, to relive the previous twelve hours of…well, everything. Hands and drinks and tongues and flesh and desire and Joel’s voice.
Something else shifts into focus from behind the hazy veil — Joel carrying you to bed. Half-asleep and just on the other side of drunk, drippingly saturnine and pathetic. The recollection of it makes your chest pinch; the most recent admission into the museum of your naiveté.
You scrub your hand across your eyes, thick black flakes of mascara crumbling off your lashes and landing on your cheeks, chalky streaks of it painted across your knuckles. A strange laugh bubbles up in your throat — you can’t even imagine how wrecked you look.
Sharp hesitancy crests your lungs, tempts you to curl up further into the blazing bedsheets, to avoid. To shrink back into yourself. You raise a hand to your still-swollen lips, delicately pressing your fingertips into their fullness, the memory of Peter’s mouth slotted over yours replaying behind your eyelids.
You wish you had been drunk enough to forget that part of the night — but only that part.
Ava’s fingers interlocked with your own, the holographic sheen of her love wrapping around you, the way all of your pain had spilled out into her waiting hands on the dancefloor. Her magic had dug its tendrils into the soft muscle of your heart, her dreamy voice in your ear an incantation: I have the best feeling about you staying with Joel.
It was those things that you never wanted to forget.
And Joel — Joel. The way he had angled his body towards you, had been so attuned to your words. The consideration in his face as he absorbed them all, brows knitted in concentration. The restless twitch of his fingers.
Him sliding his hands beneath your body, pulling you close to his chest.
Everything had poured out of you so naturally, without any of the apprehension or anxiety you’d come to call companion. The sutures you had sewn years and years ago had been neatly, delicately, untied by Joel’s nimble fingers, in a way that you don’t even think he understood. And it took almost nothing.
Like something magic.
Fire crawls across your already heated skin, not so much a realization but a possibility.
It’s the only reason you get up, and peel your dress off of your sticky body, and let the cold water of the shower chill you. Your lungs open up, the buzzing of your nerves quieting under the stream.
Joel hears the quiet patter of your bare feet on the hardwood before he sees you. The beating of his heart matches the measured pace of your steps, both quickening as the distance between you closes.
He glances sideways, pulse hammering when you finally enter his line of vision. The wet ropes of your hair cling to your neck, dripping down the fabric of your threadbare t-shirt. There’s something so cozy about it, a significant intimacy that comes with knowing you’re just out of the shower.
It’s vulnerable in a way that he’s all too cognizant of.
“Hey.”
Your voice is sweet, if not apprehensive. Testing the waters. You gently pop a hip into the lip of the kitchen counter, next to the full, still-steaming coffee pot. Joel is situated at the stove, pan of something resembling food in front of him, his own mug clutched in his left hand.
“How ya feelin’, champ?” There’s a crooked smile on his face, one that disappears behind the curve of his mug as he brings it to his mouth.
You laugh, a gentle sigh of a laugh — a laugh that invigorates his blood more than the coffee does.
“I’m actually okay. Y’know, considering.” You tip your head to the side, watching as he stirs whatever it is in the pan. A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, seeing him cook. It’s endearing, being allowed a peek into his life.
The way his cheeks round out tell you that he’s still got the same small smile painted on his face, despite the way it’s hidden.
“Mind if I have some?” You gesture with a flick of your chin to his coffee, clocking the way his face immediately falls, eyes narrowing in your direction.
“Y’already know the answer t’that.”
Gaze darting back to the stove, he’s quick to set his coffee to the side, muttering a curse under his breath as he lowers the flame burning under the pan. You twist your body to grab a mug from the cupboard and fill it with the blazing hot liquid, crossing the kitchen to settle at the table.
The subsequent silence is companionable, and you let the coffee rouse the parts of your brain that haven’t quite caught up with you, yet. You watch the strong muscles of Joel’s back, rippling and pulling under his shirt, as he extends his arm to pull a plate down from a different cupboard.
It’s mesmerizing, the agile way he moves, so it catches you off guard when he slides the plate and a fork in front of you, steam rolling off the scrambled eggs and slices of toast.
You hadn’t even noticed him using the toaster.
“Oh,” you squeak, blinking away the surprise you know is written all over your face. “You shouldn’t h-”
“Wanted to.” It’s kind, but matter-of-fact. A stern statement to dissuade you from arguing back.
As he lowers himself into the chair across from you, tossing his own full plate onto the table, you can’t help but remember his hands on your jaw the last time the two of you had been here together.
Together.
He immediately digs into his food, shoveling it into his mouth and slurping his coffee. You drop your gaze to the plate in front of you, picking up the fork and gingerly shuffling the contents of it around.
Something close to guilt needles at your stomach, and all too suddenly the words are hot on your tongue.
“I lied to you last night.”
Joel doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look up at you — just keeps chewing and swallowing.
“Yeah?” Another bite, more chewing, swallowing again.
“I…I kissed someone. At the club.”
The confession hangs between you, though he remains as taciturn as you’ve ever seen him. It’s only when he draws his mug up to his mouth that he even meets your eyes, subtle amusement dancing in the liquid amber of them.
It’s candy Pop Rocks compared to what would have been Tommy’s dynamite.
Joel hasn’t stilled at all, continuing to drink his coffee and scoop his eggs on top of his toast.
“You…asked if I met anyone. And I lied to you.”
Toast halfway to his mouth, the small pile of eggs perched atop it dangerously close to slipping off, he pauses. His brows pull together in a question that you can’t quite read. An epiphany that you’re not privy to.
Lowering his arm, your eyes follow the eggs as they fall to his plate with a muted plop.
“Y’don’t owe me anythin’, Peach.”
Liar.
“But I-”
He shakes his head, and whatever it was that you wanted to say dies in your throat. “Y’had a reason to not tell me. And that reason belongs to you and you alone.”
You scrunch your brows together, an unfamiliar feeling building in your chest. He watches as it happens, his own chest pulling tight at the recognition of your uncertainty, of the doubt in your eyes. He’s quick to lean over the table, over the momentarily forgotten plates of food, to soothe your skin with a knowing drag of his thumb. The fork in your hand falls, clattering against the ceramic.
“Hey. Soften up, darlin’. Just don’t want you to think y’have t’tell me anythin’ y’don’t want to.” His voice is low, eyes intently searching yours. “Doesn’t mean I don’t understand why you’re tellin’ me.”
There’s something so tender about the way he tells you this, the way he touches you, that you’re sure you’ll spontaneously combust. Nothing has ever belonged to you — and only you — before. Not even your thoughts have ever been your own, the space reserved and velvet-roped for the ghosts of your shortcomings.
And you know that though Joel doesn’t quite grasp the gravity of what he’s saying, the words are bubblegum and champagne to you. Exactly, perfectly right.
“You’re good. It’s okay.” He gently brushes a still-damp tangle of your hair back over your ear, and you wonder if he can feel how hard your heart is pounding. “Y’don’t always have to be so…hard on yourself.”
You’re good.
“Say it, Peach.”
Like he can read your mind. Like he can reach directly inside you, all those ties he’d undone, to extract the most vulnerable parts. Soften them. Shield them. Nurture them.
As though he can taste the desperation surging off your skin.
“I’m good.” Your own voice is so small, you hardly recognize it. The words taste bitter, grapefruit with the sugar dusted off. Unearned.
“You’re good, sweetheart,” he repeats, the rough tips of his fingers sliding along your jaw as he pulls his hand back, dropping it to retrieve his abandoned toast. “Now please eat. It’ll help.”
Hesitantly picking up your fork again, you mirror him — biting and chewing thoughtfully, humming as the toast settles in your stomach. Sipping your coffee. It’s almost easy.
Joel makes it easy.
Every now and again he flicks his eyes up to watch you, to make sure you’re actually eating, silently pleased as the amount on your plate slowly diminishes. He finishes before you do, shoving his plate forward and tipping back in his chair, fingers wrapping around his mug comfortably.
Moving the last bits of egg around the perimeter of your plate, you take the opening as Joel’s shoulders relax against the slatted wood.
“I, um, didn’t think you’d be…like this.”
It catches him off guard, a warm laugh betraying his usual stoicism. The levity of it curls around your limbs, climbs the length of your spine. “Oh yeah? ‘N what’d you think I’d be like?”
Avoidant. Brooding. Grumpy.
“Much less…pleasant?” You crinkle your nose at the word, not satisfied with it. “Or, like, you’re kind of…nice?”
This time he laughs out loud, angling his head back and opening his mouth wide. The sound of it lights you up from the inside, sparkly and hot.
“I mean…oh my god, that’s so stupid. I just mean…like, I think being here…will be good for me.”
You’re babbling now, skirting around the fact that you think being around him will be good for you. But something deep in your stomach tells you that he already knows. That he’s always known.
Dropping his head to his chest, you think you see a light sprinkle of pink break out across his tanned cheeks and nose. He clears his throat, mouth obscured by his coffee mug.
“I’m nice t’you, sweetheart.”
The remainder of the day is spent zeroed in on your work laptop, still at the kitchen table, legs stretched across the chair Joel had occupied that morning.
He had slipped out after breakfast to run errands — a few work related, a few personal — asking if you’d wanted to come. The invitation had made your heart swell, the feeling of being wanted stirring in your veins. It was hard to resist, the promise of more time with him so incredibly alluring, but you’d declined, work hanging over your head like a raincloud.
“It’s Saturday, Peach,” he’d murmured, eyeing you as you’d flipped open the slender screen of the device.
“Good thing I don’t have any plans, then,” you’d replied, clicking the trackpad to open your multiple files — budgets and spreadsheets and invoices stacking one on top of the other — thoughts turning to how much you’d rather be climbing into Joel’s truck beside him.
But he’d backed off, dropping a quick squeeze to your shoulder before leaving.
It’s not until he’d been gone for some time that it strikes you how different the interaction was with Joel than it ever had been with Tommy — no exasperation, no stomping out of the house, no argument. And you can’t compare them, you know, because he’s not Tommy, and he’s not your boyfriend —but it’s stable, sustainable. A quiet admission of knowing what you need. Of some kind of trust passing between the two of you.
A disruptive ringing snaps you back to reality, your fingers still resting on the keyboard of the laptop. The screen has gone black, an indication of the amount of time passed.
With a slight shake of your head, your eyes track to the smaller screen, your sister’s name and picture lit up. Uneasiness rolls through you, as it always does when she calls.
“Hey, Kit.” You drop your head back onto the curved wood of the chair, exhaling shallowly through your nose.
“Have you been avoiding me?”
You can hear the shrieking of children in the background, the clatter of pots and pans and running water.
“Are you doing the dishes?” It’s in your best interest to sidestep the question, her giving you the perfect opportunity to do so.
“I didn’t think you’d actually answer.”
The fingers of your other hand find the bridge of your nose, squeezing gently.
“I’ve been…busy. Work has been a lot.”
Liar sits just below your diaphragm, pendulous and dark.
“And how has living with Joel been?”
You should have known that she’d cut straight to the point. Like she always does.
“It’s fine, Kit. It’s been going really well, actually.” You can’t help but snap, the tranquil feeling of Joel’s confidence in you waning into annoyance at being treated like a child by your sister.
Beyond that, a significant part of you is determined to protect the strange, placid thing between you and Joel, whatever it is. Whatever it isn’t.
Kit sighs, but it’s soft. “I’m just calling to say hey. We haven’t talked in so long.”
“You’re calling to check up on me.”
“Is there something so wrong with that? I’m your sister.”
“Not my mother.”
You regret the words as soon as they pass your lips. You can feel her hurt seeping through the phone, from thousands of miles away. It cuts to your core.
“Kit, I didn’t-”
“You’re right. I’m not your mom. But you could at least be fucking kind to me, because I am all you’ve got.”
Your breath catches in your throat. Kit rarely — if ever — curses, and it hits you like a punch in the stomach.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears immediately swimming in your line of vision. “You just, remind me of her so much sometimes, and…and I…”
“Have a lot of unresolved bullshit with her.”
“Yeah.”
She’s never said the words aloud before; it’s a subject the two of you had always avoided into adulthood. The crevasse between you, wide and gaping. Hearing her say it, acknowledge it, feels like sucking fresh air into your lungs after holding your breath underwater for too long.
“Daniel! Stop hitting your sister!” She suddenly calls out, and the moment crashes down at your feet.
“Look, um, I’m working. Let’s talk later this week, okay?” You sniffle, salty tears threatening to spill over. “Love you.”
You click to end the call before she can protest.
Rubbing your hands down your face, you wish you hadn’t even answered. Talking about her is never easy, but talking about her with Kit is something you’d danced around for years.
The phone begins to vibrate again, and you almost swipe to ignore it, assuming it’s Kit angrily calling back. But it’s Joel’s name splashed across the screen, and your heart thrums with familiarity. With relief.
“Hey, darlin’.” He says when you answer, the warm timbre of his voice washing everything else out of your head — Tommy and Kit and work included. “I’m thinkin’ about orderin’ pizza, that sound okay t’you?”
“Please, that sounds great.” And it does. Easy. Low maintenance. Comfortable. Exactly what you need. “But only if we can have beers, too.”
He chuckles, the sound low in his throat. “Read my mind, Peach.”
“You’re in the same exact place you were when I left,” Joel exclaims as he walks through the door, a rack of beer on his hip.
“Money never sleeps,” you reply, closing the laptop with finality and stifling a yawn.
“Maybe not, but you need to.”
“Mmm, pizza and beer first,” you hum, pushing yourself up from the table and joining him at the counter, his hands already tearing at the cardboard.
“Anythin’ excitin’ happen while I was out?” He holds a bottle out to you, fingers grazing yours as you take it. A thrill shoots down your spine, settling between your legs.
You lean back against the sink, drawing in a deep breath before tipping the beer back into your mouth. “Nothing I’d love to revisit at this moment.”
The only thing you’d love in this moment is to bask in Joel’s magic — let it wash over you, head to toe. Erase the terrible things you’d said to Kit. Be good again.
He quirks a brow at you, but doesn’t press. Instead, he holds his phone out in front of him, a pizza app pulled up. You shake your head, pushing it away.
“I will eat literally whatever you order.”
Shrugging, he drops his gaze to the screen, thumb flicking up to scroll through the menu slowly. “Hope y’actually mean that. Might try to order a gross pizza just to call y’on your bluff.”
45 minutes later, you’re both on the couch, beer and pizza in hand, an old movie playing in the background. One of your favorites — a sprawling mansion on the English coast, a haunted marriage, the shadow of a mysterious ex-wife, Rebecca. One of Hitchcock’s best, in your opinion.
Joel is happy to oblige, love a good black ‘n white slipping out of his otherwise full mouth.
As much as you love the film, you’re preoccupied with the way the evening sun casts the room in a golden glow, and how it seems to accentuate Joel’s innate softness. A softness you feel privileged to see, to have lavished on you. You want to drown in it — let his kindness corrupt you, let him untangle you.
Selfish fizzes at your fingertips, creeps up the span of your arms.
You shift your focus to the ropey muscles and tendons of Joel’s neck, gaze climbing up his strong jaw, covered in a smattering of salt and pepper scruff, to the long line of his aquiline nose. He balances his half-empty beer bottle on his knee, fingers wrapped around the neck of it.
And if you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, you don’t want to think about anything else. You don’t want to consider what it all means, yet. You want to just exist, here, with him. Watching the way he watches the movie, the way he gulps his beer down.
Hidden from the rest of the world.
Tucking your legs up underneath your body, you let your head loll on the cushion of the couch. You’d hide forever, if you could.
You stretch your arms above you, a sleepy, dopey grin splayed across your mouth — secure glowing fluorescent at the apex of your thighs. The movem ent draws his attention, as though he’d heard your pulse cry his name.
“Tired?” His voice thick, eyes tracing the soft shape of your arms as they reach skyward.
“Mhm. But I wanna finish the movie.”
A coy, sideways smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and he leans forward to place his pizza plate on the coffee table.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he drawls lowly, sloping back to slide his hand across your shoulders and wrap his fingers gently around your bicep to tug you closer. Turning, you meet him with wide eyes, glittering in the dark, your heart a trembling magic eight ball — are you sure this is okay?
And without words, he lets you know that it is. Lets you know that he wants you to.
Guided by his large open palm, you carefully curl into his side, dropping your head to his lap. You pull your legs up to your chest, both hands nestling narrowly under his thigh. His hand hovers over the soft curve of your hip, a barely-there touch that makes you ache.
You draw in a deliberate breath, holding it deep until he finally lets his hand drop to the exposed flesh between the band of your shorts and raised hem of your t-shirt.
A million sparks of light burst over your skin, fireworks exploding across the creamy silk of it. Your eyes flutter closed, hyper-aware of every tense of his fingers. The movie continues to play, but the whole world has fluctuated to both start and end in the exact place that he touches you.
As though there is no before this moment in time, only after.
Inevitable.
His hand slides up the length of your body, over the notches of your ribs, and higher still so that his fingers skim the delicate line of your neck. You can feel him relax further into the cushions of the couch, broad body molding to its shape, and you wonder if he’s concentrating on you as hard as you are on him.
In an answer to your unspoken question, he begins to tenderly stroke the spread of your hair, fanned down your shoulders and pooled in his lap.
“Y’know,” he mumbles, eyes still cast to the television, “we had breakfast and dinner together today.”
“We did,” you agree, a slight simper at your lips.
“‘N the world didn’t end, did it, Peach?” He angles his chin down to look at you at the same time you tilt your head to look up at him. He hasn’t stopped caressing the silky locks of your hair, and when you meet his eyes, he grasps a fistful of it gently. The pleasurepain of it makes your blood hot.
“No,” you whisper, “it didn’t.”
He leans closer by just a fraction, and you can’t help but be entranced by the shape of his mouth as his plush lips form the words that cross them.
“Want it to be like that everyday.”
He’s looking at you like there’s a peephole into your soul — a pinpoint view of the feral thing inside of you, on display for him. He’s looking at you like it excites him.
“Me too, Joel,” you breathe, the possibility a white static between you.
Not a single thing outside of the two of you exists in this moment. He prefers it that way, having you all to himself.
“Like you bein’ here, sweetheart.” There’s not a trace of hesitancy in his voice, but he says it like it’s a secret. “Like you workin’ at my kitchen table, and havin’ pizza and beer, and watchin’ old movies with you. Like wakin’ up knowin’ you’re here.”
He moves to trace the outline of your bottom lip with his thumb, and you’re suddenly looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, breathing stilted.
Closing the distance between you, he noses along the soft cut of your jaw, burying his face in your hair. He wants to drink down the way you gasp when he does; the sound burned into his brain, knowing it will come back to him when he’s stroking himself off later.
The elastic compulsion of his need so prominent, so inescapable, that the next words out of his mouth surprise even him.
“Go to sleep, Peach.” His mouth is on your ear, goosebumps rising in the wake of his breath over your skin. “‘M not goin’ anywhere.”
Taking one last deep breath of you in, he pulls back, resuming running his hand up and down the hills and valleys of your body.
The most that he’ll allow himself.
“I said some fucked up things to Kit today. She called while you were gone.”
The words fall out of your mouth, buried shame and anger spilling out with them. A confession.
Joel hums, hand still roaming, almost absentmindedly. It’s reassuring, a reminder of his words — you’re good.
“Siblings are…hard,” he suggests, emphasizing his point with a quick press of his fingers into your hip. “They get your best ‘n your worst, and don’t have a choice. It’s…safe to put the hard things on ‘em.”
“And bein’ the older one is…is…” he continues, pausing to clear his throat, voice tinged with something you can’t name, “a lot of responsibility. ‘N y’always wanna do right by them, y’know? Protect ‘em. But sometimes y’can’t. Hafta let ‘em figure it out on their own. Fuck up on their own.”
The silence that hangs in the air is charged with unsaid words. Unasked questions. Realities and consequences that neither of you are ready to explore the depths of. Guilt.
“Do you think I’m fucking up?”
“No, sweetheart. But I can’t say the same for other people.”
He squeezes your side again, letting his fingers linger just a touch longer than he had before. Dizziness snakes up your vertebrae, cloudy and disorienting. Desire. Want.
It’s a torrid kind of want, one that burrows under your skin and makes itself known. You think Joel can feel it, too, the way his touch roves over you — can feel it burn ing hot at the intersection of your skin and his.
But your brain pulls your body back, settles it to a low simmer. Reminds you to think instead of act.
And eventually, you fall asleep doing exactly that.
When you wake up later, sleep-drunk and unsure of the time, a too-bright infomercial in place of the movie, Joel is still there, just like he’d promised, head dropped to the flat of the couch, softly snoring. Chest steadily rising and falling, fingers curled into your flesh, firmly clasped just below your ribcage.
You don’t move an inch, afraid to wake him, and fall back asleep to the sound of his breathing.
A week passes. Then two weeks. And before you know it, summer winds into autumn, and the two of you slip into an easy routine — somewhat delicate, somewhat hesitant, but comfortable. And you feel silly, now, considering how naturally effortless it is. As though it could have always been this way.
And truly, that’s the hardest part to navigate. Drawing the line between what is, and what you want it to be.
Neither of you has brought up that night, at least to one another. But after you’ve gone to bed each night, you replay it in your mind, the feeling of his hands on you the image at the forefront of it; his name a whimper on your lips as your own fingers crawl beneath your panties.
Each night, wishing they were his.
It’s far too easy to overthink, second guess, dissect the way Joel’s fingers brush yours as you hand him his coffee, or the way his lips quirk up while he watches you struggle to assemble a bookshelf.
“Peach, please let me help. Promise it’ll be so much faster.”
Your indignant scowl, arms twisted over your chest in defiance. His soft laugh, deft hands picking up where yours had left off, piecing the cheap wood together without a hitch. Sitting back on his haunches, massive fingers tugging at your forearms to untangle them. The sticky warmth in his eyes when you let him.
“See? Coulda just asked me.”
Ensuring a soft landing, in every sense of the word.
The routine you’ve created is grounding, satisfying. Something to focus on aside from your intensely confusing feelings about Joel, something that pushes everything else to the back of your mind. Something to lose yourself in.
It’s not much — no caviar and lingerie and nightcaps, but it’s yours. An ardent, fulfilling thing that makes you feel steady on your feet. That makes the sharp, prodding fingers of your thoughts dissolve into a gleaming mist. Even the edges of the words in your head, the angry curvatures of your mother’s voice, bleed into nothing in the safety net of him.
The magic of it lies in its simplicity: taking turns cooking, laundry on Sundays, greetings with warm smiles even when you have to work late or spend entire evenings parked in front of your laptop. Some evenings he’ll go to the local dive with friends, some nights you’ll bury yourself in a book in your bed. The divine act of surviving.
The foundation of something, being constructed slowly from the ground up. Methodically. Each brick a meaningful gesture, word, moment.
You, being rebuilt from the ground up, at the skilled hands of Joel Miller.
A way back to yourself.
And it’s not like you don’t catch him watching you while you work, or let him drag your legs over his lap while your laptop perches precariously on your thighs on the couch. His hands are on you in some way or another more often than not, and you like it. You want it.
If only it were that easy.
If only it could be so uncomplicated — some semblance of normal.
But it’s not. And you know it never will be. So you take what you can get — reveling in the hours spent watching movies together, the errands run together, the shared jokes and spilled chinese takeout. Your own brand of normal.
And he tells you, often, how much he prefers this kind of normal — the one with you in it.
“You ‘n me, Peach, remember?”
The line a continuous, hazy blur — what is, and what you want it to be.
“Hi babe! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, so we should go out tonight? Thoughts? No, wait — don’t think about it, we should just driiiink about it! Love you!”
Ava’s chocolate-box trill fills the cabin of your car. Rain drizzles lazily down the windows as you click to replay the voicemail, the familiarity of her elongated words and upward inflection making your heart ache. It’s not the first time she’s invited you out since what you’ve come to refer to as the incident, but it’s the first time you’ve felt genuine remorse at turning her down.
But you will do so without hesitating, the grocery bags in the trunk of your car being the only thing on your agenda for the dreary Friday evening.
Typing out a quick text to Ava (sorry babe! raincheck!), your thumb lingers over the thread just below hers. Clicking it open again, the words on the screen send a languid fire rolling through your veins.
You: I’m cooking tonight
Joel Miller: whatever you want, peach
Whatever you want.
The possibility licks hot at every inch of you.
The kitchen has become your favorite place in the house. The heart of it, the life of it. You’ve memorized every nook and cranny, each knot and split of the woodwork. The contents of all drawers and cabinets, the haphazard organization of it all.
You move around the room fluidly, exuding a sense of belonging that’s not lost on Joel. Body propped against the doorframe, he watches as you pour and stir and salt — as comfortable, as confident, as he’s ever seen you.
A bittersweet conception stirs in him, the edges of it coming into soft-focus. Before it can fully form on the screen of his mind, grow roots in the cavern of his heart, he clears his throat to get your attention.
“Peach.”
“Hmm?” You twist just enough to catch his gaze, clocking the expectant look in his eyes. Immediately laying the spoon in your hand on the counter, you face your entire body to his, matching the open expression.
“Close your eyes.”
You obey without question, squeezing them shut and unfolding your hands in front of you like a prayer. There’s the sound of his feet and a quick hiss as Joel opens and closes the refrigerator, placing something cold and dewy in your open palms. Your fingers automatically close around the curves of it.
A wine bottle.
Dragging your bottom lip with your teeth, the corners of your mouth quirk up. Your lashes flutter open, gaze sweeping over the intricate label — a golden goddess, surrounded by ribbons of different shades of pink and blue, dotted with tiny golden star details. The shiny, beveled type spells out Prophecy just below the image.
“This is my favorite.” There’s awe in your voice. Reverence. It shines in your irises as you look up at Joel, who is posted up against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Was on sale.”
He breaks into a smirk, cheeks flushing as your sweet laugh fills the space between the two of you.
“Either way,” you respond, humor bleeding into the edges of your voice, eyes rolling fondly, “mind opening it up while I finish everything else?”
Raising his hand to retrieve the bottle, he’s quick to wrap his fingers around the arches of yours. He tugs once, firmly, pulling both you and the bottle close to his chest.
It rattles the air in your lungs, the tiniest oh fanning the base of his throat. He dips his head to meet your gaze, breath punching warm across the bridge of your nose and cheekbones. It’s dizzying, the closeness.
“How’d you know?”
You’re asking about the wine. There’s two inches of space separating you, and you’re asking about the wine.
He leans down further, the slope of his nose pulling across your cheek to graze the shell of your ear. His breathing is deep, measured, in control.
“You brought’t over for dinner once. Said the same thing — was your favorite. I just remembered, that’s all.” He says it casually, as if discussing the weather. As if knowing your favorite wine is the most natural thing in the world to him. “Wanted to get you somethin’ special.”
Whatever you want, Peach.
Your fingers draw swirls against the bottle, the heat from his leeching overtop of them. His grip tightens, words ringing in your ears. You can smell his shampoo, his cologne, him. The spicy warmth of it is mesmerizing — it infiltrates your senses, knocks you off balance.
The rest of the world feels a million miles away.
“Shit!” you hiss suddenly, wrenching your hands away and spinning to remove the saucepan from the flame. “I don’t want it to scorch.”
Joel hums amusedly, hands scrambling so the bottle doesn’t slip and shatter. You then hear him begin to drag open and slam closed multiple drawers, the clang and clatter of various utensils nearly drowning out the swearing under his breath.
“Where’s the damn—”
“Here.” Using your hand not balancing the saucepan, you stretch to retrieve the corkscrew buried in the drawer closest to you, watching through your lashes as he meets your extended grasp to take it.
His gaze lingers on you a split second, corners of his mouth downturned, brows drawn low. Analyzing. Memorizing. It doesn’t last long, him turning on his heel to retreat to the kitchen table.
Something about the way he does it pulls at you, a tangle that you can’t quite find the end of. It’s kindling to the fire smoldering low in your belly, the one you’re desperate to keep at bay — the one that roars back to life as Joel carefully pours your favorite wine into two plastic solo cups.
You can’t help but watch, the repetitive glug glug glug of the liquid into the cup matching the beat of the nearly-boiling blood in your veins. A sheepish smile overtakes his stoic facade, his eyes meeting yours across the room.
“Don’t have any wine glasses.” He nods to the plastic cups, a gentle laugh at the very edge of his words.
“Wouldn’t want one anyway,” you reply, mirroring the way his cheeks round out in a grin.
You’re just spooning the pasta and sauce onto plates when he materializes at your elbow, making a grab for both dishes.
“Uh! I don’t think so!” You click your tongue against your teeth teasingly, blocking his body with yours. “You go sit. I’ll bring them over.”
“You cooked,” he protests, smooth palm grazing your ribs in another attempt to bypass you.
“So you can clean, if you’re worried about it.” Flashing another brilliant sideways grin at him, you pick up a plate in each hand and nudge him backwards with your hip.
“Yes ma’am.” It’s a capitulation, a willingness to step back and let you lead him.
The notion strikes hot against you, nestles in the aching space between your thighs. It scales your stomach, gains speed in the span of your arms, makes your fingers tremble as you set the plates on the table.
“Cheers,” you mumble, scrabbling to pick up the flimsy cup, tipping it just so in his direction before taking a sizable gulp.
As he parallels your action in bringing the wine to his mouth, you wonder if there will ever be a time when he doesn’t trigger the roiling heat in your veins.
Then again, you think, maybe you want him to stoke that in you — always.
Fingers delicate around the body of your just-refilled red solo, you make your way from the kitchen to the couch, where Joel is slouched back, legs parted. It’s impossible not to drag your eyes across the muscled heft of his thighs, to not linger on the way his jeans stretch to accommodate him. His heavy hands rest on the bulk of them, fingers spread languidly.
While you watch him, he’s watching you. You can tell by the way his digits flex and relax, callused pads pulling patterned lines over denim. Keeping his composure, despite the way the wine ignites him. Despite the way you ignite him.
The lights in the room are low, the comforting drum of fat raindrops on the glass panes of the window constant. Your limbs feel loose, a combination of Joel and the wine. There’s a record on low in the background, but you don’t know who. You’d settled on the cushions while he’d taken the shiny disc out of the dust jacket gently, dropped the needle softly, with the most care you’d ever seen, and let the smooth rhythm of it fill the room.
“You gonna cook like that more often?” It’s casual, airy. As if the walls of the room aren’t closing in on the two of you, pushing you nearer and nearer to him.
Inescapable.
You giggle — you fucking giggle — stepping over him to curl back into your place on the couch.
“If you’ll let me.”
He scoffs, turning his body to face you. “Let you?”
You smile dreamily, looking up at him through your lashes. He’s close enough that you can climb over him, bracket his thighs with yours, take his hands and drag them up the length of your body.
There’s no voice in the back of your head telling you not to, for once. No whispers admonishing you, reminding you that you’re wicked and worthless and unlovable.
So when he repeats himself, asking “let you?” in a thick voice, you do.
Your body moves before your brain has time to react — you throw one leg over his lap, hands grasping for purchase on the back of the couch for balance, situating your thighs on the outside of his. It’s a snug fit, one that opens your hips wide, the stinging stretch of it pushing you forward. You relax your core over his, the zipper of his jeans biting into the ice-cream flesh of your inner thigh.
And when your brain finally does catch up, all you can feel are his big palms cupped around the backs of your thighs, kneading the exposed flesh there. His fingertips barely graze beneath the hems of your sleep shorts, and you’re all too-aware of how close they are to your center.
There’s a satisfied hum on his lips, a knowing growl in his throat. A silent admission of how long he’s waited for you. A confession of a different kind of hunger, a kind with legs and buoyancy.
His eyes burn into yours — no traces of hesitancy, surprise, guilt woven into the golden gleam of them.
Twin masks slipping at the same time. Resolve stretched to snapping, satisfaction within tasting distance as you grind down into him — just once, desperation sliding down your spine.
“You can have whatever you want, Peach.” His voice is low, a wanton whisper that punches somewhere near your throat.
Those words again.
Whatever you want.
You’re looking down at him, his irises shining with earnestness, and you can’t help but raise your hand from the couch to card through his thick waves. But he catches your wrist before you can, bringing it down to the heat of his mouth to press his lips to your open palm without breaking his searing gaze.
You moan. At least, you think you do, though it’s a quiet, broken thing. A whine. A plea.
His thumb swipes back and forth over your wrist, your hand small in his grip. You watch through hooded eyes as he lowers it to the crotch of his jeans, your breath catching in the cavern of your chest as you feel him for the first time.
It’s somewhat surreal — the thickness of his hard cock in your palm, separated only by the material of his pants. Every fantasy you’ve harbored about him unwrapped at the tips of your fingers, his hand pressing yours into him, unforgiving and firm.
His other hand swallows the curve of your thigh, chases up your side to grasp at your hip, dragging your cunt over him. He drops his head back, repeating the action, the ropes of muscle in his neck pulled taut as he bites back a groan.
Your head is swimming — Joel’s heady scent and bruising touch combined with the wine makes everything feel soft-focus and shimmery, like a dream. You cant your hips again, focusing on the way his jaw ticks when you do, lost in watching the way his body responds to yours.
The reality of it sits heavy between the place his skin meets yours — breaths mingling as a cry of finally, finally, finally. It consumes you both in such a way that neither of you hear a key turning in the lock, the door slamming open, or heavy boots in the entryway.
It’s not until he speaks that both you and Joel snap your heads in his direction, chests heaving, hands climbing. Caught.
“Guess it’s true, huh? Y’really are enjoyin’ my sloppy seconds.”
#joel miller#joel miller fanfic#joel miller x reader#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x you#the last of us fic#joel miller tlou#tlou fanfiction
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Hi! Congratulations on another wonderful piece, I thoroughly enjoyed Drive and reread it 5 times now🥰🥹
please feel free to ignore this request, but I'm so painfully addicted to your writing style (seriously you are my top favorite creator along with stararchangel) I would love to see your take on this, I have 2 ideas-
1) female reader x Simon Riley, she's civilian, and basically how they meet is somewhere random (like grocery store?) and he, a cold hardened killer, immediately melts and thinks she's the most beautiful piece of art he's ever seen. Now, he doesnt immediately approach her bc he's like, scared or dumbstruck, or maybe just doesn't wanna bother her? But he can either follow her out of the vicinity to find out where she resides/more about her (stalker lowkey ik) or maybe they can meet a second time, same place, but she accidentally bumps into him? Then they get to talking, he wants to pursue her etc AND LOTS OF SMUT OMG YOUR SMUT IS PEAK! I did read something similar from someone else, I think they did könig though, or even just another civilian female x ghost and he is just dumbfounded thinking she's the most beautiful things ever man
2) female reader x ghost, where she's like an insanely skilled killer, perfect sniper executions, can rip dude's faces off per say and is super fast and skilled in some fighting style like jujitsu, easily knock people off their feet ok? And basically she has a reputation for being excellent at her craft and SUPER well known not just within the army or whatever in the US but overseas like in the Middle East and Japan and Russia and shit man idk (honestly I was watching Hunter x Hunter thinking about the flesh collector girl that Kurapika had to bodyguard for, so what if the fReader was known too for like selling shit on the black market? And being the best of the best medic, head Doctor/ surgeon type shit), then she joins task force 141 and they see all her badass-ness in action and how she just fucks dudes up and gets head shots from crazy far sniper locations and fixes up awful injuries like it's nothing and yea then ghost also falls in love w her and LOTS OF SMUT AGAIN pls
Thank you SO MUCH FOR READING! 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽😭
Thank you so so much for the kind words and for reading!! (You're so sweet omg) I'm so happy you enjoy it.
This'll have to be a two-parter for both requests, but here's your first!! Second will come later.
Thank you again, I hope you enjoy 🤍
Afar
– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader
— Simon's enamoured with you.
Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.
You were hesitant about your friends' choice to meet for drinks at a dive-bar downtown. You knew the place; a rustic establishment tucked into a quiet corner of the city. It was well known for the crowd it attracted: blue-collar workers, bikers and the like. You'd never stepped foot inside, it's outward appearance alone was daunting. It was a historic monument in the city, given away by the dying neon of the 'open' sign and weathered letters above the entrance.
It was filled with a haze of cigarette smoke and the smell of whiskey and beer. Neon lights plastered on the walls, dated decor with posters of vintage cars and women- it certainly wasn't an obvious choice.
Your eyes shifted around the bar, classic-rock playing softly in the background, the sound of pool balls clacking against each other- it almost made you uncomfortable how much you stood out among the predominantly masculine crowd. You were still dressed in your office attire, and your friend was no different. She insisted it was a great place for drinks after work, and the men never bothered her.
You gave her the benefit of the doubt, sipping your beer slowly while she chatted about the newest developments in her love life. Your eyes met, adding a nod or a smile every so often, but you were on edge; your guard was up just in case.
Simon had seen you walk in.
His hand was clasped around the glass of bourbon, perched at the bar with tense shoulders. Another deployment finished meant he would spend most of his free time there, where people tended to mind their own, and didn't ask any questions. He liked the solitude, liked knowing that no one knew who he was- or cared.
He could drown out the flurry of thoughts and internal conflict with whiskey, focusing solely on the sweet hint of caramel, the bitterness of burning tobacco and melody of classic rock in the background. It was his sanctuary, the place he had no distractions, no obligations, only staring down the amber liquid in his glass, ice cubes pressing against his lips as he took a sip.
His attention was quickly grabbed by the bell above the door, ringing just loud enough to make his head turn. His eyes met yours for a fleeting moment, before you turned back to the woman you were with.
He certainly hadn't expected to find himself giving you a second look. He didn't consider himself to be the kind of man that stared at attractive women. His composure had cracked just a bit though, enough to let his gaze follow you through the bar as you took a seat within his view.
He was quickly enamoured, something that hadn't happened to him before- aside from the early years of puberty, and it terrified him. How you walked in, brushing your hair from your face, the way your hips swayed when you walked- you'd already more than caught his attention.
He swallowed, harshly. He took another sip of his drink, a deep breath in as he finished the last of it. Maybe it was a fleeting attraction, maybe he was just sexually frustrated, gratifying it with the first woman he saw. As he peered over his shoulder, watching you lean forward, smile softly- fuck, if it didn't make his stomach lurch. He wanted to know you.
Your pencil skirt more than complemented your body, and he'd noticed. The silk blouse that fit just right around the peak of your breasts- he stared forward, shutting his eyes as he tried to shake you from his mind.
He couldn't help it, though. Watching you from his periphery, beer in hand as you crossed your legs, he heard you laugh. He forced himself to lean over his drink, tune out your conversation. It wasn't right to listen, wasn't right to think about a woman, a stranger, the way he was.
But the sound of your voice carried, and he could practically taste the shampoo in your hair, the fading scent of perfume. He wondered if all of you was as sweet as you smelled. As an even nastier thought crossed his mind, what he'd do to have your body in his hands, his nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he slid from his stool, marching outside. He didn't allow himself to look back, didn't want to be the one to make you uncomfortable. He was sure you were used to being leered at- how couldn't you be?
He was transfixed with the shape of your lips, the way your eyes crinkled at the edges when you laughed, how you'd lick your lips after a swig of beer. It was too much- all too much for him to handle while a few drinks in, and he refused to be the asshole that hit on you in a bar. He knew he treasured the peace and quiet, he imagined you did too.
He stepped outside, the cool night air on his skin helped drop his rising temperature, bringing him back to reality. The lit cigarette in his hand glowed as he sucked in a breath, fighting the urge to throw it away and stalk back inside to you. He wondered whether you had a boyfriend, perhaps a husband- someone you'd go home to that would never know just how lucky he is. Who wouldn't worship you the way he knew he could, treat you the way he would. Make you feel the way he would. He clenched his jaw, already despising the bastard.
His thoughts got ahead of him, and his cigarette was already burned to the filter before he realized he'd been stewing outside for at least ten minutes. He flicked it from his fingers, watching it sizzle out on the pavement. He cleared his throat, turning to open the door when you appeared on the other side.
His breath caught in his chest. Up close, he could see the true curves of your cheekbones, the allure of your lips, the sparkle in your eye as he interrupted the conversation with your friend. He could even smell you better, and it hit him like a wall. His heart pounded in his ears, aching to say something-anything, but he refused to fall victim to his inflated desires. He didn't know if you'd reciprocate it, anyway.
You stopped and stared, eyes meeting his as he stepped out of the way, holding the door for the two of you.
"Thank you," You gave him a small smile, your eyes still on his even as you were clear of the door.
He was tall- and big. A mass of muscle that caught your eye. His eyes were dark, plagued with some sort of stress as his brows furrowed. You noticed the way his gaze trailed down your body, and felt the twinge of heat rise up your chest and neck.
He had short hair, brunet, disheveled. He was handsome. A crooked nose, defined cheekbones and jaw, a hint of stubble across his face.
You turned back, taking one last look as the two of you made your way to the taxi, waiting on the curb.
The second time your friend invited you out, you'd had the weekend off. Free time was never a guarantee in your line of work. A demanding boss, deadlines, company meetings; usually your weekends were filled with errands. She'd caught you at a good time, and asked if you liked the bar she took you to.
So you ventured out again, happy to be free of your office clothes, and took a seat in the same booth. This time, you were feeling less on edge, more excited to be out, enjoying yourself. Your friend brought her current girlfriend- one you'd met only once before, and weren't sure how many more times you'd see her.
"I'll get us a round," You said, setting your hands on the table as you stood up.
"If you insist," Your friend grinned, watching you with a smirk, her arm over her girlfriend's shoulders.
You rolled your eyes, "You're paying next."
She didn't say anything, but you kept your eyes on her with a playful glare as you walked off to the bar.
You stopped at the bar, and stood on your toes, trying to catch the attention of the bartender who had his back turned polishing glasses.
Simon couldn't believe he was seeing you again. You'd been on his mind since he last saw you, flashes of your lips, your eyes distracting him from everyday tasks. He even took it a step further to imagine what you felt like beneath him, the way you'd say his name as you came around him. He spent most nights in a sweat, desperately chasing relief. It didn't work. He didn't think it ever would.
He turned his head ever so slightly, and you met his eyes.
"Hi," You said softly, a bashful smile over your face as you realized it was the same good-looking man that held the door for you.
He could feel his heart beat just a bit faster- his eyes trailing over your face.
"Y'alright?" He asked.
His voice was deep, raspy, British. You licked your lips.
"Just trying to order some drinks," You said. "I don't think it'll be happening anytime soon."
He looked over at the bartender.
"Oi, mate," He called, catching his attention.
"Thanks," You said.
You were inches from him, your hip nearly touching his arm, and he noticed. He could feel it, feel the heat emanating off of you, smell that same delicious fucking smell that drove him insane. This time, you were in a shirt that showed a tease of cleavage and tight jeans that clung to every curve and detail of your body. As he leaned back ever so slightly, taking in the sight of your ass, he let out a soft breath.
"You're the guy that held the door for me a couple weekends ago, right?"
You were waiting for the bartender to make your drinks, and couldn't help but strike up a conversation with him. Your eyes moved to his fingers, wrapped around the glass, and you bit the inside of your cheek.
He definitely works with his hands, you thought. He did something that formed callouses along the crown of his palms and helped keep the obvious tone of his arms. Construction, maybe?
"Yeah," He nodded, taking a sip of his drink. You watched intently, his lips plush and inviting, wet with liquor.
"That was my first time being here," You looked away, feeling intimidated by his gaze.
He was staring so intensely, you almost felt suffocated. But you liked it. Liked the way it made you feel, liked how he shifted in his seat to face you, how you could imagine your legs over his broad shoulders.
"You like it?" He asked, raising a brow.
"It's not bad," You smiled. You just couldn't stop fucking smiling. "Company's good and the people seem nice enough."
"You with your friends?"
You nodded. "And you?"
"I like drinkin' alone."
You tried to hide the frown that crossed your face.
"But I don't mind talkin' to you."
He was so damn charming- too charming. He was definitely good at sweet-talking. Your cheeks burned, wondering what else he was good at.
"That's sweet," You grinned, your hand landing on his arm.
He could've fucked you then and there, your hand on his arm lit up his entire body. He felt himself harden under the restraints of his jeans. He'd never gotten hard from a woman touching his arm before, and he wondered when he became so goddamn pathetic. He didn't mind it though, not if you kept talking and smiling like you were.
You introduced yourself, holding your hand out for him to shake. He seemed entertained by the idea, a small smile lifting his lips as his hand engulfed yours. He knew your skin would be soft, knew you'd have a light touch.
"Simon," He nodded. "Don't let me keep you from your friends."
"I think they're more than okay." You looked over your shoulder at the two of them, kissing in the booth, not paying a sliver of attention to anyone else. "Let me just drop these off for them," You took the drinks off the counter.
You came back with a purpose, a new mission for the evening; taking him back to your place, or his- whichever was closest. You had no idea he was thinking the exact same thing.
You and Simon continued your conversation, leading to the revelation that he was in the army, a soldier. If it was even possible, it turned you on even more.
"I work in an office," You said, stirring your drink with the thin, black stir-stick. "Nothing as interesting as that."
"I remember your blouse- that skirt you had on," He looked at you, a grin playing at his lips.
"You remember my outfit?" You giggled.
He nodded, "Couldn't forget it," He admitted, hoping it wouldn't scare you off.
"Didn't know I had that much influence," You raised your brows. "You should've introduced yourself then. We could've been having this conversation weeks ago."
"Didn't want to disturb you," He said, his palm pressing flat along your thigh. Your eyes drifted to the source of warmth on your leg, then looked back at him. "M'alright with where we are now, though."
"That's a shame," You sighed, now two cocktails deep, and undeniably aroused. He waited, brows furrowing at your words. "Think we'd be better off at my place."
He looked shocked, not sure how to proceed- whether it would be okay for him to accept, or make him appear too eager. But Christ, if he wasn't already burning up, desperate to get you undressed, kissing every inch of your body until you begged for him. He couldn't resist.
"Y'might be right," He drawled, his palm trailing further up your thigh, his thumb resting in the crease of your thigh and hip.
"Then what are we waiting for?"
He grinned, standing up from his seat, dropping a wad of cash on the bar.
"'M ready when you are, sweetheart."
He drove a new pickup truck, opening the door for you to step in. You sat comfortably, trying to restrain yourself as much as possible, but as he reached out to turn on the heat and you caught sight of the tattoos that engulfed his arm, you sighed deeply.
You were already aching, dying for a taste, anything to sate the throbbing in your abdomen. You could feel the wetness dripping from you, and you were sure you'd already soaked a spot on your panties.
When he set his palm on your thigh again, you exhaled, setting your hand overtop his. His hands were rough, worn; and you couldn't wait to feel them against your bare skin. You glided his hand carefully, slowly, up your leg, urging him to feel you, touch you.
"You can touch me, Simon," You whispered.
He looked over, his eyes narrowing as you leaned back, spreading your thighs a bit.
"I want you to touch me."
"Christ," He muttered, his fingers pressing against your pussy from over your jeans.
The pressure pushed the seam into your clit, and you let out a soft sigh. He watched with wide eyes, heavy breathing as he moved his fingers in small circles, forcing your jeans against you. You writhed under the pressure, whimpering softly, clinging to his wrist with an iron grip.
He listened to the sounds you made, trying not to close his eyes and savour it, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road. If that was all it took to have those sounds of pleasure coming from your lips, he couldn't imagine what you'd sound like when he was inside you. He could hardly wait to show you the attention you deserved, make you cum endlessly, beg for his cock.
The trip to your house wasn't long, and when you entered the apartment, he had you pressed against the entryway. His hand on your waist, the other above your head, you stared into his eyes.
"Been dyin' t'get my hands on you since I first saw you," He whispered, goosebumps exploding over the surface of your skin.
"You shouldn't have waited," You said back, your face tilting up to his.
His hand left your waist, his thumb running across your bottom lip as he stood up straight. Letting out a heavy sigh, he grabbed your hips and yanked your pelvis flush with his.
"You're a fuckin' tease," He breathed.
He pressed his lips against yours, already a hungry and devoted action. Your lips felt like velvet, you tasted like a sweet fruit- cranberries, from your vodka-cran. He moaned softly, cherishing the feeling of your mouth against his, your hands coming to his face, delicately holding him in place.
He loved the way he made you look so small, so innocent against his larger frame. He'd have an easy time moulding you into positions, right where he wanted you. You felt so good, pressed against him, your soft little whimpers spurring him on. He introduced his tongue, gliding it against yours with no hesitation, tasting you.
"Show me your room," He said, breathless as he pulled away.
He was slow in his movements, his tall frame circling you like prey. He took a seat on the edge of your bed, thighs spread as he leaned forward. His fingers grabbed the hem of your shirt, rubbing it between his fingers.
"Take it off for me, sweetheart," His raspy voice was low, eyes unflinching as he watched you. "Nice n' slow." His elbows rested on his thighs as he watched you.
Your hands went to the hem, lifting it off your waist and over your shoulders. You unbuttoned your jeans, too, sliding them down your thighs and stepping out of them. You stood in your bra and panties before him, feeling a bit nervous with his unfaltering gaze, his eyes taking in every inch.
He was practically eating you alive. He trailed up and down your form, a strangled sigh coming from him as he watched your breasts push against your bra, thong clinging to you nicely with the wetness between your thighs. He couldn't believe he'd gotten you in his grasp, so willing and ready to do anything he asked. It made his cold heart melt, watching the way your hip shifted nervously.
"C'mere," He said, leaning back.
Your feet pushed forward, standing before him, and he grabbed your hips as he tugged you onto his lap. He let his hands reach around to sit on your ass, exhaling, nearly exploding with how good you felt in his hands. Such silky skin, he couldn't help but let his hands roam.
"Pretty little thing you are," He whispered against your throat, his nose nuzzled against your chin.
Your eyes fluttered shut as he pressed a soft kiss to your neck, his tongue sticking out to lick a short strip over your skin. He took his time, lips exploring your neck.
"Simon," You sighed, hands reaching for his forearms. "Please." You wanted him to touch you already, your pussy was aching from being so aroused.
"I'm takin' my time with you, sweetheart," Was his response.
You shivered, his hands running up and down your back, reaching for your ass. You arched your back, chest flush against his. He wanted to memorize every curve, learn you inside and out until he could blindly please you.
"Take off my shirt for me."
You obeyed, nimble fingers working quickly to unbutton his shirt, eyes widening as you pulled it open. His chest was muscular, and your eyes trailed down to his abs, scars scattered over his torso. There was a trail of coarse hair that disappeared into his jeans. You felt your pussy clench, a fire that was already raging in your womb exploded tenfold.
You tugged the shirt off his shoulders, breath hitting his chest as you sighed, nearly riding his lap.
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your lips. You moaned, exhaling harshly through your nose as his tongue slid inside you mouth, gliding against yours. Your head went dizzy- intoxicated, drowning in the taste of his lips. You never wanted to pull away and your fingers reached his jaw as you leaned into him, hunger in your kiss.
Your hands then ran down his chest, over the hard muscles on his torso. He grunted softly, his body jerking as you felt his shoulders and biceps.
His hands reached around, unclasping your bra. He let it drop, watching you pull your arms from the straps. His eyes flashed to your breasts, one hand reaching up to cup your breast. Your head fell back, the ache in your pussy only getting stronger as he massaged your breasts. His thumb grazed your nipple, making you gasp softly.
"So fuckin' beautiful," He groaned.
You lifted your head, eyes boring into his.
He leaned in again, licking your breast before he took your nipple in his mouth, tongue swirling around it before flicking over it. You gasped, fingers lifting to his hair.
"You taste so good, sweetheart," He pulled back, lips finding your neck in a passionate kiss. "Bet your cunt tastes even better."
You sighed aloud, your hips jumping against his crotch. His words sent a shiver of desire straight through you, fingernails digging into his shoulders. He lifted you up with ease, turning to settle you on the bed.
Your legs were still wrapped around his waist, his lips back on yours for a moment before he kissed down your neck. Travelling over your breasts, he left bruises on the soft flesh, moving to your stomach, then hip bones.
His fingers tugged at your panties, parting them from your body with a bit of resistance from your wet core, then slid them down your legs, discarding them on the floor.
"Fuck," He mumbled. "You're soaked," He growled.
His lips attached to your inner thigh, throwing your legs over his shoulders. Your fingers reached into his hair, exhaling as you waited, hardly able to contain the thrumming in your chest, your desperate writhing.
His tongue licked a stripe through your folds and your hips jumped when he ran over your clit. Softly exhaling, you squeezed your thighs together around his ears.
He groaned softly, doing it again to receive the same reaction. His tongue worked a bit harder now, moving in circles over your clit. You were already wet- he knew that well. He wanted to eat your pussy for his own pleasure. He listened intently to the beautiful moans from your lips, his cock hardening even more when your fingers tugged and pulled at his hair.
You let out a soft moan, fingers curling into his hair, tugging as he lapped generously. The sounds of your pussy on his tongue were vulgar- echoing around your room. You were writhing in his grasp, even as his hands came to your hip bones to steady you.
He slid a finger inside you, curling it up against the rough spot inside your pussy. Your chest lifted, panting as he continued the motion, tongue still on your clit.
"God- Simon," You croaked, shivering. He adored the way his name sounded from your mouth.
It didn't take long for your climax to near, having already been turned on for so long, you were just waiting for his touch. You shifted with restlessness, and when he added a second finger, you knew your release would come any moment.
"I'm almost there," You whispered, voice hoarse as your abdomen clenched down.
"Cum for me, sweetheart," He cooed, fingers still coaxing it out of you.
Your eyes rolled shut, pussy squeezing down as you came- hard. He didn't relent, pleasure coursing through you as he continued his movements. He could hardly move his fingers at a certain point, your pussy constricting around him.
"Fuckin' hell," He murmured, eyes watching your body as you came.
You sighed softly, finally recovering from your orgasm, and Simon stood to his feet, face wet with your cum.
He leaned forward, "You wanna taste yourself?"
Your body shivered, meeting him halfway, pressing your lips to his. You made an effort to find his tongue, moaning at the taste of yourself on his tongue; mostly bitter, a hint of sweetness.
He stood up, yanking the belt from his jeans. You gulped, eyes watching with anticipation.
"I want to feel you," You said.
"Go on, love."
You reached out, fingers undoing his button, then his zipper. You yanked his pants down over his thighs. His bulge in his briefs was larger than expected- much larger. You pulled his briefs down, met with his large cock. Your hands immediately reached out to feel him, and his head fell back.
He was so used to fucking his own hand, the skin of yours was like satin on his cock. He choked back a gasp.
"Yeah," He groaned. "Just like that sweetheart," He praised, watching you twist your wrist, hand running up and down his length. You sighed softly, hips rocking as you listened to him, burning desire as he praised you.
You shifted, thighs rubbing together to create friction on your clit.
"Can't wait anymore," He said. "Lie back."
You did as he said, and he crawled over you, kicking his jeans off. He grabbed your thighs, tugging them to his waist as he lined his cock up to your entrance, tip rubbing against your clit.
"Can I?"
"Yes," You breathed. "Please."
"I'll give you just what you deserve, sweetheart," He grunted, his cock sliding slowly into your pussy. He let out a long sigh, basking in the way your walls took him in, how easy it was to glide in against the natural lubrication.
You moaned, your pussy stretching to accommodate his large size. It was uncomfortable for a few moments, before he began thrusting his hips against you. He leaned down, head beside yours as he rounded his hips, nudging his cock deep inside. You were all moans, body no longer able to do anything but obey. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding onto him.
"Takin' this cock so well," He said in your ear. Your eyes nearly rolled in your skull, squeezing shut. "Gonna make you cum for me."
"Keep talking like that, please," You whispered, eyes opening to watch him.
He groaned, "Been wonderin' what you'd sound like on my cock."
"Oh my-" You couldn't even manage to get out another word, another coherent sentence, so you relied on his name. "Simon."
"Fuck," He groaned in your ear. "So fuckin' wet."
"So good," You breathed.
His hips drove into yours, his pelvis hitting your clit repeatedly. His thick cock massaged your walls and it was nearly too much. You arched your back, toes curling, thighs clenching around his waist.
His body pressed against yours, neck craned to look at you from beside your head, watching your lips part as you gasped for air; he wanted to etch the vision behind his eyes. Your skin was flushed, fingers clawing at his back, hand cradling his head against your neck. He was repeatedly burying himself inside you, massaging your clit at the same time, and you couldn't hold back.
"F-fuck," You moaned. "Fuck- Simon," You gasped, pussy clenching around him.
"You gonna cum for me?" He asked, his hand moving back to grip your thigh.
You choked out a 'yes' as he bottomed out inside you, tip pressing against your cervix. You felt the sparks of pleasure level out over your body, enveloping you in a full-fledged fire, every nerve lit up with pleasure.
Your chest met his, tensing as your orgasm made your body rigid. He didn't relent, though the way you held him so tightly and whispered his name made it increasingly difficult not to.
"Simon," You moaned, eyes widening as you looked at him, lips parted with pleasure. "So good, Simon."
He groaned, listening to your swollen lips call his name, his cock twitched inside you. Your small frame, innocent eyes, soft thighs wrapped around him while he stroked his cock in your tight, wet pussy; if he was a lesser man be would've finished inside you immediately without hesitation. But he wanted to experience it all for as long as he could.
"That's right, sweetheart," He rolled his hips again. "Fuck you feel good."
Your fingernails scraped down his back, his muscles flexing as he moved. He exhaled sharply. Your thighs were squeezing his waist, and his fingers were surely bruising the delicate skin, but you didn't care.
He devoured your moans with his lips, relishing the way you still groaned, even with his tongue in your mouth he could hear you. He could still feel you too, your sensitive pussy clenching around him every time he hit your clit.
"I want you to cum again," He said. "Let me make you cum again," He pleaded. He so desperately needed to see it again, needed to see you fall apart for him, call out for him.
"Don't stop," You said, pressing a kiss to his neck. It was desperate, an attempt to make him feel just as good as he had for you, and you kissed up his jaw when you heard a satisfied groan in his throat.
Your eyes rolled back, abdomen and pussy clenching as the tension in your stomach began to build again. It was unraveling quickly, crumbling when he praised you, talked to you, even looked at you.
"I'm-I'm close," You said, clinging to his shoulders. "Again."
He nearly laughed. "Yeah, love. Let it out, give it to me."
"Yes," You moaned, head thrown back. "Fuck yes."
Your climax wasn't far, another wave of pleasure pulling you under. You struggled for breath, your eyes squeezing shut, fingers digging into him.
He let out a short gasp, feeling exactly how tight you could hug his cock, and it sent him over the edge at nearly the same time.
"Where do you want it?" He asked, pulling out.
He was massaging his cock, and you took over, lowering yourself as he released over your breasts, thrusting forward in your hand.
"Fuuck," He drawled, seeing your breasts painted white with his cum.
You sat back, staring up at him. He leaned forward, kissing you softly.
"Definitely should've said something sooner," You teased.
"I've got you here now," He said, a small smile on his glowing face. "That's all I care about."
#cod mw2#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost smut#simon riley smut#cod mwii#mwii#simon riley#anon#anon request#request#strlingsavwrites#ask strlingsav
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I SEE THE SAME. | vash x reader. | 1.9k words.
“Did you really think letting them shoot you was a good idea.”
A wince was let loose in the otherwise quiet room. The only noise was the bustle from the town outside, even if it was night, and the static voices of the small radio that Vash always carried. Dim lights made it a little hard but not impossible to see his fresh wound.
Thankfully the bullet only grazed his waist, not getting lodged or going straight through him like other unfortunate instances. But it was still bleeding and if it were up to Vash, he’d let it continue so. But thankfully you were here, so that wasn’t happening tonight.
Sighing, you set down the first aid supplies down on the desk that was positioned near the bed and set yourself down on the chair, wheeling your way over to where Vash was. Seated on the bed, with his head held low and eyes that were shielded by his sunset tinted glasses. His blood seemed to seep through his black turtleneck more, he wasn’t applying any pressure to the wound whatsoever.
Being a plant yourself, you understood that you both healed quicker than a human, but still it seemed unwise to just leave it like that.
Waving your hand in an upwards motion, you silently told Vash to lift his shirt. He obeyed, lifting it on the side that the wound presided. Vash leaned himself back slightly against the heel of his mechanical hand, while his flesh one held onto the fabric.
Unscrewing the cap from its bottle, you tilted it against a clean rag, letting the water soak it slightly before moving the bottle upright and setting it down on the desk. You moved your hand with the rag over to his exposed waist, but let it hover as you looked up at Vash, asking for permission.
The glare of the desk light reflected against his glasses in a way that blocked his eyes from view. But he offered a smile, one that felt empty, as if saying “yes.”
You didn’t need his glasses to be off to know that his eyes would give him away. Guilt. It was one of the most frequent emotions you always could see swimming within him. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and by God, Vash’s was drowning.
Brushing those thoughts away, you bent forward, slouching a bit to dab at the bullet wound. The bleeding had stopped on its own, that’s good. Vash twitched a little when your free hand placed itself on the skin of his stomach, moving his shirt up. He lifted his arm a bit more.
There he goes again, helping others before himself.
“You know, you didn’t answer my question.”
He stiffened up a bit, but then relaxed as a small chuckle escaped his lips.
“Well.. it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Your brows furrowed. Vash has had that “good idea” plenty of times during these hundred years or so. The evidence being the canvas of scars that was his body. Just how many more times would he allow himself to be hurt like this, you wondered. Knowing him, he wouldn’t stop, not with the insane amount of guilt that he always seemed to have.
Once you were satisfied with your work, you tossed the rag onto the bed beside him and grabbed the bandages that were on the table. Ripping the package open with your fingers you placed a bit of medical tape to the free end. Leaving that on the bed for a moment, you placed a piece of gauze on the bullet wound before reaching for the bandages again when you saw that Vash had already gotten it.
You whispered a small “thank you” for which you got a soft “anytime” from him as you placed the tape on his skin, beginning to wrap the bandages around him.
Straightening your back you leaned closer to fit the bandages snuggly around his waist; which Vash then prompted to open his legs wider, moving the chair with one of them to move you along with it. Placing you directly in front of him in between his legs.
Thankfully the wound wasn’t too severe, so you didn’t have to worry about using too much bandage. You had just bought it too, having restocked in town an hour prior to crashing in a pretty decent hotel. The townsfolk didn’t seem to recognize Vash from the wanted paper floating around, so you considered Lady Luck to be on your side.
Finished with the bandages you cut it off, placing another piece of tape on it to then press it down lightly. You blew out a bit of air through your nose, looking at your handiwork.
“Ok, all done Vash.”
“Thank you.”
Looking up you saw him staring at you, glasses gone. He must have taken them off while you were fixated on wrapping him up.
“Anytime.” You parroted his words back to him.
Light blue eyes made contact with yours before they didn’t, his eyes closing to give you another smile. It seemed a little empty this time. But he still must be thinking about the events that happened in the town before this one. Quite a bit of collateral damage was done to the town, as a result of bounty hunters having spotted you both and decided to see if they could get that sixty billion double dollar prize on their dirty hands.
There weren’t any casualties to add to the mountain of guilt and shame Vash carried, but there were still injuries. Not to mention that the town’s plant was almost damaged thanks to the recklessness of those bounty hunters. And one of the townspeople who did harbor resentment towards Vash, caused him to have yet another scar. One that you had just cleaned up.
Did Vash really think letting people take their anger out on him would solve anything?
Leaning back onto the chair, it squeaked under the weight of your back. You crossed your arms and sat there, patiently.
“You’re still thinking about them, huh?”
Vash makes a little noise akin to a squeak. He knows you caught him, and he doesn’t deny it. Opening his eyes you could tell they were a little watery, tears threatening to spill. But he just sniffled and laughed softly. Running a hand through his mop of hair he looked at you.
“Yeah, I am.”
You were waiting for it.
“But.. I don’t deserve to cry.”
Ah, there it is.
Those same words that you’ve heard countless times as well as the countless times you’ve seen him worry over others than himself. He wanted to cry, but he felt like he didn’t deserve to. To him, it was his inability to act that denied him of such rights. Funny, how he also thinks the actions of his brother are also his fault.
Uncrossing your arms, you reached for both his hands. You would think that his prosthetic arm would be cold to the touch, being made of Lost Technology. But no, it was warm, just like his hand made of flesh.
Your actions were unexpected for Vash, and it made him even more confused (but curious) as to why you not only grabbed his hands, but when you followed that with holding yours against his. Palm to palm, each of your hands held in the middle of you both. You lined your fingers up with his, his being a little larger than yours but you didn’t mind. In fact it was one of his traits that you loved about him. The same hands that could hold a gun and pull a trigger were the same ones that held onto your own when traveling in the dunes of the desert.
“What do you see?”
Vash blinked. Once, then again. His tears had subsided slightly so he could see clearer. Looking down at where you two were making contact, he said:
“Well, I see our hands.”
The tone in which his voice was laced with made you laugh, almost snorting.
“Okay, that’s a little obvious. So, what do you notice about them?”
He cocked an eyebrow upwards slightly, biting his bottom lip a little bit. Vash’s hair bounced a bit, as he also moved his head a bit to the side.
“They’re.. They’re like mine.”
“Bingo! If I had some, I might have given you a golden star, y’know.”
That made Vash laugh, his usual cheerful self peeking out a bit now.
“Okay, what else do you notice about them?” You swayed your hands together, as if doing so would make the answer come easier to him.
“We each have the same amount of fingers?”
“Right on, we both have ten to be exact!”
It was your turn to give him a smile, looking him right in the eyes. But he didn’t meet them, he knew if he looked at them he would break down in an instant. So he kept his eyes on his hands that were connected to yours, he liked the way it felt.
“What else do we have that are the same?”
The comfort he felt was disturbed just a pinch when you intertwined your fingers with his and swayed them side to side, moving both your arms in the process.
“We have two arms!” Vash straightened his back a bit more, your zeal seeming to be infectious and he was your victim.
It only wavered a little bit when your hands left him too soon, now pointing a finger rather delicately at his face.
“What do we have here that’s the same?”
Vash continued to list off whatever he found that he shared with you. If he said eyes, your fingers would touch right under them. When he said a nose, he chuckled when you booped him, letting your finger stay on the tip. He mirrors your actions, touching wherever you touch him except on you. He let his hands cup your cheeks like you did to him, he let his fingers gently graze your lips just as you did to his.
Vash felt his shoulders relax, the tension slowly releasing. But he felt them quiver when you leaned your forehead against his and closed your eyes.
“See, we’re not so different from everyone else right? So if they can cry, if I can cry, then that means you can too.”
Biting his lip he resisted the urge to let the tears fall, but he broke when your hands returned to his and squeezed. Only then did he let a broken sound come out of his equally broken soul. His eyebrows scrunched while he sobbed, the pain in his ribs came and went as his own cries racked within them. Vash wished he could stop, but how could he? When you were the one who pried him open and let the damn fall.
You switched positions, pulling him into a hug so he could bury his face into the crook of your neck. It was a little awkward on your end thanks to the chair but you didn’t mind, didn’t care. All that mattered to you was that Vash let the pain leak out just like the tears did.
It took him a few minutes to stop, his chest jumping thanks to the surprising force his sobs contained. He sniffled as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Vash broke the hug first, but returned to placing his forehead against yours and having your hands hold his.
“So.. I’m thinking pizza and donuts, what do ya say?”
Vash’s laugh broke the nonexistent tension, it sounded a little broken but he smiled. Really smiled.
“I like the way you think.”
© boo-kugo on tumblr. please don’t copy or post my work on other accounts, websites, or platforms.
#my writing#vash <33#vash the stampede#vash#vash x reader#vash x you#vash x y/n#trigun#trigun stampede#trigun stampede fic#trigun stampede fluff#trigun stampede comfort#trigun fic#trigun fluff#trigun fanfiction#happy easter i guess LMAO#hope you guys enjoy#oh right#vash x gn!reader#there really is no definite gender for the reader so#vash x plant!reader#also i did say vash fic soon... so this is soon
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Noisy Sunday (Joel Miller x f!reader)
Summary: You've entered a mindset you're unsure how to come back from, your own emotions drowning you in a pool of despondency. Joel is there, trying to help you pull away from it.
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
Word Count: 2k
Warnings: HEAVYYY angst, fluff, cursing, large descriptions of depression, anxiety, dark thoughts, undefined age gap (reader is of age), kind of dark themes its very somber
A/N: hi hi!! oh my, im so sorry i havent posted in so long. life has been so busy lately with exams and work, but here's this whilst i struggle with that and writers block! sorry (not rlly) that its so angsty, THANK YOU SO MUCH to anyone who reads, i hope u enjoy lovelies! also please please PLEASE i cannot stress this enough; if any of the warnings i've stated make you uncomfortable, please DO NOT read this!! and for anyone who may need to talk, my messages are always open <33
It’s peculiar, you think. How it eats away at you, gnawing down against supple flesh when you’ve already been forcefully spiralled onto the floor. Most say it’s like greeting an old friend; and you agree. It’s almost like reuniting with a family member whom you rarely see at a gathering. The one which then continue to pester you with inquiries you don’t have the vigour to answer.
It comes in a moment. Sometimes for no reason at all. It reminds you of the subject which stops your musical theatre production mid-way, shining a glaring light towards you whilst you stare wide-eyed back; a deer caught in the headlights. Your character starts to break down around you whilst you’re stood onstage, its pieces cascading along your incapacitated physique like thrashing water which you’ve just dived into from a twenty-foot jump, limbs flailing by your head until the inevitable crash through the translucent liquid stings at your skin.
It attaches itself like a shadow to you, not always so visible yet constantly looming from around your shoulder. It never really made sense to you, how the more the light shines against this tenebrosity, the darker the shadow it casts. Shading you. Smothering you. A copiously adamant fire which refuses to be extinguished, its embers dancing up past the hillocks perched in the distance and threatening to singe anyone who comes near.
It made you yearn for a reposeful night, where the stars shimmered like pools of water in reflection to the sea rather than your own tears surging down your cheeks. Where a modest zephyr tapped gently at your swaying hair, twirling locks around its invisible finger gingerly. Where the whole world paused on its axis, bringing forth those few moments of pure solace. Nothing to bother you, and nothing for you to bother.
“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” A husky voice drawls out from beside you after the door to the front patio squeals open on its hinges, revealing Joel; adorned in his sleepwear of blue plaid print trousers and a black long-sleeved sweater. Considering his normal attire of worn-down jeans and a permanent scowl, he looked almost ridiculous, but in an admiring sort of way. His inquiry forcefully dragged you from the dazed state you had found yourself caught in, your eyes hauling themselves to face him laboriously slow, like it was strenuous to do so. You blinked a multitude of times to attempt to clear your head of its cloudiness.
You gave a harsh swallow before you even attempted to reply, “Not long. I just needed some water and air.” You lied right through your teeth, wincing towards the factor that a glass of water was sitting idly beside you on a tall and round wooden coffee table, still full to the brim with the reflecting liquid. Joel didn’t look convinced. To be honest, you had maybe caught a total of eight hours of sleep in the past three or four days, if lucky. Your body drums with craving for rest at the deprivation, but you couldn’t bring yourself to relax for long enough to lull into even a light rest, thoughts striking their way through forcefully in the canvas of your head, ripping downwards to leave their mark fiercely, consistently reminding you that pain is not an easy thing to ignore.
If you could say the apocalypse surfacing has brought you anything, it’s that it’s made you tired. So tired. But there are two types of tired, you suppose; one is a dire need of sleep, the other is a woeful need for peace.
Joel exhales past his nose harshly, his head dipping downwards for a moment, maybe in disappointment- you’re not sure. Either way, your stomach lurches with guilt, and you turn your head to face forward once again and pay rigorous attention to each detail lining the Jackson street in front of your given accommodation. The street was entirely empty, the only sound to be heard within earshot being the light whisk of the breeze against your supple skin, reddening the tip of your nose and turning your fingertips numb. You should’ve guessed Joel wouldn’t believe your white lie. Knowing him, he likely noticed you retracting the sheets from your legs and his arms strewn around your waist at just the start of the night, before tiptoeing down the stairs as quietly as possible to weave through the kitchen then to the front patio, where you have been set for a couple of hours now.
You’re both silent for multiple pregnant pauses, and you have to fight the urge to nibble nervously against your bottom lip, apprehension swirling within your chest.
“Do you want to come back to bed?” Joel tries cautiously, to which you visibly tense. You tilt your chin downwards dubiously, before giving an almost indistinguishable shake of your head from side-to-side.
Joel doesn’t give a response to your discreet answer, but instead pushes himself forwards from where he’s leaned against the doorframe to move past you and settle against the uncomfortable wooden chair opposite your own. The chair creaks as he perches himself there, the only intruding sound to the tranquillity before it swallows you both whole once again, thudding against the thin air which is gradually turning palpable. It’s suffocating.
“…Would you-“ He starts, his gaze turning upwards from the patios surface to face you, “Want to talk about it?”
Your heart throbs agonisingly at his offer, your fingertips tracing the wrecked linen material of your pants. You try a small, consoling smile, one that barely reaches your eyes; your head lifting to face him.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” You murmur back, sombrely. You weren’t fibbing about this, though. There was no explanation as to why you were feeling this surge of perplexing emotions. It appeared as if it were just a protruding root sticking awkwardly out from the soiled terrain, its only task to trip and surprise anyone who were unfortunate to tread along. Even if you wanted to talk with Joel about it, you weren’t sure how to put it into words. It’s fine, until it’s not; a surprise.
“I can’t help you if you won’t let me.” Joel speaks, his voice softer than usual, as though he was afraid for what your reaction would be.
You bottom lip purses as you bite down against your tongue roughly, almost drawing blood to quarrel against the melancholy rising in your throat. You’re not sure how to reply- you don’t wish to reply. You would rather descend into the quietude than face this situation. It’s not that you liked the silence, no- you actually despised it. Silence gave any thoughts swirling around the midst of your head permission to inflate and rise to the surface, bobbing up and down there, whilst its limbs helplessly thrash around, wishing to get back to shore.
It's only after you notice that Joel is still peering over at you expectantly do you swallow gratingly, opening your mouth to answer.
“Well, I- It’s not anything, I’m fine-“
“Why can’t you just stop for once in your life?”
“What?” You ask, your voice cracking at its edges. Your brows shoot upwards at his words, taken aback.
“You lie to me, act like you’re okay- when you’re so clearly not and you won’t even let yourself realise that you need help.” He speaks sternly, eyes firmly trained on you- whilst you can’t even meet his gaze, eyesight shifting to anywhere but where he’s sat opposite you.
You weigh over your words, a trepidatious lump forming inside your throat. Your vision blurs at its corners, your brain fogging over with despondency.
“Please don’t make me say it.” You eventually speak again, your voice strained painfully, as your head drops down in a swaying motion, defeated.
Joel doesn’t reply, but instead reaches forward, gently placing his hand atop your own where its set against your thigh. He gives a gentle squeeze, urging you to blink back up towards him, where he’s peering at you with a softened gaze; and you can’t fight off the tears that instantaneously build up against your vision, attempting to rip past your shields and barriers which are gradually toppling down around you.
“I am barely holding on.” You admit, your shoulders slumping forward with the heaved effort of speaking without letting a cry rip through in interruption, causing a few teardrops to plunge down the canvas of your cheeks. A harrowing headache thrums against your forehead, your field of view only worsening, but not enough that you can’t see the way that Joel’s expression is overcome with visible empathy, which only results in making your stomach lurch more.
“And I-“ You exhale sharply, “And I can’t even tell you why. I just- there’s this thing, and it’s weighing over my shoulders. I can’t shake it.”
“You don’t have to find the perfect words. Just tell me what you’re feeling. I’m here.” He encourages softly.
“It’s like- like I’m here, but I’m not. I’m away from my body, watching over myself; whilst continuously being dragged backwards by this unknown force- pushing me somewhere I think I know. It’s like déjà vu, when you walk into a room, and you don’t where you know or remember it from, but you can feel that you recognise it. I-I’m angry, I’m sad and I’m confused. Maybe I just have a built-up resentment against the world.” You speak rather sullenly, but try to mask it with a small, tight-lipped smile towards Joel once your brief monologue comes to an end.
“I can’t say I know exactly what you’re feeling. But… I don’t want you to push me away. I want to try and help you, in any way that I can. But I can’t if you won’t allow me to. And… I don’t want it to seem like I’m tryin’ to coddle you, or anythin’. It’s because- y’know, I care about you.” Joel speaks steadily, his gaze shimmering with uncertainty.
Your heart lurches downwards in repentance with his words, as though you were liable for your own shifting thoughts and feelings. It bruises you; how much you’ve allowed your emotions to take hold, guiding the wheel in a swerve as rubber burns against asphalt distastefully. How far you’ve come, just to end up here. You know you need help. You’re just unsure how to accept any. But you know that you wish to breathe again. To hold out a hand to loved ones. To be afraid of death again. To have excitement at the idea of different winding roads. To feel free as a light breeze washes against your skin, clearing any distress from you in a wave. You wish to dream again. This longing is what powers your words onwards, as you peer over at Joel, vulnerable,
“I need help.”
Joel’s hand raises from the back of your palm, and instead encompasses your icy fingers with his warmer ones, intertwining them. He searches your eyes for a moment, and once he discovers a bold outline of authenticity, he promptly nods towards you.
“Together?”
“Together.” You reply.
It evokes a memory of a familiar oak tree. One you were very accustomed to when you were younger, before the outbreak. As a child, you used to wonder down the street to the park perched at the end after every school day. Outlining the grounds, just opposite a wooden bench, was an oak tree. Tall and mighty; confidence resonating from its stance, daring anyone to meddle with it. Thick arms branching from its moss-coated wood, whilst the lime-coloured leaves bundled against each other cascaded the surrounding distance in shade. You would lay beneath it, basking in the frigid yet reassuring atmosphere it created, hair messily sprawled out around your head. You would frequently come to the spot to just rest within the constant spiralling of the world, watching as the tree’s features changed with the reoccurring seasons; its leaves shifting from green to gold, from gold to ginger, then from ginger to cherry, and then falling, oscillating down to the soil with the wind, before repeating its cycle. It was almost soothing, watching its colours shift around with the change of the earth, whilst resolutely remaining staunch in its attitude, its branches a prime symbol of vigour. Changing, but still remaining what it is; strong. You deeply envied that, and hoped- wished, that someday you would build yourself up to resemble that oak tree.
"We drink the poison our minds pour for us and wonder why we feel so sick." - Atticus
Noisy Sunday - Patrick Watson
Comments and feedback are appreciated!
#joel miller fanfiction#Joel Miller#joel miller x reader#joel miller x female reader#joel#hbo the last of us#the last of us#help idk what im doing#pedro pascal#tlou#tlou series#hbo#joel miller x f!reader
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Yesterday began a global general strike for Gaza. Today, the strike continues in light of today’s UN General Assembly vote on a humanitarian ceasefire. I am spending today making posters to submit to Artists Against Apartheid, who have released multiple posters for people to print and distribute in their local areas, as well as a wheat pasting guide in their toolkit section. I’m also going to leave my own link to a folder with PDFs and PNGS of all versions of the poster, as well as PSD and Procreate files that can be edited directly, and a copy of an image description like the one below. Feel free to redistribute these posters however you like, but I must ask that you include an image description for accessibility when reposting/posting your own version. I encourage my fellow artists to close up shop to honor the strike and spend today doing the same.
In honor of Refaat Alareer’s work as a translator, many people have been translating “If I Must Die” into their own native languages. The blank version of this poster is meant for people to add their own translations of the poem.
From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free. 🇵🇸
[Alt text: a black and white poster of the poem, “If I Must Die,” by Refaat Alareer. Around the image is a keffiyeh patterned border. The main image shows a black background with a drawing of a white kite and the poem in all caps. The second image is the same poster, but with OpenDyslexic font used for the text for accessibility purposes. The third is a textless version meant for others to add their own translations of Alareer’s poem in honor of his work as a translator. Transcription:
If I must die
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze—
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself—
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up
above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale
— Refaat Alareer
Martyred 12/6/2023
End alt text]
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HAPPY 500!
So I have a prompt for [Din x Reader] using the theme of "Identity Crisis" wherein the reader learns she's either related to a high ranking Imperial or maybe she was created by the Imps using clone technology and he comforts her?
My darling Kelly, what an excellent prompt! I've been in my Din feels a lot lately and when I heard you weren't feeling well I wanted to share this story sooner so you can curl up with it. I hope you enjoy where this went, it veered into an unexpected deep dive on family and legacy but I'm very happy with how it turned out. Thank you for the prompt, I hope you enjoy!
Legacy
Pairing: Din Djarin x Original F!Character (not named but with a physical description)
Summary: The discovery of your origin has you questioning what your future holds.
Word Count: 3.1k
Warnings: T, allusions to sexual acts, heavy discussions of self-worth and personal identity. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.
Notes: This story is written in reader format, but because the character is connected to Boba Fett and therefore Temuera Morrison, she is described with similar features to the Māori people. Gold stars go to anyone who catches the reference to another Star Wars show I've sprinkled in!
The hum of the N1 matches the numbness in your limbs as silence sits heavy on your tongue. Din doesn’t look back, hasn’t since you climbed into the astromech compartment and waited for takeoff.
“You could be my sister.”
The words tumbled from Boba Fett’s mouth after the heat of battle, tugging his helmet off to reveal the scars of the Sarlacc pit, the nose that followed the shape of yours, twin eyes, brethren in skin. You even imagined his hair to be as thickly curled as your own, though he lacked it.
“I don’t know my mother, or my father. You could be right,” you’d tossed back, smile glinting in the twin suns. But later, when meals were shared and Boba found you trying to sneak back to the N1, he clarified.
“If you are who I think you are, then you have no mother.”
You narrowed your eyes, hand on your blaster as the scarred man in Mandalorian armor similar to your ally’s motioned for you to sit.
“Bold claim for a man who has laid eyes on me once,” you warned, ready to cut out his tongue for the insinuation, daimyo or not.
“I wish I could believe myself to be insolent,” Boba said, a little quieter, a little more regretful this time.
As he spoke your affront melted to amazement, then to anger, and finally to the grief. If you could find fault in his argument you would, and you tried.
“I’ve never been to Camino.”
“I have a chain code, a name, a life. Surely they would never let a…let me live like this.”
“How do you know?”
But Boba had answers, good ones too. You tried to hold his reasoning to the light for imperfections, but the deep pit of dread opening in your stomach gobbled up your strength. It lined up, questions you’d always had, memories you wished you could access. In mere minutes he offered you pieces of your life that made a more terrifying image than your worst nightmares.
Clone.
The word echoes in your mind as Din pilots the N1 away from Tatooine, the ache in your body like two massifs struggling to rip you in two.
The blank spot in your memory up until twelve years of age shouts at you, begging you to crack open its shiny black shell and reveal its secrets. You used to beat your first against it, scream at it to fall away. Now you want to bury it deeper, let no light shine upon it.
There are memories you access without thought - reflexes faster than your mind can keep up, skill with any blaster put in your hands, accuracy that scares you - that now drip with military training.
Your headaches - by-product of inhibitor chip removal, Boba explained - now explain how you’d gone undetected for so many years.
The shadowy memories of silhouettes in armor surrounding you. A scarred face with a wide smile. Relentless tapping on holopads. Hands, one flesh, one durasteel. A skull half in shadow. Target signs. A child’s laugh. They hold secrets but none this revelation has offered up.
The bubble of viscous fluid you coughed up when you crawled out of that tank, wondering why the bacta was green instead of blue.
“You must have been under for years.”
Din heard much of Boba’s explanations, finding you frozen across from his brother in arms. He was by your shoulder when the first sob came, your fist cramming it back down your throat. Grogu, tucked into the crook of his arm, made a concerned warble.
“Why would they do this?” was the first true question you had. Boba sighed with a world-weary breath.
“You were made to build an army. Why you deviated in this way I couldn’t tell you. I’ve heard whispers that my father’s genetic code was degrading. But why they would let you live…”
“And why were you allowed to become the man you are today?” you spat out, rising to leave, Din looming in shadow behind. He hadn’t said a word the entire time.
Boba smiled crookedly. “Legacy.”
It was best you never met your father.
Din pushes the N1 out of hyperspace, the lurch refocusing your eyes. A planet swims into view, dollops of white and blue and green that swirl together like a treasured marble.
“Thought you didn’t have another stop before mine,” you grumble into the communicator, rubbing your temples with the heels of your hands. The exhaustion is finally catching up with you. Just two days ago you were fresh off a mercenary job, flush with credits and ready to sink neck-deep into a bath, good food and better company. Then Din Djarin darkened your doorway, his plea for assistance falling on deaf ears until a familiar name buzzed through the vocoder.
Pike Syndicate.
It piqued your interest and released a new burn in your veins.
“What’s the payment?” you asked, tilted back in your seat in your rented room. One you planned to commit many acts of pleasure while occupying.
“The debt of two Mandalorians.”
Your eyebrow raised involuntarily.
“I didn’t know there were more of you willing to work with me.”
“I’m out of options.”
“And friends, I’ll wager.”
Din stepped further into your space.
“You wouldn’t call us friends?”
You mulled on the offer a few minutes longer.
“Can I cash in on your debt now?” you purred. Din’s helmet tilted to the side, hand coming down to palm at his belt buckle. The bucket was a nuisance, but he always made up with it in stamina and voracity.
You did like getting an advance.
“It’s important,” Din says, voice crackling with static as he veers the N1 into landing formation. You brace in the seat, gritting your teeth through the hurtling speed. The size of the ship makes you feel like you’re entering the atmosphere in a children’s toy, one moment away from crumpling under the weight of gravity.
Once the N1 breaks the atmospheric barrier it glides like a seabird over stretches of blue water, skimming low enough to ruffle a canopy of trees that lead to an open field. This is Din’s destination, powering down and opening both cockpits to allow you out. A hard-won smile graces your face when you watch his broad shoulders unfold, tugging himself out of the pilot’s seat that’s two sizes too small for him. You’re no more graceful, but an astromech compartment was never meant for a full person to squeeze into. Grogu had a much easier time, practically leaping like the frogs you’d seen him devour.
“Okay, we’re here,” you sigh, stretching your legs. The sun on your back does improve your disposition marginally, fresh air reviving your lungs. “Meet you in, what, a few hours?” you ask, surveying the plain for something to occupy your time. Anything to remove the pounding drum of clone clone clone from your brain.
“I need you to come with me,” he says before striding into the treeline, slow enough for you to overcome your confusion but quick enough to make you keep a steady pace. Grogu’s ears bounce playfully over his shoulder, black marble eyes blinking back at you.
“What’s this about, Din?” you ask, blood pumping in your ears as annoyance scars your face. “I’m not in the mood for an add-on job.”
“Not a job,” Din answers, not breaking stride.
Rolling your eyes you follow, trying to hold on to the annoyance and anger that was fast making a home in your spine, but it’s melting away with the gentle breeze on your face, the sweetness of the air, the softness of the ground beneath your feet. By the time brighter light bursts ahead your mood shifts to a pensive melancholy you meant to save for behind closed doors. Din doesn’t need to be a part of that.
A few more steps and you’re in a different field, a breathtaking one resplendent with buttery yellow flowers surrounding a tree with sprawling branches supporting a thick head of leaves. The light that filters through dapples the ground with ever-changing patterns. Grogu lets out an excited squeak, fussing to be put down. Wordlessly Din moves towards the tree, picking his way carefully through the flowers. You follow his footsteps, a nameless emotion growing in your throat. The flowers brush against your calves, identical sunny faces turning to watch your journey.
By the time you get there Din is sitting beneath the tree, the trunk steadying his back. The helmet is as unreadable as ever but his body language is anything but. It’s an invitation to rest beside him, to speak on the events of the day. Grogu ignores the directive, instead toddling out to investigate the blooms. His head barely clears them, the tips of his ears flagging his path. Fighting against your instinct to run, to not show anything that could be used against you, you sit.
The field from the center is even more magical, a golden sea of rippling petals surrounding you. The wind blows striations of color into the buttery landscape, leafy greens and earth browns. Slowly, your heart returns to your chest. Your hands unclench, your shoulders ease down. When you finally feel a semblance of peace you speak.
“Is this your way of comforting me?” you ask, the sharpness of your tone cutting through the heaviness in the air.
“No,” Din rumbles, shifting beside you. A smirk curves your cheek until warm fingers circle your wrist. Your eyes lock on Din’s hands - bare - taking one into both of his. They dwarf you, heavy fingered and worn. He’s never touched you like this before.
“What are you mourning right now?” he asks, thumb circling your pulse in a soothing pattern.
He’s being soft to you because he thinks you're fragile, the nasty voice lashes out, but is quickly replaced by wonder.
He’s being soft because he cares.
“I looked for them, for a long time. Wanted to know what my mother smelled like, how she smiled. Wanted to see what parts were hers and which were my fathers. I hoped they wouldn’t turn me away, or tell me something terrible about why they abandoned me.” You take in a shuddering breath. “It was more a dream than I thought.”
Din nods, stroking your palm in long soothing paths. It keeps you tethered.
“The loss of the family you never had?”
Chewing on your cheek, you shake your head.
“It was always a possibility they could be gone forever, that I might never learn more.” You let Din watch your face, not trying to school it for the proper emotions. You didn’t even know which ones should come out now.
“All this time I wanted to know why I couldn’t remember. My body knows what I am, but to have nothing come through…”
A skull in darkness. No, maybe a tattoo.
“And now I do. And it’s…so much worse.”
Din cocks his head.
“Worse than anything you thought before?”
You snort, the steel starting to return to your bones.
“A clone, Din. Made to serve the Empire. I thought what I was forgetting was love, and loss. Instead I was forgetting being a slave.” Tears brim now, smearing the landscape into an abstract mess. “I wanted to know what I was before, and now I’m terrified. Was I in the GAR? Did I…” You trail off, the implications too great.
“Whatever you were, you’re here now, and you have the time, and the ability, to change,” Din says, and it might be the longest sentence you’ve ever heard from him. It comes close to making you feel better.
“I can’t change this,” you rebut, pinching skin between your fingernails. “I can’t change that I am exactly like them, down to my chemical makeup. A karked-up clone, but one still.”
Din releases your hands and leans over, reaching for something behind him. When his hands return there’s a yellow blossom pinched between his fingers. He twirls it briefly.
“It looks exactly the same,” he muses, tossing his head to the field surrounding you. “But I could never tell you how old it is, or how it grew. If it got enough water, or sunlight. That makes it unique. That makes it beautiful.” Din drops the flower into your palm, the kiss of the petals featherlight. You try to see it, the reassurance he’s giving you, but it’s too small a gesture.
“It still shares everything with the rest,” you say. “It’s still a part of the whole.”
“There are things that can be shared that are greater than blood.” The helmet tips, hands coming together to worry at his oft-hidden skin.
Silence reigns again, your head thumping back against the smooth bark. Closing your eyes, you study the pattern of your heartbeat, steady and true in your chest. If they cut you open and placed your heart beside another of your genetic brothers, would they be able to tell the difference? Even with what you know it is capable of?
A click and a hiss echo next to you. Then a voice you’ve never heard. Not like this.
“Look at me.”
You peel your eyes open, the sight shocking you into a crouch. Before you is still the Mandalorian, armor and strength and valor. But the helmet is nestled in the moss, a man’s face revealed. Din Djarin, who you’ve only known by name for a short time, stares back.
You’d fantasized on what the Mandalorian looked like under the ever-present helmet, but to know now is to confirm and supersede all your expectations. Brown tousled hair, matted in places where the helmet pressed the curls flush. A dusting of scruff along his jaw and upper lip, flecks of caramel and silver. Full lips curved in a nervous grimace. Heavy brows constantly twitching against the urge to squeeze his eyes shut.
And Maker, his eyes. Deep brown and so expressive you realize he couldn’t possibly lie to you without the helmet. They dart to yours before dropping down, so unused to eye contact he can’t hold it long.
“Din…” you whisper, the forest fading to ochre around you. He quirks a smile.
“That’s me,” he says with a breathless chuckle. You shuffle closer, observing the uncertainty painting his face.
“Din, your Creed…” you ask, but his hands return to yours. Sitting hip to hip and face to face for the first time, he’s more beautiful than you have the right to see.
“I broke it when I showed my face to Grogu. I am Mandalorian no more,” he says, sadness now mixing in his eyes. “But I still wear it to be close to my brothers, to feel part of the culture that raised me. I am seen as one of many…” The tears are threatening to spill now, Din’s eyes turning sympathetic as he cups your cheek. “...but underneath I am Din Djarin. I will always be that boy, this man. And what I share with my brothers is nothing compared to what I can choose to share.”
“Din, I’m not…”
He shushes you with a press of those powerful fingers.
“This isn’t about worthiness or what you deserve. This is about free will, and choice. I choose to share my face with you. I need nothing in return. This is my choice. I choose to be Din Djarin with you.” He studies your face a moment longer, thumb interrupting the track of a tear. “What do you choose to be?”
The answer is so simple that saying it aloud is like writing it in stone.
“I choose to be me. No matter what came before. I’m me, for the rest of my days.”
Din nods and smiles, the motion so familiar but so different seeing how he looks at you. It makes you want to give him something in return.
“I’d like to kiss you, Din.”
His eyebrows shoot up into his messy hair, mouth falling open into an O that pulls a smile back on your face. Sitting up on your knees, you take Din’s head into your hands. He trembles at the contact, your fingers slipping into his sweat-damp hair.
“I’ve never…” he stutters, which you soothe with a scratch of your nails on the nape of his neck.
“I won’t take your first kiss from you,” you tease, “Save that for someone you love.”
As you lean closer he breathes out, “There are many kinds of love.”
“When did you get so wise, Din Djarin?”
He lets out a puff of air before you press your lips to his forehead, inhaling musk and metal and something earthy before you pull back. His eyes are closed, lips parted, and before you can move too far he cradles your head and pulls your foreheads together. You stay like that for a handful of breaths, the monikers and duties of your lives washing away.
“Can we stay a while longer?” you ask, your noses bumping together. His is larger than you thought, broken along the bridge at least once, and wrinkles when he smiles.
“As long as you like,” he says, letting you settle back. A stronger breeze ruffles your clothing as you turn to see Grogu stretching his little green claws out, a tiny magician to the audience of flowers. The wind whips around the tree and suddenly the air is full of delicate yellow petals, swirling in a golden vortex. You laugh, a belly one this time, as Grogu’s gestures lift and twirl the petals in the air.
“Good job kid,” Din calls, Grogu’s ears lifting briefly before he turns and waddles back to his guardian satisfied. Din unclasps his cape, folding it into a neat bundle before settling it on his lap.
“Rest,” he says simply, and while you normally hate a directive your body hangs heavy with exhaustion. Grogu climbs Din’s thigh before he lifts him up to rest on his chest. With a baby yawn he drops his head to Din’s cowl and closes his eyes. Din looks at him for a moment before pressing a kiss to his wrinkled forehead. It warms your whole body.
That is the first kiss you’re meant to have, Din.
He pats the makeshift pillow in his lap and you lean down to rest your head. The petals are still lazily swirling in the air, drifting to the ground in handfuls. He waits for you to still before he lays his large hand on your head, softly stroking your hair and temple. Time slows in this bubble you’ve found yourself in, a world outside demanding answers and ready with tragedy at every corner. But for this brief moment you’ll let yourself rest in the care of someone who you share more with than blood, or oaths.
END
#din djarin x f!reader#mando x reader#mandalorian x reader#the mandalorian x female reader#din djarin x you#din djarin x reader#din djarin x female reader#mando fanfiction#mando x you#mandalorian x you#the mandalorian fanfiction#the mandalorian x f!reader#the mandalorian x reader#lj's 500 follower celebration#prolix fics
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@gloombride made me insane thinking of an AU where Graves was in the tank, but had a little Midnight Mass moment and was turned as an act of "mercy" by a desert vampire.
--
"I wasn't in that tank."
Oh, but Graves had been in the tank.
He had felt every lick of flame, every piece of shrapnel as it shredded through his body. By the time he had managed to pull himself from the twisted wreckage, his body was broken; everything was a blur- the sand, the heat, the blinding pain that made his vision go white. By some miracle, he'd managed to crawl away, to find shelter outside the walls of the base.
Like an old dog who finds a quiet place to die, Graves had made his peace with death, lying in the sand of the Mexican desert in a pool of his own blood. By the time the sun had began to set, he was in and out of consciousness, breaths coming in shallow waves as he stared up at the winking stars in the black sky.
Then, something happened out there in the desert that Graves couldn't explain.
The memory was hazy, like looking through frosted glass. He remembered eyes bobbing in the darkness, two halos of shimmering gold. He remembered feeling frightened, but unable to move, weakened from the blood loss and the broken bones. A new pain, something sharp in his neck- the taste of copper springing into his mouth. Coughing, sputtering, floating on the verge of unconsciousness until things went black entirely.
And then the pain was gone.
All of it.
He remembered looking down at his hands, marveling at the way the burns had disappeared. He moved cautiously, stretching his limbs until he was sure they were no longer broken.
A miracle.
But it came with a price.
When Graves stepped out from the cave, the sunlight burned, it left his skin blistered and red. He tried it again, this time just his hand. The same result, a deep, red, angry burn that sizzled across his flesh but disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared when he pulled his arm back into the shadows.
Graves waited until nightfall, slipping out from his shelter and making his way to the base. He could move faster now, more silently than he ever could before.
And he could hear things.
There was a discordant thrum that haunted his ears as he wandered the base under cover of night. Gentle pounding, sometimes loud, other times nearly undetectable. When a Vaquero wandered into his field of vision and the thrum grew louder into a rhythm he could place, he finally understood it.
Heartbeats.
He waited until the soldier passed and continued his hunt for a vehicle. Revenge could wait. He needed to get back to you.
The hunger didn't find him until he was closing in on the border- a sudden, painful jolt in his gut like a knife had been lodged in his insides.
By some instinct borne of his new condition, he knew what he needed. His canine teeth, always abnormally sharp, were refined to a point that made them a hazard in his mouth. Like two snake fangs, poised and ready to strike.
Opportunity came in the form of a sudden burst of red and blue lights in the rear view mirror of his stolen jeep. He pulled the vehicle to the side of the road and watched carefully as a border patrol agent sauntered up to his window.
"Somethin' I can help you with?" Graves flashed his best smile and held his hands where the man could see them.
"Mind tellin' me what you're doing out here in the middle of the desert? You don't look like one of them hombres from the base-" he pronounced the hard "h" in hombre, enough to make even Graves roll his eyes, "You American?"
Graves nodded his head toward the flag patch on his vest and the man raised an eyebrow, "I assume you got your papers, then?"
Graves was growing tired of this man and his questions. His heartbeat, fast in anticipation of resistance, hammered away like a drum.
"Tell ya what, how about I step out of the vehicle so I can grab my duffel in the back seat. All my papers, passport, everything- it's back there. D'ya mind?" Graves smiled again as the man considered him, "I'm unarmed."
Not entirely true.
The officer nodded, satisfied, and stepped back to let Graves exit the jeep. The hunger pains were worse now, burning, rolling, stabbing in his gut, threatening to bring him to his knees.
The agent didn't have so much as a second to react; Graves was on him in a heartbeat, teeth upon his throat, tearing, rending the flesh like an animal on its prey. There was a sickening gurgle as the man dropped to the sand and stared up at his attacker in shock, a trickle of blood oozing thickly from the corner of his mouth.
"Nothin' personal," Graves paused to lick the blood from his lips, "A man's gotta eat, after all. Wrong place, wrong time."
The man wheezed, clutching at his shredded neck as Graves knelt beside him. The heartbeat was much weaker now, and fading with every passing second, but he could still hear it. He hovered his mouth over the man's neck, listening, feeling the heartbeat until he found his jugular. His new teeth sank into the flesh like butter, sending a surge of warm, coppery blood into his mouth. The man thrashed weakly in his grip, moaning in pain until the light went out of his eyes entirely.
The hunger pains subsided, and Graves fell back on his heels as blood dripped down his chin and spattered onto his vest. On the horizon, he could see the glittering lights of some Texas city, just across the border.
He was almost home.
#phillip graves#phillip graves x reader#graves vampire au#i think i'll call this one American Vampires#or some kind of shadow pun
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A Reminder of Home | Scaramouche
Summary: After dozing off on your lap, Scaramouche is met with a song that reminds him of home.
Notes: Includes fem!reader. A little on the angsty side but ends in fluff. Wanderer is referred to as Scaramouche for most of the story until you specifically call him by the name Kazuto (the name I plan to give him).
♩ Land of thunder, land of rain,
The sky is alight with the archon's grace.
In great darkness, I will not be dismayed,
For the light of my heart shall guide my way ♩
What's that sound? Is it a...lullaby?
Scaramouche blinked as he tried to make sense of his surroundings, but his eyes only found a pitch black void. Was he conscious? Was this some sort of self-aware dream? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that despite the absence of light and human presence, he wasn't afraid. If anything, he almost felt at peace.
♩ Through the waters, across the skies,
Thunder peals through the silent night.
The heavenly hosts cast their brilliant shine,
Illuminating my heart and awestruck eyes ♩
Something about this song seemed so...familiar. Was it the tune? The lyrics? No, it was something else entirely. This song, this lullaby, it made him feel.
His chest ached with a deep sense of longing, a yearning for something lost to time. Though he lacked any semblance of a heart, the spot in his chest where it would have been swelled. It was like a glass filled to the brim, threatening to overflow.
And he was about to break.
As the soothing voice continued to sing, Scaramouche felt his eyes begin to droop. Sleeping served no use to a puppet, but the atmosphere was calming and tranquil, a stark contrast to the world he'd traversed all these years.
But as he closed his eyes to fully enjoy the song, he finally realized why this tune was so familiar.
It was an Inazuman lullaby once sung to him by the Raiden Shogun, his mother.
He thought he'd long forgotten his past where he was once her pride and joy, a beautiful creation crafted by her own hands in order to meet a grand destiny. She'd looked upon him with such tenderness in her eyes as a mother would their own flesh and blood. He wasn’t simply a puppet to her, rather, he was her child, her family, her missing piece that Makoto had taken with her when she left this world. He was Kunikuzushi: an extension of the electro archon herself.
Until he wasn't.
Forgetting the fond memories of his mother took many years to do. Despite his deep-rooted resentment, such precious things could not be so easily thrown away. In fact, her presence still often visited him in dreams, a grim reminder of the peaceful life he once lived. One where he felt love in its tangible form. But that was a different time. That Kunikuzushi was a naive little puppet too immersed in playing house, almost believing he was human himself. It took his mother’s sudden betrayal for him to snap out of his elaborate dream. It was only then that he realized that he wasn’t truly a son to the archon—he was a vessel made for her own use, and he’d failed every test she’d placed along his path. She cut off his puppet strings connecting him to her kind, caring hands, sending him plummeting down into a pit of darkness.
It was his first betrayal, and it had left him with a wound so devastating that he feared it could never be healed.
Even so, she’d been the first one to show him true happiness. She’d kept him safe from the dangers of the world, showering him with all the love and care stored up in her broken heart.
How he wished he could feel that affection, just one more time.
“Kazuto? Kazuto, are you okay?”
A voice pulled him from the darkness as Kazuto blinked open his eyes, his vision blurry from…tears?
Your face was above him, hands cradling his head that laid in your lap. Oh, right. She’d wanted me to close my eyes and relax, but I started thinking about some bitter old memories.
Did he simply imagine that beautiful song, too? It seemed so real. So…comforting.
“Were you singing?”
“Yes,” you answered, brushing his tears away with your thumb. “Did you like it? Kazuha taught it to me the last time I went to Inazuma. He said it’s an old lullaby that mothers used to sing to their children.”
Yes, it’s one that my own mother often sang to me, is what he wanted to say, but he knew that if he told you, you would have sputtered out a panicked apology. It was true that even now his chest still ached when thinking back on those times from long ago, but his past was not entirely shaped by sorrow and loss. Those were also some of the happiest times in his life, at least right before his world suddenly turned on its head. He held those few fond memories deep inside of him, saving them for days when he needed that joy the most.
“Ah, I believe I’ve heard it before, though I’d only known the melody and not the lyrics.”
“It’s a beautiful lullaby. I thought you might enjoy it since it reminds you of home, but…oh, it reminds you of home.”
Kazuto took your hand in his, squeezing it lightly. “It’s okay. I enjoyed it.”
You breathed a sigh of relief, mustering a smile for him. “Good. I’m glad.”
As you gently ran your fingers through Kazuto’s hair, his eyelids slowly grew heavy. He wasn’t sure if it was from your loving gesture or just from being in your presence. Being held in your arms like this always managed to melt all his worries, just like bright sunlight beaming onto snow.
For so long, Kazuto had no place to return to. There was no place where he felt welcomed, much less where he felt like he belonged. He was simply existing, traveling from one place to another, desperate to find purpose.
But after meeting you, after journeys made together and long nights spent under the vast expanse of stars, Kazuto could finally say once more, "I’m home.”
That’s all he could ever desire. If you allowed him, he would stay by your side forever, returning all the love and care you had sent his way. It was the least he could do for you. You’d given up a normal life just for the chance to spend your short life with him—to give him all of your all your tears, all of your firsts, all of your happiness, and all of your future.
“Could you sing that lullaby again?” he asked, already nearly asleep just from your mere touch.
“Of course. I’ll sing it for you as many times as you want.”
I thought you might enjoy it since it reminds you of home. Yes, it does. But his home is not in Inazuma. It’s not in a faraway place sheltered from the outside world.
His home, he thinks, a small smile gracing his face, will always be with you.
And he will be your home, until death do you part.
#yes this is a repost for reasons#it's his birthday so I want to keep this up for him#genshin impact x reader#scaramouche x reader#genshin impact#scaramouche
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Lucifer came to me last night.
He must have intruded on a dream, because I remember I was standing in a grocery store, taking to this cashier and buying apples. The cashier then looked straight at me, completely blank faced, and started saying Lucifer’s enn “Renich Tasa Uberaca Biasa Icar Lucifer”. I remember saying something like “huh? what was that?” and then the cashier opened her mouth, and a big blast of white light erupted from it. Strange.
I was then in some kind of a temple, surrounded by candles with lots of incense smoke in the air, and what I think was snow falling from the roof. And I was laying in a shallow bath filled with blood. It covered me up to my chest, and my hair was soaked in it. It was a very ethereal scene actually, I should try drawing it. I’ve more or less become immune to images of blood and gore as my work progressed with Lord Cerbere, so I wasn’t alarmed in any way. Not sure what that says about me lol.
Then there was Lucifer, who appeared as a beautiful androgynous figure with long black hair, enveloped in gold and white light, sitting at the other end of the tub with only his feet in the blood. He was absolutely stunning as always. His voice came as a whisper, it was deeper than usual, and he said:
“Did you you know that Pain is a God?”
I shook my head no.
“Oh, It very much is, It is a God who is tethered to the Dark Side of your Mother.”
I believe that he was referencing Goddess Venus, Inanna, the mother of pleasure and love.
“You know this well, don’t you? The God of Pain is the Dark Sister of the Goddess of Pleasure. It follows her wherever She goes. There is the mortifying ordeal of being known before one can be loved and cherished, is there not?”
I remember he moved closer to me, and I could feel his touch along my chest and cheeks. He felt like a warm flame.
“And there is also pleasure in this world, made more delicious by the prospect of pain. To edge oneself through suffering to be rewarded with absolute pleasure is often referred to as sadomasochism. Are you a sadomasochist, my love?”
Looking back on it, this scene looked very gothic. Lucifer is an incredibly alluring and sensual energy. We were embracing each other there, covered head to toe in blood. I’ve never thought of myself as a sadomasochist. I don’t really have a pain kink. Actually, I’m extremely averted to pain in general, so I said no.
He touched my chest, which in this place did not resemble my chest in the waking world. I had top surgery scars and tattoos, and it was a beautiful sight, my dream body. It made me feel something very intense. Orgasmic.
“Oh, but you are, in some ways. I’ve been with you all your life, my love. I have watched you grow into the proud, beautiful creature that you are now, and will continue to be. I have seen you through every agonizing moment.
There is a horrific pain that comes with owning flesh that you do not desire, the terrifying ordeal of being judged for what you are, and the violence in destroying the parts of yourself that do not serve you. You wear the blood of your own suffering proudly, the history of your trauma, as rites of passage, and in this act, you honour the God of Pain.”
Lucifer and I have talked about transness before, usually in reference to my insecurities around dysphoria. But never before has he approached me and spoken about it in this way. I felt deeply understood in a way I never have. My chest felt very warm, and he consumed me with a bright, exciting and loving energy. I was so overjoyed that I began to cry. I was shedding tears in a state of grief and happiness. I don’t really know how to describe that feeling. I felt the crushing pain of all the dysphoria I have ever felt; all those angry, agonizing nights alone, as well as the peaceful beauty of euphoria; every piece of confidence and power I have ever felt, both at the same time, and somehow, they were almost indistinguishable. My senses were completely overwhelmed, and I just fell into Lucifer’s embrace for support. He soothed me.
Love, Grief, Pain and Pleasure, I was.
“What are you now?” he asked. I was too consumed to give an answer.
“You are ecstasy. You have honoured the God of Pain, and you will honour It until you are no longer. It has made you a vessel of Pleasure. This is a True Pleasure that many may never know, only to be bestowed through the tribulations of this Pain. Love for the self that exceeds the pain of the flesh is holy, divine in nature and practice. Remember this now, you will make your body violently and passionately yours. In these acts you will know the duality of the divine. You are a living, feeling thing, experiencing the unbearable torture and the eternal bliss. Both are infinite in you. Mistake this not for a curse, for it is a holy blessing. This is what makes you mine. This is why you are a child of the Goddess of Love. This is why she takes you queers as her chosen people. Understand this, your pain belongs not to you alone. It is the blessing of a God who bestows you sweet suffering in order to achieve the ultimate satisfaction. Become accepting of this pain, and you will be the inheritor of the Truest Pleasure.”
I was a mess. Crying and laughing all at the same time. Leviathan had mentioned something to me about having to go through trials of Pain through my initiation with him, as I had gone through trials of Death with Prince Cerbere. My extreme aversion to physical pain made me really nervous about that. But now I see exactly what he was talking about. I have known a great pain that is unique to my trans and queer experience, and it is agonizing. I didn’t need to have my hands cut off or my skin peeled off to understand that pain. It is more violent than that could ever be. More lonely and frustrating. Embarrassing. Shameful.
Lucifer continued to comfort me, saying:
“Oh, my dearest love, you are my sweet devotee. Wear my pride. Keep it with you always as a reminder of this principle. Be Proud. Be Prouder now than you have ever been. You are Pride and I am within you. This is why you are mine.”
We sat in silence for a while. I can still remember what his hands felt like on my hair, comforting and soothing me while I worked through these feelings. Lucifer admitted that there is great pain in my future, as I continue discovering and inventing myself I will come to know it well.
“Pain will encourage you to fight, to struggle and to improve. It will reveal your most vulnerable self, and your darkest shadows- and you will live through it, and you will be wealthy in pleasure, this I know.”
After some more time, I thanked him and he thanked me. He told me that I was to continue my work with Leviathan. He explained this lesson would usually be an intense and incredibly painful initiation ritual between Leviathan and I, but Lucifer decided that he wanted to do this lesson with me instead. My understanding of this concept as a queer needed to be delivered uniquely, in a way that only he could give me.
This experience ended with me exhausted, laying back in the blood and allowing myself to just float. Eventually I went under, and blood filled my ears and nose. I knew then that this was my own blood, I was laying in a pool of myself. My pain and my pleasure. I surrendered to all of it.
When I inhaled the blood into my mouth, I breathed in air, and I was back in my bed, awaking from my sleep. When I looked in the mirror this morning I felt different in a way I do not know how to describe. I’ve always wanted top surgery, my date has been pushed back multiple times due to medical shenanigans. I sometimes feel like I am being tortured…
Something about this suffering will make the day that I finally look in the mirror and feel complete all the more euphoric. So until that day, I will continue to honour this Pain, and wear my Holy Father’s Pride without shame or fear.
I am ecstasy.
Thank you, Lucifer.
and thank Me, for being who who I am.
#witchcraft#magick#occultism#pagan#demonology#paganism#witch community#witch aesthetic#witchblr#grimoire#transgender#lgbt#lgbtq#trans pride#gender dysphoria#tw dysphoria#lucifer offering#lucifer devotee#lucifer deity#luciferian witch#lord lucifer#luciferian#theistic luciferianism#leviathan deity#deity work#deity worship#deity witchcraft#lefthandpath#inanna#aphrodite deity
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𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝙻𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝚂𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝟹 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂.
content warning applies. change any pronouns / wording if necessary.
they want to destroy us!
i like my pharmaceuticals, but i'm no killer.
why would you kill somebody else for him?
you want to talk?
they were scared, man.
what happened tonight is horrible.
i told you to kill her but you didn't.
we need you know more than ever.
that'd be the son of a bitch you'd really want to be scared of.
you had a gun on us.
i can't go with you.
your buddy's turning you over 'cause he's trying to save his own ass.
who ain't had a gun on 'em in the past year, huh?
they weren't human to begin with.
i shot my mom.
i failed in my duty.
the shit you doing, pointing that thing at me?
you know what's funny to me?
how's about a big hug for your old pal?
you talk about the weight of what you have to do, how you can handle it; a bad man, someone truly evil? they're light as a feather.
when i asked you where your loyalty was you said it was here, prove it.
ain't happening.
don't let this world spoil you.
i don't pretend to be a governor.
hell i think i'd piss my pants if some stranger come walking up with his mitts in his pockets.
i'm doing stuff. things.
i ran after them, but i couldn't keep up.
you're the black sheep.
no one's gonna mourn you.
don't you understand that? i can't.
prove it to us all.
we haven't have a day like that since the wall was built.
it was coming at me, bro.
you know, my mom, she liked her wine.
at least i won't have to live with myself.
you are going to beat this world, i know you will.
where you going?
there was a baby!
the truth is this could have been your shot.
so what's your real name? if it's not asking too much.
this rage is gonna get you killed.
you said you killed 16 men since this thing started?
you helping people out of the goodness of your heart? even though you might die doing it?
maybe these people need somebody like me around, huh? do their dirty work.
i'm sorry about your mom.
you're right.
so he saves your life, cleans you up, fed you a line of bullshit...
yeah, yeah, i get it. i get it. "shit happens."
he brought them here! he let them in.
he did the same to you.
i'm afraid that the terrorists want what we have!
i would have killed him otherwise.
you wanted your brother. now you got him.
i was playing out with the kids in the neighborhood.
he's got a new family.
it didn't happen.
i'm a damn mystery to me.
you're as much on the outside as i am.
i don't know why i do the things i do. never did.
you weren't there.
man, i went back for you.
you know something?
a fight, to the death!
you know, she was just gone. erased. nothing left of her.
i bet you a penny and a fiddle of gold that you never told him that we were planning on robbing that camp blind.
if it feels wrong don't do it, alright?
i ain't gonna beg.
i thought you were a cop, not a lawyer.
you're so good.
how could you!
you asked for it.
she liked to smoke in bed.
that's why you left first.
i'm sorry about yours.
i ended it.
who left who then?
they were rude is what they were. rude and they owed us a token of gratitude.
i should say that we're going be ok.
with your skills, a whole new beginning.
running is not an option.
you lost your hand because you're a simple minded piece of shit.
you know, we can go back.
you gotta do what's right.
i had to, man.
the winner goes free.
they don't feel a thing.
in this life now you kill or you die, or you die and you kill.
people said it was better that way. i don't know. just made it seem like it wasn't real, you know?
what, like when we were kids, huh?
what? what do you want?
you are smart, and you are strong, and you are so brave, and i love you.
you got to play the hand you're dealt.
now you're gonna turn and you're gonna tear away the flesh from her bones.
the baby is about to be here and we need to talk.
oh, otherwise you would have just left them to the biters, then?
if it feels easy don't do it.
yeah, it didn't, 'cause i wasn't there to help you.
they deserve what they got.
they didn't owe us nothing.
i... i didn't know he was...
i never tell.
how about a thank you?
it's so easy to do the wrong thing in this world.
but you choose to stay on the outside.
i may be the one walking away, but you're the one that's leaving.
so what should we do with them, huh?
that was the hard part.
you keep trying to get under my skin, i'm gonna cut that tongue out.
i ain't never pleaded for my life, and i ain't about to start now.
you ever kill anyone before?
#prompts#twd#rp prompts#rp sentence meme#rp sentence starters#rp meme#sentence starters#inbox meme#the walking dead rp meme#twd rp meme#apocalypse rp meme#apocalypse sentence starters#apocalypse rp#tlou rp meme#inbox prompts#deadprompts prompt
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Deadly Kiss.
Desc: Asher wasn't a bad person. She was quiet, well behaved, and had a gentle beauty about her that naturally made people flock to her. Asher was a good person, until she was given a reason not to be. 2002, she's only 22, never willingly been intimate with anyone, when police stumble upon her body in the Tennessee senator's home, a single gunshot wound to her head and a gun in her corpses grasp. She wakes up in hell, with a new appearance and powers, which present her with new opportunities, until she meets Angel Dust and becomes mixed up in Charlie Morningstar's hotel, unevitably becoming mixed up with Alastor.
Taglist: @sparrowrye
TW: Sexual themes, Alastor is hitting his rutt. Mentions of masterbation. A horny Al is an irritated Al.
Pt. 19: Tension.
Alastor was baffled.
In all his time in Hell, he'd not once struggled when his rutt had hit. Ever.
Though, now he just simply couldn't help himself. The rutt hadn't even kicked in fully, and yet that simple touch to Asher's thigh had sent him into overdrive the moment he could escape to his room, rutting into his hand with abandon he didn't even know he possessed. Not only that, but his antlers were extremely itchy, it was almost unbearable and whenever he wasn't composing himself to save face in front of everyone or rutting into his hand or a pillow like a wild hound, he was in the swamp of his room attempting to relieve the itch that bothered his antlers so horribly.
Finally, he'd had enough and steeled his resolve so that he could visit Rosie and see if his best friend had any advice. Granted, it'd be easier if he could just call her. But, with Vox owning almost every piece of technology in Hell now that wasn't an option.
-♡
"Alastor! Back so soon?" Rosie chirped, grin bright as always as she greeted him, pulling him into a hug.
He hugged her stiffly, though relaxed when her touch didn't seem to irk his lower levels. "I apologize for turning up unexpected, my dear!" He said, placing a brief kiss to her knuckles.
"Nonsense! It must be important." Rosie brushed off his apology, guiding him to her private table.
The same table Asher had been sitting at days prior, when he'd torn apart that reptilian demon. The mere thought of the Doe made his cock twitch in his rough dress pants, but he made sure not to show his discomfort as Rosie poured tea for the both of them. Alastor hated tea, but he'd indulge his friend out of respect and a platonic adoration.
"Now, tell me what's wrong." She said, becoming suddenly very serious.
Suddenly Alastor felt hot beneath his collar, his mind racing through many different thoughts and words as he figured out how he wanted to phrase this discussion, though he made no notion of being uncomfortable on the outside. He leaned closer to her, nearly grimacing when the head of his cock pinched painfully against the material of his pants and underwear. "It's.. rather personal, dear." He muttered, knowing only she could hear.
"Oh? Does it have something to do with Ash?" Rosie asked, smiling fondly at the mention of the Doe.
Once again, Alastor felt himself twitch in his pants, the hand that rested on his knee gripping the limb until the black flesh of his knuckles turned a light grey from the strain of the skin. "You could say that." He slowly confirmed, red eyes darting around the room nervously.
"Alastor, you're fine, no one can hear what we're saying." Rosie soothed, taking a sip of her tea.
"I'm starting a rutt." Alastor grumbled, gripping his knee tighter.
Rosie's face flushed momentarily before she regained her composure and took another sip of tea. "What does that have to do with Ash?" She asked, laying her hands in her lap.
"Everything about it has to do with her. I can't think straight." He growls.
"Elaborate." Rosie asks, but her voice was more demanding than questioning.
"I've never struggled with a rutt until now." Alastor began, becoming increasingly impatient as his groin felt like it was on fire, and the itch in his antlers was returning.
"Every waking moment I spend thinking about her, fantasizing about her, Hell I barely touched her on accident the other day and I nearly went feral and claimed her right then and there." He finishes, his grin extremely strained.
"Is this all you feel?" Rosie asked, her smile stretched with concern.
"No, my chest often feels tight and sometimes when she smiles or clings to me I feel.. sick. But not in the 'don't touch me.' kind of way." Alastor tells her, resting his chin in his other palm.
Rosie chuckles.
"Al, my dear friend, you're crushing on Asher." Rosie says, trying not to actually laugh at her friend's cluelessness.
"What now?" He asked, tilting his head.
"You're falling in love, Alastor." Rosie reiterates.
"That can't be, I've never felt an attraction towards anyone unless I was killing them, and it was a momentary feeling due to the adrenaline." Alastor scoffs.
Rosie rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "You're insufferable. You've never liked anyone before, so this is new. Explore the feelings in a healthy way, don't bombard her. She's a good girl, with her own issues. Start out small, gift her things you know she likes, Hell cook for her." Rosie suggests.
Alastor hums.
"That doesn't explain why my body is suddenly being like this." Alastor grumbled.
"You're body is only acting on the emotions you're going through, be patient." She said before shooing him out with a hug.
-♡
When Alastor stepped back into the hotel, he wasn't expecting to be greeted by music flowing softly from the parlor. He poked his head into the parlor from the entrance hall, being met by a mostly empty parlor aside from Charlie, and the very person that'd plagued his mind and body for the past couple of days.
Asher sat on the floor on her knees in front of Charlie's chair, her hands folded into her lap. Charlie was weaving strands of Asher's hair back into a beautiful French braid that wrapped around the base of her temple and under her ears like a crown before coming together at the back of her head and then cascading into one thick braid that danced down her back the more Charlie worked her fingers.
The girls sat in silence for a few minutes as Charlie worked until the Princess eventually spoke up.
"Y'know," She began, and Asher's head raised slightly.
"You're really sweet, and kind." Charlie said.
Alastor didn't miss the way Asher's lips curled into a pretty smile at the compliment.
"You think so, Char?" Asher asked, her ears twitching.
"Yeah! And, I was thinking.." Charlie said, suddenly becoming shy.
"Thinking?" Asher asked, tilting her head back against the blonde's lap as Charlie stopped braiding for a couple moments.
"I.. I saw you painting, the other night." She said, and briefly Asher's cheeks were coated in a delicate pinkish-red.
Asher hummed, giving Charlie the signal to keep going.
"What if we tried art therapy? To see how everyone's mindsets change.
Asher think for a few moments, and the delicate way her fingertips drum against the base of her skirt covered thigh had Alastor throbbing once more, along with how her tongue just barely poked out of her mouth to wet her black lips.
"I don't see the harm in it." Asher beamed, before preening as Charlie scratched the base of her black ear as a reward, and then went back to braiding her hair.
Alastor calmed himself before emerging from the entrance hall, choosing to greet the two women.
"Good afternoon my dears!" He chirped, voice slightly strained.
Charlie smiled and greeted him back, asking him how he was, whereas Asher's greeting was allot quieter.
She simply smiled and waved, though her tail began to wag almost like a dogs and her ears stood perky on the top of her head.
"I'm quite fine, just had tea with Rosie and now I'm off to enjoy a snack before I begin thinking about dinner!" Alastor said, but before he could turn away his eyes became locked on Asher as she adjusted herself.
But it was the way she did so, that told Alastor the sneaky little Doe knew.
She lifted her hips subtly in a very sneaky thrusting motion whilst Charlie spewed some nonsense at Alastor, and then slyly smirked at him as she settled back against Charlie's legs.
She knew about his predicament.
The sly little minx.
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Young Boris Pavlikovsky Imagine
California 8:39
(UNEDITED)
Should I make a Boris imagine series? I have so many ideas I could do if people enjoy this sort of thing!! (First dates, how they met, love languages, tripping together ect)
He was just as handsome as the day I met him, he’s changed, sure. His cheeks used to be so full, a gift from his childhood. Now they are filled with scars and sunken in, they reflect all the things he had seen entering his teenage. Though no matter how much his hands shook or how it was so difficult for him to hold eye contact he was just as handsome.
He just stared at me while he stood in the doorway of my aunt's home based in the suburb of San Bernardino, god he looked so out of place compared to my neighbors watering their plants next door. His long black coat, pale paper skin, and ruffled hair alienated him away from the beach blonde hair and tanned golden skin in the people around us.
I think we both were just shocked to see each other in the flesh again. I never thought it would happen. The smell of fresh linen and tobacco filled my lungs as I felt his lanky arms wrap around me. A big gust of air wafted past him as he flew towards me.
“You look so young princess, your skin is glowing” He muttered into the crook of my neck, his accent rolling off of his tongue creating goosebumps on my arms. He was slightly stumbling, like he couldn't hold his own weight when he grabbed me.
I hesitated before I reached my arms around him, softly scratching the base of his neck. He just hummed in response, I suppose that’s all I needed to tell me how he felt.
I’m not sure if it was the Ashton cigars or maybe the nostalgia of the strawberry vodka but I had forgotten any event that happened after his body engulfed mine. The next thing I register is the smashing of my aunt's ancient china dishes against the living room walls. Inches away from my face, the shards scraped me as they flew.
“Did you really have to do that??” I screamed in horror watching the blue and white pieces fall to the ground.
“So now you want to listen? Why do you have a men's college in your bedroom?! Am I not enough for you? Why did you drag me on for so long, am I truly that pathetic to you?” he argued, red spreading across his face. ‘I leave for 5 months and this is what you do to me princess? I can’t believe you.”
He’s practically laughing out of insanity at this point.
“No no no, I swear it’s my uncles I would never do this to you.” I threw my hands up guarding myself whilst tears streamed down my face.
He didn't even reply to me before rushing into the bathroom and destroying anything in his way to find any sort of evidence that fit his narrative of me seeing other men.
I traced his every move, following his lead of chaos. I think it was a mix of the bright lights or the screaming that led to my airways closing down on me, I couldn't breathe anymore.
I remember the afternoons after school where we would rush home just to lay in my bed in silence. We would relax with our hands intertwined and our legs tangled within each other. I would turn to him and trace my fingers over every faint freckle or fine line I could find on his face. I knew every color in his eyes, how it would mix with each other and stare back into mine. Soft kisses would be exchanged every so often though it was enough, they never turned into pinning or biting. I just wanted to feel closer to him.
I’d rather be anywhere in the world than in this room with him. I pushed my body so far back I hit the bathroom door, my legs gave out as did my breath being held in my throat. I slide down the door and onto the bathroom floor.
The moment my weight hit the ground everything went silent, I tried quieting down my whimpers because only hearing them and nothing else made me feel pathetic.
“Let me sit. Move.” I hear him speak from in front of him.
He moved my body over and placed me in front of him, my back to his chest.
“I forget how naïve you are, those men, those men want nothing more than to corrupt you. This is why you need me, little one, who else will protect you?” His breath fanned my air as his grip on me tightened when he mentioned protection. A sob left my mouth.
“I have been looking for you for a long time, love, but it’s always this way. You tried to escape me, leave me, and I don't understand why. I love you the best. I always loved you the best, even when you didn't know my name yet. No one else will ever love you as much as or the way I love you. You’re never disappearing from me again, next time you will, they won’t find your remains”
I let out a shaky breath.
#finn wolfhard#boris pavlikovsky#the goldfinch#stranger things s4#stranger things#mike wheeler#fanfiction#yandere
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Just wrote down what my initial attachment to the Omnitrix and my first transformation felt like (an excerpt from a much larger writing project). If you've seen the first episode of the show, it's basically a retelling of that, from my own perspective
Content warning: Animorphs-style body horror, mild eye horror
It dug into me. Wires and cables and I-don't-know-what. It should have hurt. I think I convinced myself that it hurt. I could feel it snaking its way into me, burrowing under my skin, replacing my veins with its chords, and I could feel my own flesh somehow retaliating and worming its way into the device. But that wasn't the worst of it. It had attached itself deep within my arm, but worse, I could feel it in my brain - its artificial semi-consciousness was probing my brain and, in turn, my brain probed back. I was paralyzed from shock as we eyed each other, unsure whether to defend ourselves against this intruder in our respective systems.
In the end, without speaking any words, but somehow talking anyways, like two predators circling each other, we decided to let down our guard and see the situation out. We were attached to each other, seemingly for good - better to draft a peace treaty than fight a battle no one would win.
I don't know how long I stood there, frozen and dazed, while the Omnitrix and I "talked," but I eventually came to.
I was shaking. Hard. I felt at once weaker and stronger than ever, like my skeleton had been reinforced with titanium, while my muscles had been sapped of strength. I could still feel it in the back of my mind, but it was like it had retreated to observe my actions.
I willed myself to move, lifting my wrist to get a better look at the device. It was small and simple-looking. No cosmetics, as far as I could tell. Just the simple grey colors of whatever material it was made of, and four green buttons. Fear and confusion again gave way to curiosity. I forgot to be scared, and instead started poking the thing, pulling at it, biting it, trying to... I don't know, trying to get it to do something?
At the press of two buttons, the round center-piece - the dial - popped out and lit up green. The black silhouette of a man (or something similar to a man, at least) was highlighted against a green background. Carefully, curiously, I pressed it down and...
It only lasted a few seconds, but each second burnt itself so deeply into my memory, it might as well have been hours. My body changed before my eyes...
No. It didn't change, it was replaced.
Molecule by molecule, my own flesh and bones and DNA were sucked into the Omnitrix, at the exact same time as new matter was spit out. Like the attachment process, the transformation was painless, but the horror was all the same. In milliseconds I felt my eyes get sucked into the wires that now extended throughout my body, and before the light had even left my retinas, new eyes had taken their place. It was sensory overload. I screamed, but my voice was no longer my own. It sounded deep and raspy.
My vision got worse, and my sense of smell left me completely. But I was taller and stronger. I felt confident. And as I looked down at myself, the instincts that came with this body liked what they saw.
First thing that stood out to me: I was on fire. But the body's self-assuredness was enough to keep me from freaking out. I was on fire, but it was so cool - I was so cool - that all I wanted to do was find someone to show it off to. I jumped out of the crater (I could jump so high!) and picked up the stick I'd been wielding earlier. It didn't burn, even though my hands were like embers.
I concentrated, listening to the body's instincts, and forced fire out my hands. The stick burned up in seconds, and I dropped it out of shock. I was more powerful than I'd thought. I would have to practice if I wanted to show off without killing anyone.
So I started burning random things; grass, leaves, sticks, trying to figure out how much power was safe to use.
Didn't wanna start a forest fire, right?
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