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samwhump · 1 month

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a (very inexhaustive, wincest-heavy) sam whump reclist

@transfemmesam asked me for Sam whump recs a few days ago, and I've had other requests in the same vein before (I can't imagine why.../s) so I thought I would throw this together, since these authors deserve all of the love and support for their contributions to our li'l fandom corner.

like I mentioned in the title, this is not at all a comprehensive list; I have at least ~200 more fics in my to-read queue that could thematically fit here, but alas, I have stupid shit like a job and a body and a dog to take care of, so. I'm always happy to get recs along these lines, so if you notice anything important missing, hit me UP. (and don't take any omissions as any specific commentary by me -- it's likely I just haven't had the chance to read it yet, haha.)

disclaimers:

some (most, honestly) of these contain potentially triggering and dark content, including but not limited to rape/noncon, torture, and suicidal attempts & ideation. I have tried to note content warnings where applicable, and most of the works are hosted on ao3, so the tags should have most of the information you need to make an informed decision. that being said, tread with caution. all of the summaries provided are from the original author, with warnings added after by me.

the list is in alphabetical order and separated into wincest and gen categories. a lot of the gen is also focused on the sam & dean relationship, because...I am what I am. and what I am a sucker for these two dipshits. there is also a brief section at the end with a few fics that don't fit into either category.

gen

All That Goes Unspoken by amnesiawife:

A case forces Sam to confront something long kept buried. (Set nebulously in season 12.)

CW: discussions of past rape/noncon, victim blaming

Beneath the Trees 'verse by Lise (5 works total, starting with Beneath the Trees, Where Nobody Sees):

Sam doesn't go to Stanford. Everything goes downhill from there.

CW: suicidal ideation

a boy is a cage by ad_castra:

After expelling Gadreel from Sam's body, Dean thinks they're in the clear. If only they were that lucky. // S9 fic wherein Gadreel's grace causes some adverse side-effects in Sam's mind.

CW: past referenced rape/noncon, body horror

body of proof by Askance (doomcountry):

There are things Sam hasn't told his brother. They're all in the envelope laid on Dean's pillow.

CW: heavy discussion of past rape/noncon

break these bones 'til they're better by redskyatmorning:

After Sam’s torture at the hands of the British Men of Letters, the latest in a long string of violations, he is rescued by Dean and Mary – and forced to ponder his broken relationship with his own body. Months later, when Sam is resurrected and tormented by Lucifer yet again, Dean confronts Mary and Sam gets his revenge against the devil.

catching my death (staring out an open window) by ad_castra:

Sam gazes at the window, catches the faint pink hue tinting the sky. It’s so realistic - he could breathe in the fresh air if he were really here. ----- They got Sam out. Sometimes, just knowing that isn't enough.

CW: implied past rape/noncon

Death of Convenience by WilsonTheMoose:

It should have been easy. Wendigos are no joke but daylight slows them. The weather's been unpredictable though and perfect, idyllic hunts don't exactly stay that way where they're concerned. Or Sam has one card to play and never stops to think that Dean would care if he killed himself.

CW: suicidal ideation, references to suicide

Echoes of Hell by The_Nightbreaker:

It wasn't real. He wasn't in Hell anymore. That's what he tried to tell himself over and over. But two centuries of torture don't disappear in a day. Sam struggles with visions of Hell, fighting to maintain his grip on reality. Dean hates that he can't protect his brother from what isn't real—but curse him if he doesn't try. When the boys stumble on a case with ties to the Devil himself, will they be able to pull themselves together in time to stop the sacrifices? Or will the echoes of Hell finally overtake them? Aka, season 7, but the plot is Hell trauma, not leviathans.

CW: suicidal ideation

Evening Shadows by withthekeyisking:

Sam is hallucinating the monster who tortured him for nearly two centuries, Dean feels like he's failing his brother, and a diner waitress bears witness.

CW: past rape/noncon

Everything Dies Given Time by Lise:

AU from 5.03. Sam discovers something wrong with himself, and learns to live with it. Only a lot less functional.

CW: suicide/temporary character death

The Freedom to Be Loud by jribbing:

It hadn’t occurred to Dean that maybe Sam remembered so much about that little nowhere town because something memorable had happened there.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

golgotha by redskyatmorning:

There’s a vacancy on the throne of hell, and Sam is desperate enough to save Dean from Michael’s possession to give into the abyssal depths of his own darkness.

Head Space by ameliacareful:

A witch curses Sam leaving him blind, deaf, and bedridden. Left with only the inside of his own head and the occasional touch, Sam begins to unravel.

CW: suicidal ideation

Hiraeth by inkandpaperqwerty:

(n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past "Dean... I made a really big mistake." For a second, Dean actually thought things were going okay. He was out of Hell, Sam agreed to stop drinking demon blood, they had just wrapped up a successful hunt... for once, everything was okay. And then it wasn't. "I overdosed." Not at all.

CW: suicide attempts, suicidal ideation

if i could leave (i would've already left) by serendipity0930:

“I have a mission from God for you,” the Angel whispers to the man. “It is time for you to do what you were born to.” The man’s face twists into a smile, delighted over being chosen by Him, a purpose from God digging into his heart, carving out a place to fester. “Hunt.” ... 05x03 AU where Zachariah is even more determined to keep the brothers apart and hunters are all too willing to take Lucifer's True Vessel off the board for good

CW: referenced suicide

It's A River (But Not In Egypt) by Lise:

He's still a liar. Maybe always has been.

CW: toxic Sam/Lucifer dynamics

Kindred Instruments by PinBitch:

They’re in a tug of war and Sam is the rope. He doesn’t need to be alive for that. OR Sam dies in detox, being flung against the walls of a metal box will do that to you. Dean and Ruby pick up the pieces.

CW: temporary main character death, permanent supporting character death

lazarus trick by katsidhe:

Sam's alive, so everything is gonna be okay. 13.22 coda.

Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence by Lise:

Sam's back. He's in one piece. That's the problem.

CW: self-harm

love is like ghosts by redskyatmorning:

I’m poison, Dean had said instead of I’m sorry. Well, Sam wants to say, what does that make me? What the hell does that make me? (A look into Sam's mind in the aftermath of the Gadreel possession.)

The Other Brother by RadioFriday:

Sam and Adam are pulled from the cage at the same time. Sam is not right, and Adam, stuck as his caretaker, is not pleased.

Oxygen by inkandpaperqwerty:

“Cas! Cas, please! Please, answer me! Cas!” Castiel ignores Dean for several minutes, but then Dean gives him an opening that might help him complete his mission. So, he goes to investigate, and what he finds is a very bloody, nearly dead Sam. Dean tells him where the injuries came from, and Castiel quickly becomes confused. It doesn't make sense, but Dean tries to explain it to him, and slowly... Castiel begins to understand.

CW: suicide attempt

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc by AmberSock:

Sam waits, kneeling, for his execution. What if Dean hadn't missed?

CW: temporary character death

Safety In Distance by GalaxyThreads and SpiritClusters:

The Mark of Cain is a brand of violence. Sam was an idiot to think that he'd be exempt from it, just because he and Dean are siblings.

sometimes a kind of singing by adi_rotynd:

Sam gets cursed. They're dealing with it. Jack can see souls. That one they're not dealing with quite as well.

CW: past referenced rape/noncon

Soul Windows by GalaxyThreads and Spirit Clusters:

A few months after his birth, Jack learns how to see souls. Then he comes to a realization about the Winchester brothers, Sam in particular, and it's not a pleasant one. (gen)

Starry Night by keepcalmsmile:

Sam attempts suicide-by-monster. Dean tries to help. It sort of works...until it doesn't.

CW: suicide attempts, suicidal ideation

such fragile, broken things by The_Bookkeeper:

Sam wishes that Dean would just get it over with already.

The Tale of Sir Galahad by keepcalmsmile:

Sam once said he could never be clean like Sir Galahad. Dean assumed he was just talking about the demon blood. Turns out, Sam was talking about something else too. WARNING: Extended discussions of the aftermath of rape and childhood sexual abuse (but NO description of the actual events). Happy(ish) ending, but potentially very triggering.

CW: past rape/noncon, mentioned CSA

They Hammered in His Teeth by jribbing:

Sam has a secret.

CW: suicidal ideation

today's troubles (are history tomorrow) by a_good_soldier:

"It's not really something I know how to share," Sam had said. In which Dean figures he ought to help Sam out a bit.

Touch and Go by themegalosaurus:

Tag to 9.19 (Alex Annie Alexis Ann) in which Dean realises why, exactly, Sam is so angry about what happened with Gadreel.

trust fall by ad_castra:

“I’m nothing like you,” Sam hisses. Nevermind relating to the anguish of going it alone. Nevermind that he knows what it is to be strapped down and forcibly cleansed against his will. Sam wonders if these trials are purifying Crowley as well.

Words Like Glass by broken_cinders:

Dean never figured the cage wouldn't leave a mark. He was prepared for memories, flashbacks, and nightmares. He wasn't expecting the words Sam brought back with him or the way they made him seem just a breath beyond Dean's reach.

Wound and Unwound by fascra:

Sam stops eating spring of his freshman year.

CW: eating disorder

wincest (dean/sam)

Brittle by thecapn:

Sam Winchester has an eating disorder.

CW: eating disorder

Don't You Cry No More by sixtysevenlmpala (schittyfic):

The first time Sam gets badly hurt on a hunt, he doesn’t cry. Dean does.

Fall On Your Knees by dollylux:

Sam doesn't quite make it home on the last day of school before winter break.

The Fall Will Probably Kill You by killabeez:

Set between 7.04 and the aftermath of 7.07. Dean is not as okay as he'd like you to think. Neither is Sam.

CW: self-harm

Feels so good to feel again by Trojie:

The pain keeps Lucifer at bay, at least to start with.

Follow In Your Form by withthekeyisking:

Sam is hallucinating Lucifer in the wake of Cas bringing his Hell Wall crashing down. To make matters worse, it seems like this has his dormant powers flaring back to life.

Last Temptation by merle_p:

Sam is running a fever again, the kind of fever no Ibuprofen or cold compress will bring down, the kind of fever that is eating him up alive, eviscerating him from the inside. He is too hot and too cold and too pale, delirious and shaking, resonating with whatever divine energy the trials are subjecting him to, and Dean is not sure how much longer he can stand to see him be in this state. Because Sam is quite possibly dying, and there is nothing Dean can do to stop it. Because Sam is dying, and he just. Won’t. Shut. Up.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

leeches by Anonymous:

Sam discovers a spell to make everybody forget him. He’s convinced it’s for the best. Pre-Stanford.

CW: attempted kidnapping/torture

Make Thick My Blood by themegalosaurus:

“You’re going to kill me, Dean,” Sam says, eventually. And all Dean can say is, “I think I am.” A season 10 AU, set after 10x14 ('The Executioner's Song'). Cas finds a solution that might cure the Mark of Cain; but if they're going to go through with it, Sam has a terrible price to pay.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

Prophecy of an Abomination by ashitanoyuki:

Sam is kidnapped by fanatically religious hunters and crucified. Coming back from this won't be easy. Canon-divergent from midway through season 2.

Recall by De_Nugis:

Sam's having a hard time telling what's real and what isn't, especially when it comes to some voicemails from Dean.

The Room Upstairs by brokenlittleboy:

Sam comes back from hell, but he’s inside-out and all wrong, and Dean can’t fix him.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

Ruin You (and its companion fic Worth) by Mumble_Bee:

Cole fucks Sam with Demon!Dean watching from a devil's trap, snarling that anyone would dare touch what was his. “I told you I don’t care what you do to his face or his blood or his fucking nose,” Dean growled, “but you put your dick anywhere near him and I will end you.” “Better hurry up then, Dean, because I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

CW: explicit rape/noncon

Snowed In by HelloStarlingFics:

When working a case, Sam and Dean get stuck out in a shack in the woods when the snow comes in hard and fast. Trouble is, Sam’s hated the cold ever since the Cage. Time for Dean to step up and look after him.

Wake by minchout:

Gadreel has had Sam for four years, and Dean, lost in guilt and obsessed with finding a way to get his brother back, has isolated himself in a cabin in the Missouri Ozarks with nothing but the woods, a stray dog, some chickens, and all the books the Men of Letters had to offer to keep him company. Then Sam shows up one day without his passenger, and Dean learns quickly that it doesn't matter that Sam is with him again - there is still a lot of work to be done before they can find their way back to each other.

Wanting to Forget by morganaDW (morgana07):

1-shot. S1 fic. After getting Sam freed from the Benders Dean thinks all he has to cope with is some bruises and cuts. He learns quickly just how wrong he is when Sam wakes up with a nightmare, reliving his brief but bad captivity in every detail. Sam just wants to forget & Dean has to try to get him to let him help. Will one night of cruelty and pain ruin what’s been formed between them?

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

when I wake up I'm afraid, somebody else might take my place by quake_quiver:

Sam doesn’t remember the last time he cried for Dean like he did that night. And now it’s been…two weeks. Maybe more. Sam is tired, and in pain, and starting to doubt that Dean’s going to show up. He’s weak and shaking from a combination of constant pain and hunger. Sam longs for Dean. Dean would make it better. Dean would fix it.

CW: rape/noncon, body horror

Wire Inside Me by merle_p:

There are a lot of things Sam hates about his current condition, to the point where he sometimes feels for the gun under his pillow at night, blindly toys with the safety, imagines pressing the muzzle into the underside of his chin and pulling the trigger just to make it stop. But there’s nothing he hates as much as the shadows he sees in Dean’s eyes whenever his brother is looking at him these days. It’s not an expression he remembers ever seeing before, but Sam thinks it’s probably something like revulsion. Horror. Disgust. What else could it be.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon, body horror, forced pregnancy

Worth (and its companion fic Ruin You) by Mumble_Bee:

Episode 10x01 "Black" where Dean is a human, and very, very, pissed off to hear someone has hands on his brother. “It’s nothing personal,” Cole whispered into Sam's ear, too quietly for Dean to hear, “but I need to kill your brother, and I need him off his game when he gets here. I don’t wanna hurt you, kid, but I’m going to, anyway. I’m going to hurt you a lot."

CW: explicit rape/noncon

you'll never see us again by according2thelore:

Then finally, his eyes trail over to Dean. His pupils are pin-point thin, and his hair is straggling in his face so Dean can’t see most of what expression lies there. Sam usually wakes up from nightmares in one of three attitudes: confusion, fear, or calm. A scary, sense-prickling calm that Dean hates more than anything else. Resignation, almost. Or: Sam suffers from nightmares and touch starvation post-Cage. They do their best to deal.

other Sam/Lucifer noncon

Cage Fight (No Way To Do This Right) by Dyed_Red:

Sam’s visit to the cage is already going awry, but Dean’s one-man rescue ends up skidding it sideways into territory neither him or Sam are ready for. (Gratuitous episode scene re-write. If Cas hadn’t come till after, if he hadn’t been there yet when Dean ran down to the 'parole' cage after hearing Sam scream - how bad could it have got for the brothers before he made it?)

CW: graphic rape/noncon

Into Being by withthekeyisking:

When Sam wakes up in the cave on Apocalypse World after having been killed by vamps, it's not just to find Lucifer there with him. It's to find him in him.

CW: graphic rape/noncon, necrophilia, forced pregnancy

Reggie/Tim/Sam noncon

a pointless resistance for you by withthekeyisking:

Sam doesn't know how long he's been with Tim and Reggie by the time Dean shows up and tries to take him out of there. Long enough that's he's already lost one baby and is pregnant with the next. Long enough that this life is starting to feel like all he knows.

CW: graphic rape/noncon, forced pregnancy & miscarriage, victim blaming

screaming birds sound an awful lot like singing by withthekeyisking:

Sam has done his best to move past what Tim and Reggie did to him, pretending it never happened at all. But running into them again makes that very difficult—especially when Dean gets involved.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

Waste 'Em All by withthekeyisking:

When Tim and Reggie try to force the demon blood down Sam's throat, he spits it back out. He has no interest in being turned into their own personal attack dog. They don't...take it well.

CW: explicit rape/noncon

#sam winchester #sam whump #supernatural #supernatural fic rec #wincest

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pickingupmymercedes · 2 months

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Under an Ipê tree - Lewis Hamilton

The three times your annual visit to Senna’s tomb brought something different

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Senna! Reader

warnings: mentions of death, mourning, AD 21', Lewis at Ferrari (rubbing salt into every open wound apparently)

wordcount: +1k

a/n: Not gonna lie, started this one with something in mind and it took a life of its own. I know Senna! Reader isn't everyone's cup of tea, so please, proceed with caution, because there is mention to real events and real emotions envolved with mourning. Also, AD 21', I'm sure as hell not over that, so here's another trigger warning.

a/n. 2: Those trees are how pink Ipês look in blossom, I know Brasil is not known for its colder months but those beauties come alive after the few cold weeks.

_______________________________________

Like most traditions it started without any intent on actually becoming a thing. You and Lewis would take a couple hours off on Wednesdays before the Brazilian GP every year, the destination a known one to everyone in the paddock. It was a journey you used to do by yourself until Lewis had been the brave, and first one, to ask you if he could tag along. He’d been to Senna’s tomb before, you knew that much, but the respect and adoration he held for your late father had you deciding he should be good company.

_______________________________________

“I swear I had never seen my mom angrier. Can you imagine her with the speaker at Interlagos shouting to everyone with an ear that I shouldn’t be racing and if anything happened Ayrton was to blame cause I wasn’t even old enough to be there” You told a laughing Lewis while remembering when your father faked an ID so he could sneak you to the track and teach you how to race in your brand new - Mclaren themed – kart. A Christmas gift he went out of his way to get to the famous Brazilian track circuit in time to open day.

“You know, my favorites snippets of his life are the ones you talk about, Sundays at the pool, ice cream dates, kart running without your mom knowing. Whenever someone talks about him it’s always about his wins, his hardships, his cars and battles … it’s almost as if he didn’t exist beyond formula 1, like we froze just a fraction of him and forgot all about the rest.”

You smiled at him, you liked how Lewis never questioned your feelings towards f1’s out of this world idolatry on your father, mainly because at the end of the day, to your 8 year old past self, Ayrton was first and foremost “pai”, the dude that thought you not to be afraid by throwing you into the ocean when no one was looking, the one that cooked instant noodles for dinner in spite of your mom’s pleads, the one that constantly tried to show you that love is a feeling we should act upon in the present and never wait for a so promised tomorrow.

“He would’ve liked you I think… would’ve hated to race you, for sure. But as a person, he would have probably seen you as one of the good ones, pointing out bullshit, fighting fia every chance you get, protecting the guys back at the garage, focusing on racing and not talking, looking out for everyone.” You answered truthly, as he respectfully held his hands behind his back looking at the tomb stone, while you casually sat in the edge of the stone, almost too comfortable around the place from all the visits you’ve done over the years.

“I think you should meet Galisteu someday, she’ll have way more interesting stories about him to tell you than I do.” You absentmindedly noted, remembering all she’s told you about your father, this other side to him you never got the time to see.

“Nah… we’re our truest around kids, his best version was the one you got to see. Now, what was that time he sneaked a stray dog onto your apartment?” he asked while reaching for your shoulder so you both could walk along the path back to the car awaiting to take you both back.

_______________________________________

“I don’t think I really remember the sound of his voice” you sighed looking up at the Ipê tree just beside the tomb. You had shown Lewis a photo of what it looked like once in full blossom before, in the Brazilian winter, and he promised you he would eventually find the time to come see it in its full glory in late June.

The walk in the cemetery, the light hearted banter, him opening his heart on dreams and the future and the confessions you would eventually make to Lewis about Ayrton were part of the annual occurrence you had both unspokenly agreed on, but that one line seemed to have hit him hard enough he just motioned you to go on, no answers or remarks.

“I mean, I know what his voice sounds like because there’s a thousand and one interviews with him, but I don’t think I can truly remember what he sounded like in real life … how he talked to me.” You explained it further, now looking at the Briton.

He engulfed you in a hug, the kind only he knew how, your tears leaving marks on his shoulders. You would rarely cry over anything related to your father, at least not in front of people anyway, but Lewis was… well, Lewis. You and Niki were the one who pushed, like hell, to sign him to Mercedes back in 2014 against everyone’s better judgment, and while you knew he would be every bit the driver and phenomenon he was, neither of you anticipated the friendship that came out of seeing him almost every GP you attended. A relationship that had crept its own way into your hearts, slowly allowing to see each other as something more than just good friends.

“He’s proud of you, wherever he is. I know that much” He whispered, leaving a soft kiss to your temple and bringing you even closer to his body.

_______________________________________

“He would’ve crashed into Verstappen back in 2021, wouldn’t he?” He prompted out of nowhere, gazing seriously at the tomb as you observed him pondering over the possible outcomes of a race that, like a ghost, had been following him nonstop, specially with the São Paulo GP fast approaching and with it his chances of securing his 8th title, two races before the end of the season.

“Start another Senna vs. Prost ?! ” You thought out loud, trying to read into his expressions and mannerisms, a talent of his you weren’t quite as good.

“Maybe I should’ve done it”

“You’re not like that Lew. You’re you and no one, not a single person, wants someone else” Your exasperation clear in your voice, hands reaching for his chin as his eyes locked into yours and he nodded, an unspoken agreement between the two of you, one you had to hammer into his head from time to time, that he may have Ayrton as his idol but he was just as much of an icon to the sport, and to a million of kids out there.

“On Sunday you’re going to reach that top step in your red suit, fulfill Ayrton’s dream and claim a championship for Ferrari. You. Not him, nor anyone else” and come the end of the race, he did just that. Smiling down at the sea of people in a mix of old Mercedes merchs and new Ferrari ones, dedicating his trophy to all the other people who believed in the impossible with him.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton imagine #f1 x reader #ayrton senna #Senna!reader

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neuro-die-virgin · 2 months

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Browsing #ftm and it’s all forced masculinisation shit, only fans ads and literal porn. I am on these tags to look for other trans men, not fetish/kink/sexual content. Please tag stuff appropriately because as you might imagine, seeing uncensored corrective rape fantasies on my dash isn’t really something I want to see on a Saturday afternoon. Or ever, to be honest.

Force masc and force fem are kinks. This is okay! You are allowed to have kinks. Some FTM and MTF people have these kinks. That is completely fine. But please don’t tag them with regular trans tags like #ftm or #trans because these kinks are not what makes someone transgender, and many trans people don’t need to see it. Also remember the number of trans kids on this site trying to find themselves. It’s like crossing tags between the SFW and NSFW age regression communities. It’s a shitty thing to do because it exposes people to content they have not sought out by searching a non sexual term, including young people. Think of others before you tag your stuff. It’s basic decency.

At the very least, tag your content with the appropriate tags so that people can filter it out manually. The force masc rape fantasy I saw didn’t have any kind of content warning on it, and I think you should have the decency to warn people before exposing them to your kink, especially if the contents of that kink is generally considered a triggering topic for many.

This seems to be an issue primarily on Tumblr - you have to actively search for this content on other platforms rather than be accidentally exposed to it.

#lgbt #queer #ftm #trans #transgender

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asumofwords · 9 months

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Miscarriage, death of a foetus, blood, depression, anger, angst, grief.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello sweethearts, please read the trigger warnings for this one. Tread carefully as always, and I love you all. I have absolutely LOVED seeing you all talking and thinking and even plotting on what is happening! Makes me so happy <3

Chapter 91: The Absence of Three

Aemond escorted you back to your chambers as you whimpered and hissed in pain. It was so overwhelming, and unlike anything you felt before. The pain came in waves, and it felt like your hips were being crushed together, your whole core clenching in agony.

Aemond kept asking you what was wrong, kept whispering to you what was happening, and each time he came to your side as you clutched the back of the chaise, another wave crashing through you, you grit your teeth and pushed him away with a curse.

“I shall fetch the Maester.”

“He’s dead.” You growled, hands rubbing against the front of your dress as anxiety climbed higher and higher within you.

“I shall fetch the other.”

“No.” You snipped, doubling over again.

And then you felt it.

Something wet and warm between your legs which felt familiar and foreign all at once. But you knew. Of course you knew. Because your body knew.

Aemond watched in confusion as you reached a hand beneath your skirts, grunting as you moved under the different layers.

Just as you mother once had.

Your fingertips pressed against the warm, wetness, and with slow movements, you brought it back out and away, your hand hovering in front of you.

But you knew.

You already knew.

They were covered in blood.

“What’s happening?” Aemond asked, spotting the blood.

But it was too late.

And you knew.

And he knew that too, but he was in denial. A sick and twisted attempt to undo what had been done, to have faith in his precious Seven that the child would be saved.

But deep down, he knew, just as you did.

It felt like the day your mother had lost your sister. Now only you in her place.

Is this what she had felt? Was this the agony she had endured?

But Rhaenyra's pregnancy was further along than yours, and she had to give birth to the body of your sister who was already still.

Would you face the same fate?

Agony rolled through you again, and you sobbed. Aemond rushed to your side, holding your back and one arm as you grunted. You squeezed his hand as the pain did not let up, nor ease.

As if thinking he could help, the fool that he was, the man that he was, for men don't truly know the horrors of being a woman, Aemond raced towards the door and called for the knight to bring the Maester.

You laughed humourlessly at him, watching as he turned around in confusion, your knuckles white against the back of the chaise.

“It’s too late.” You sobbed angrily, pushing away from the chaise as you stumbled towards the wardrobe, bending over as your hand reached behind it, Aemond watching with a hawklike expression.

“What are you doing?” His brows were furrowed from across the room, rooted to the spot as he watched you rummage at a wall.

“Something I should have done in the first place.” You spat back at him, pain, and anger, and grief moving through you. Your fingers finally found what they were looking for, grazing the small vial that you had wedged there, not too long ago.

Aemond took slow steps towards you, suspicion in his eye as you whimpered once again. With great determination, you pulled the vial from the wall, uncorking it with your teeth and bringing it to your lips.

The ruta root slid down the vial and into your waiting mouth.

Aemond stormed towards you, snatching the vial from your hand as he looked at it. You chewed hastily and swallowed, ignoring the foul taste on your tongue.

Aemond looked ready to break, his hand grasping your cheeks painfully, forcing you to open your mouth as his eye searched inside, finger following to try and feel or scoop what you had eaten, only to find nothing but remnants of the root.

“What have you done?” He asked in a rush, panic in his voice.

He thought you were trying to kill yourself.

“Ensured that it’s dead.” You sneered, the vile, bitter taste of the root on your tongue.

“What?” Aemond breathed, “Where did you get that?” The Prince panicked, looking at the vial in his hand once more as he turned it over rapidly.

“A parting gift from our Maester.” You grit, pushing away from him, and limping back towards the fire.

You stood by the chaise again, leaning against its back as your fingers dug into the wood. You bent forward, hand against your stomach in pain as another wave of agony rolled through you.

Aemond rushed towards you, trying to guide you to sit, but you slapped his hands away, irritation and pain and anger continuing to swallow you whole. The Prince stood and stared at you with his brow drawn, obvious fear in his eye as he watched you whimper and whine.

It was all too much. All too much.

Everything was too much. But your body took over, inhaling deeply despite your lungs feeling withered, and your throat feeling shut. A pain that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Something that was concentrated and spread out, as though it was creeping up along your spine and into your ribcage.

Aemond moved from your periphery as another sob left your lips, a tear falling from your eye to drip onto the stone below.

When he came back to you, he did it carefully, whispering your name to coax you to look at him. And so you did. You looked at him with watery eyes, and a face full of agony and grief, and eyes flickering with rage.

Slowly, as though approaching a startled animal, Aemond lifted his hand. In his palm was a small cloth. A handkerchief or napkin, or perhaps even just a scrap of material. You did not know, nor did you care, as he moved to gently wipe at your face, swiping the light sheen of sweat that had gathered on your brow, and the stray tears that streaked down your cheeks.

Aemond waited for the Maester to arrive, tension in his shoulders as he hovered about you, unsure of how to tend to you as waves of contractions wracked your body.

“You did this.” You whispered, not looking at him, eyes locked on the fire place, where two dearly missed figures had begun to appear, “We lost the babe because of you.”

It was all a blur when the new Maester arrived, ordering you to lay in bed as he tried to give you Moon Tea to help with the continuation of the miscarriage. But you refused it, pushing it away from you, knowing the ruta root would do the job.

Aemond had ensured the Maester that he would get you to drink it, and had spoken quietly to him at the side of the room as to what to do if you became worse, or pale, or fevered with chill.

It was, in that moment, that you realised that this was the Maester that had once had sewn his face shut. A Maester who had tended to Aemond and his healing. A Maester that Aemond clearly trusted.

You lay in the bed in pain, feeling the wet blood between your thighs as you cried quietly.

It felt so familiar. To be in that bed, crying and bleeding.

Was it a curse? Was this what you were destined to? To be burdened with the pain of being a woman?

To be born a woman is to be cursed.

Another wave coursed through you and you curled on your side, clutching at your stomach as you tried to hum to yourself softly, anything to distract yourself from the pain that slid through you like a knife, your body reacting on its own, clenching and tensing.

Aemond sat himself on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he watched you cry and groan, shifting with the pain as your body began to get the urge to push.

It was so strange. It was just as Alicent said.

Your body would know what to do.

But it was too early.

And it was too late.

And the child that had begun to grow within you was gone.

Aemond brushed the hair that had stuck to your face from your sweat or tears, hushing you as the contractions rolled through you hotly.

You sobbed, grasping his hand as you squeezed, hoping to channel the pain through him.

“I’m sorry.”

The next days blurred together, and you found that you barely had the strength to leave the bed. The pain slowly subsided, but the sorrow had burrowed its way inside of you like mould. No matter how much you had tried to scrub it free, it would always come back.

The Maester had come to check on you multiple times a day, checking your condition, and ensuring that you passed the embryonic tissue completely.

It was after the third day that you found the strength to leave the bed. And it made you ache even more for you mother, as she lost her father, the throne and her daughter all in one day. She had to burn her daughter, and stand before the council, all in one day. She was crowned, all in one day.

She was stronger than you.

Stronger than most.

And you wished she was here.

As you shifted amongst the sheets, you moved to stand, but the sound of the sheets rustling caused Aemond to jump from his seat, padding across the chambers towards you as he offered you an arm, and held the top of yours gently.

Whincing, you shied away from his touch, “Please, don’t.”

“Let me help you.” Aemond insisted, and reached to try and grab your arm again.

Anger erupted from you, “You’ve helped plenty.” You snapped.

You moved slowly, grasping a cloak from its spot in the wardrobe, throwing it over your shoulders before slowly shuffling out of the chambers.

Pain was still in your body, grief was still in your chest.

You moved down to the Godswood, where you would always go and sit. To talk to the Gods. To talk to yourself. To simply be. But all you could do was think.

Did you do this to yourself?

When you thought of such things beneath its branches?

When you thought of losing the child to spite him?

Had you wished for this and the Gods had delivered?

That silken stillness of grief was back.

The leaves above you were quiet, no breeze to rustle them, nor birds to sing amongst their branches. It was all so quiet. So still. The world seemed to have stopped. Or it had stopped for you.

You sat for a time in your grief beneath the leaves of the Godswood, wondering what your child could have been, what they would have been like.

But it was not just the child that had been lost. You sat with the knowledge that the Maester was no longer here. And your allies in the Keep had dwindled dramatically.

Perhaps now, more than ever, was the time to ask for the star fruit.

But the eyes on you would be sharper right now, and your movements had to be more calculated and secretive moving forward.

They would all be waiting to you to act.

Or waiting for your family to react.

It was no longer as safe as you thought at the Red Keep.

Not that it ever really was.

Beneath the shade of the Godswood was where you sat until a familiar head of chestnut brown came to stand before you, a usual vision of green.

Alicent looked down at you sadly, and gave her shallow condolences.

You swallowed the lump that formed in your throat, keeping your eyes to the branches of the tree instead of letting them drop to the woman before you.

If you looked down, you were sure tears would spill over.

“How are you faring?” She asked tentatively, tone gentle.

All that the Dowager Queen got in response, was a soft rustle of the breeze and the silence of nothing. She stood for a moment more, if only waiting for your resolve to break, for you to turn and face her, seek her out as a daughter, like the one she was missing.

But you didn’t.

And so the older woman left you to be alone with the Old Gods.

You counted your breaths, and mentally filled the cracks in your chest with a thick, goopy paste, similar to the one the Maester had given you.

You thought of each stroke of your hand, filling in the gaps with the paste until there was nothing left to show. As though the cracks were never there to begin with.

Each stroke of the paste you counted, and each stroke you inhaled deeply.

On the twenty-seventh stroke in your mind, the twenty-seventh breath in your lungs, and the twenty-seventh count in your head, the gentle sound of feet atop grass pulled your attention away from the mental image and repetitive motions.

But the person did not come to stand in front of you, nor did they move to stand beside you, or even pass through the small courtyard. Instead, the feet stopped on the opposite side of the tree, and the rustling of robes indicated they had sat down beneath the Godswood.

Just by the action alone, a habit, muscle memory, memory itself, you knew it was him.

Aemond had sat beneath the crimson leaves and white speckled bark of the ancient Weirwood tree, behind you and hidden away, much like how he did as a child. And though, you could not see him, you could feel his presence greatly.

It struck a cord in your already string plucked chest.

“I did not tell Larys.” He whispered to you, voice almost lost to the wind.

“I told no one of what you did.” Your uncle paused, and you rested you head back against the bark, looking up into the shadowed sky, “He must have found out through his spiders.”

And once again, you believed him.

It wasn’t him.

He had not told Aegon.

Larys had.

You are both silent for some time, basking in the familiarity of it all until you heard him shift, and soon a shadow was cast across you, for however brief it was, before he sat himself down. His shoulder gently brushed against yours as he sat close to you, yet made no move to touch you with his hands.

And you were thankful for it.

As you sat in the silence, your mind raced away from you again, the sticky paste that you had crammed into the cracks, slowly dripped away to reveal them once more. With each drip of the paste, another crack was revealed, and with each crack revealed, another chip of your resolve crumbled away.

You realised that Larys didn’t care for Alys.

You had threatened him, and told him there were things that he didn’t know in your stupidity. In your anger. And in your moment of triumph against him;

You had hinted that you had an ally.

And so he had spun his web, and waited for his prey to lay a foot on one of his strings.

The Maester got caught in the web that was crafted to catch him.

You sat shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the branches together in the quiet knowing of your shared loss. Another thing that you would both endure. Another piece of grief to bring you two closer together.

“I don’t think I can survive much more loss, Aemond.” You whispered, surprising yourself to find your voice.

The One-Eyed Prince turned his head to finally look at you, hand coming to your lap to hold yours, touching the scar from the ceremony gently as he always did, almost as if he doesn’t believe that it is real.

As if he doesn’t believe that it is there.

That he would wake up one day, and you would be gone.

“I am sorry for my part in it.” His voice was steady.

Your heart clenched.

“No you’re not, because you wouldn’t let me suffer the way you do.” The words passed your lips, gentle and quiet, fragile as snow, the words lingering in delicate silk around you. A fatal movement of a hand could cause them to break, to crumple and fall apart. Even the breeze could blow too steadily, and whisk the silk threads away.

But they held strong. And they hovered above the two of you heavily.

“I am truly alone in this Keep.” You breathed.

You could feel Aemond’s eye on the side of your face, his hand tightening around yours.

“You are not alone.” He countered, head turned to look at you completely.

A small laugh escaped you, too tired to hold it in, too weary to stamp it out, and so you let it be, let it crackle from your dry lips that were bitten raw.

You looked down to where he held your hand. A hand that had hurt you. A hand that had taken from you. A hand that had given. A hand that had held, and caressed, and stroked. A hand that now loved, and cherished you.

The hand of the man who has so many sides.

“You and I both know that that is not the truth,” You confessed, “As much as we both wish otherwise.”

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imgoingtofreakoutnow · 5 months

Text

foolish, foolish love

Summary: During a quiet reading afternoon, you keep getting distracted. And Rolan won't pay any attention to you

Pairing: Rolan x Tav

Words: 1.1k

Warnings: fluff, also some sexual tension (beware of the sexy snarky wizard), definitely not betad and with some possible grammar mistakes

A/N: I just wanted to touch the wizard's hair... why can't i touch the wizard's hair???😭

Tagging: @tripleyeeet @elfinbloodbag @fictionobsession @adequate-superstar @sapphiccloud (if you don't want to be tagged, or if you want to be added, let me know <3)

\_/

It's a calm afternoon. After the days fueled with anxiety and rush of the past weeks, you had almost forgotten what quiet and peace looked like.

Cal and Lia are running the Sundries today, so you and Rolan are left alone in the tower. Laying on the couch with a book in your hands, your head rests on Rolan's thighs. The wizard is also reading, quietly turning page after page.

As your gaze silently rests on his relaxed features, you realise he's never looked more at ease. More peaceful. A hint of a smile, so spontaneous and soft, runs across his face as his eyes dart along the inked lines of the book, so sucked in by whatever notion that he seems completely untouchable by anything or anyone else.

“Is the book not to your liking?”

“No, I love it.” Your eyes go back to the page, reading just a few more lines before they move back to the tiefling’s face, who’s still focused on his reading. “Why do you ask?”

“I've just noticed you keep getting distracted.”

You smirk, closing your book and putting it on the ground. You ignore Rolan’s frowning glance that follows your movement. “It's not my fault you're much better-looking than some words on paper.”

Your hand moves until your fingertips meet his face. They slowly run along his skin, brushing against his cheekbone and caressing his jaw before sliding along his neck. His muscles tense at the feelings triggered by your touch, his breath shaking in his throat as he slowly swallows, but his eyes stay fixed on his book, an amused smile pulling on his lips.

“You should learn to resort to something other than flattery, my dear. It's quite foolish, really.”

“I know you love it, don't try to hide it.”

He doesn’t confirm nor deny your statement. His empty hand finds your wandering one, intertwining your fingers together as he takes it to his lips and leaves a lingering kiss on the back of it. His touch brushes softly on your skin, like it so often does on your own lips. A breath itches in your lungs, stuck on the tip of your tongue, while you’re staring intently at the way Rolan’s mouth curls just before pulling away and letting go of your hand to turn the page of his book.

Your fingers, instead of retreating back to your lap as his hand does, keep roaming on his features. You hear him sigh whenever they graze teasingly his lips, a mix of annoyance and frustration that makes you grin.

“Getting distracted, love?” you ask as your hands finally move through his hair, brushing soothingly against his scalp before running through his brown strands. “You haven’t turned a page for a while now.”

His fingers quickly move to the book and a paper sound soon follows. “Not at all. I was just stuck on a quite obscure passage.”

Your eyes dart to the cover. “In Volo’s Guide to Monsters?”

He ignores the question but the darker shade of red tinting his cheekbones doesn’t escape your gaze. As a warm smile pulls your lips upwards, you keep playing with his hair, absent-mindedly twirling the soft locks around your fingers. The longer you do, the stronger the desire to just drown your hands in it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down.”

He hums, his index tapping on the book. “Not many people have.”

With a sigh, you sit back up and turn towards Rolan. One moment, he’s reading the volume in his hands, still ignoring you. The following one, he’s staring at a blank space with frowning eyebrows. He slowly turns towards you, carefully bookmarking the page before closing the book.

“I was reading that.”

“I noticed.”

His eyebrow jolts up as you set it aside on the couch, just out of his reach. “Can you give it back?”

“I don’t think so.”

He opens his mouth to retort but his words fall short when, in a smooth movement, you point your knees on either side of his legs. His lips hang agape long enough for you to sneak your hands around his neck and for your fingers to wrap around his hair, satin under your rough fingertips and palm.

One of your hands roams blindly that smooth sea until it finds the wooden clip holding his hair in place. Tapping it gently, you turn your gaze to Rolan. His wide eyes are finally focused on you, giving you all of his attention at last.

“May I?”

After the longest second of silence, he nods, a quiet sigh leaving his lips as you pull the clip away. His hair easily slides out of it, falling out of its usual style and framing his face.

You keep running your hands through the brown strands, pushing them back and ever so slightly pulling them at the roots. Rolan closes his eyes under your maneuvers, looking almost unfazed if it weren't for the way his hands are gripping your thighs, tightening their hold with every stroke through his hair.

“Still want your book, love?”

Your whisper brushes his sensitive ear and a shiver runs down his spine. He opens his eyes into yours, his pupils so dilated his golden irises almost disappear in the blackness of his sclera.

“I might be dense when it comes to some things, my dear,” he utters – his fingers digging into your flesh – “but I'm not a complete fool on these matters.”

After the initial surprise, you chuckle softly as your hands slide back to his cheeks. You cup his face and turn it upward ever so slightly. His muscles make no objection, following your ministrations like a devotee on his knees. Ready to do whatever it would take to please his deity.

Lowering your head, you feel Rolan moving towards you until the distance between you disappears. Your lips hook onto his, addicted to their fresh, minty taste that always seems to surround him. You pull his face closer to you, drowning in that scent as his hands move to the small of your back, fistful of your shirt in his hands. The cold air hits your suddenly exposed skin, but there’s so much heat running through your body that you barely notice as your hands grab at Rolan’s hair after he gently nibbles your lower lip.

As you do, a soft gasp leaves his mouth and his siege of your lips ends. You pull away from his face, just enough to rest your forehead against his. Your nose nudges against his as you smile softly.

“Then show me,” you whisper against his mouth.

His eyebrows crease under your touch but a soft, breathless chuckle leaves his lips. “Show you what?”

Your finger slides along his features: cheekbone, jaw until it stops under his chin. You can feel him swallow under your touch.

“That you’re no fool, love.”

#rolan x tav #rolan x reader #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fic #annie writes

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morallyinept · 5 months

Text

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

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

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

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

Chapter word count: 6.5k

Series Masterlist

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

Chapter notes: You and Joel face the morning after your shared intimacy, and any consequences that may come with it. Mentions of smut and death/gore/blood. Descriptions of panic attacks.

☝🏻 I WILL NO LONGER BE ADDING NEW TAGS due to some of them not working as they should, despite me tagging, so please ensure you're following me and turn on notifs so you don't miss an update on this story.

Enjoy! 🖤

Previous Chapter

When dawn approaches, Joel stirs first; the intruding light glowing a dull orange behind his eyelids and pulling him out of a broken sleep.

Everything. Hurts. Like. Hell.

His back is still pulling tight and unrelenting - screaming at him that he needs to fucking move off this damned cot or be paralysed for life. His face feels raw with the grazes scabbing over in places and his arm is numb.

He turns to inhale you in and although he can’t feel his fingers where your weight is crushing them, he lays there enjoying the abstract sensation of your body shape nestled against his as you snooze. Something he still can’t quite comprehend in its entirety.

You’re here, you’re here alive. And you're with him, in his arms. You’ve let him inside of you, after all this time.

He winds his nose into your hairline and just listens to the sounds of you sleeping as he inhales. He can feel the small whooses of your breath against his sternum cooling him. And he thinks this is how it was always supposed to be.

He can smell the sex between you lingering in the air; the scent of sweat from your body, and he never wants to wash you off of his skin.

He replays it over in his mind, that first moment he entered you and how good you felt contracting around him. How good you’d always felt.

He’s swollen again. Aching. Morning wood, a new peculiarity that stirs grizzly between his legs after what feels like a long hiatus. No-one since Tess, and he thought there’d be no-one else. Destined to live in solace and loneliness, waiting until it was his time to check out of the world, growing ever more rickety in the bones and grey and thinning in the hair.

Despite the pain in his back, fof a moment he feels alive again as he feels the blood fill him thick.

There’s the calming sound of a few birds twittering outside and he’s lying here on the cramped cot, with come stained sheets, eyes closed enjoying just a few more minutes where Joel can pretend that nothing else exists outside of the shack, except for you.

That he’s back in his home in Austin, in his old bed with the wooden slats that creak each time he rolls over, and your naked body is curled around him in that sleep-warming haze.

He strokes all the way down your body to the little swollen belly you’ve got and places a kiss on it. You stir through bleary eyes as he looks up at you smiling, and that devilish smirk that he loves so much on your mouth has him trailing his lips lower still. He can feel you finger through his hair as he starts to lap at your pussy, tasting your honey that only gets sweeter each time.

Then, he can hear Sarah downstairs humming to her favourite song on the radio. She’s calling up and letting him know the pancakes and bacon are ready, and that he’ll be late for work if he doesn’t get a move on and-

Joel’s eyes snap open and he’s mourning the loss of that sweet, haunting reverie already as it sluices out of his ears to die on the threadbare pillow.

And then that voice; that insidious little fucker creeps up the base of his spine again, seemingly out of nowhere, and is heard taunting him. It leans over his shoulder with a sharp claw tapping against it.

She could never love you, Joel. Not after everything you’ve done.

In that split second of it pouring its words out at him, making him choke on the smoke of its beguiling voice, Joel feels that unmistakable rigidity flood him; like he’s hit freezing cold water face first.

It strips him of his breath, the enamel on his teeth; his leg muscles coil and pull tight and he tries to suck in oxygen that flaunts itself at him with an evil smirk as it feels so far out of reach as he gasps for it.

His fist comes up to the centre of his chest and he shudders, encased in that spiralling grip once more, sinking and drowning.

You’re going to die, Joel. All alone.

He can’t breathe, he can’t see anymore. He’s just cold and shivering and unable to surface, and all rational thought has abandoned him.

You hear me, Joel? Alone!

“Joel? Do you hear me?”

The sound of your voice is what pulls him back slowly; the small semblance of recognition through the foggy void that reaches in and grabs him, yanking by the ankles.

He locks eyes with you and instantly the shame devours him; spitting out gristle chunks of him until there is nothing left. He pulls away from you, sitting up on the cot as you reach up and squeeze his thick shoulder affectionately.

“Joel-” You query carefully.

“S’nothin’,” he immediately cuts you off, and the jerk of his shoulder makes you drop your hand like you’ve been stung.

You can only watch, confused and concerned as he dresses quickly, despite the hisses between his teeth from the lingering pain, and retreats out of the shack muttering something about the horses.

He stays outside for a long time; most of the morning is swallowed up by his obvious, intruding absence. You’re not sure what he’s doing, and you can only stare at the plate of uneaten food you’ve left for him that has long since turned cold and dried out.

His back, broad and hunched, was presented to you in the stable when you went to let him know it was ready. He offered you no acknowledgement, no familiar grunt in response.

Just bubonic silence that got under your skin and infected you with doubt and worry until it forced you to retreat.

You’re now sitting in the wicker chair gawking out at the valley while smouldering away inside.

You stare at the walkie-talkie with a swill of nervousness swashing around your gut. It was only yesterday the crackled warning came through and then you were ambushed by the infected. But all that seems so far away considering it led to you and Joel to physically expressing your requited pining for one another.

The memory sears into your brain; his mouth on yours, his rough, deft hands on your body… the grunting sounds of his pleasure.

You feel it flutter in your gut and between your legs, and you hitch a breath at the recall that you can still taste on your tongue.

The words ink themself on your skin, he loves you. He always has. It’s what you’ve longed to hear for so long.

And now it’s led to him hiding from you like a child facing his scary closet monster for the first time. You can’t help but feel slightly rejected, despite knowing that you haven’t done anything wrong - have you?

You glance at the clocks and they read a little after ten AM. You stand sighing and reach for your handgun. You holster it to your hip and decide to go for a walk - you need to get out of the shack, away from the trussed up sheets of the cot where the ghosts of you both still writhe and moan in ecstacy.

Away from the missing shape of him filling up the air you breathe. The heat is beginning to stifle again and Joel’s behaviour isn’t helping.

You’re not sure if he’s still in the stable. You hear the sound of the mare whinnying gently as you pass, but you don’t check.

The lumpy constriction in the back of your throat strangles you as you pass and stomp lithely down the path.

You pass the bodies; flies circling and feasting on the rotting flesh. You’re so mad even the smell doesn't deter you as you step over them.

“Why don’t ya ever fuckin’ listen to me?” Joel scolds you as you step back into the shack a little while later.

Your body is hot and sticky from sun exposure and the sweat sticks to you, irritating you further.

Joel saw you trail the path back up to the shack, fuming. He was preparing himself to go out looking for you when he saw your body; small and wandering down at the bottom of the hill.

Gritting his teeth, he endured that slow walk you did whilst rooted to the spot at the window, with fists clenched and recalling all the times before, when you were younger, that your free spirit and desire to chase impulse would come between you more often than not.

As much as he loved you, that lingering platitude of your careless wanderings always irked him.

Leading to passionate, heated debates and arguments he wouldn’t engage in much, which riled you up even more. Then you would take off again in a huff, to spite him and leave him floundering and worried.

You’d always come back though, tail between your legs and kissing him round to fucking you in forgiveness - until you didn’t.

Joel remembers the last time you left and he waited for you to come back. Waited probably longer than he should have.

You didn’t come back.

“Ya could’ve got hurt.” He growls at you.

He’s pissed as he puffs out his chest, hand on slender hip as you pass him and discard your holster onto the cot that’s still a mess.

“I didn’t.” You simply say, brushing it off.

“S’not the point.” He snarks.

“Then what is, Joel? I’ve been taking care of myself long before you showed up back in my life.” You bite back.

He grumbles, words you can’t decipher, as he sighs and frowns at the ground.

“Old habits die hard.” You simply retort and he glances at you with dark eyes and a pout.

“Ya can’t be doin’ shit like this, not on my watch.” He trails off, losing himself in the dissipating anger, trying to swallow it down fully.

"Your watch? I'm a grown woman, Joel. You're not my keeper." You growl.

He rolls his eyes chewing on the inside of his gums. “Where’d y’go?”

“For a walk.” You say bluntly. You lift off your top and swap it out for one that smells less stagnant under the arms. “You’re not the only one who can run away and hide, you know.”

“Is that what ya think I was doin’?”

“Isn’t it?” You lance him a knowing look and he hangs his head, guilty as charged. “What was that this morning, Joel?” You question and he shakes his head.

You change tactics and approach him gently, reaching for his face, but he bats your hand away and you scoff, annoyed.

“You’re not going to let me in? Not after-”

“I can’t.” Joel reiterates. You can see it pains him to, his eyes pleading with you not to push it.

You nod, defeated and step back as he passes you and sits himself down on the chair. His hand rubs at his temple - the side with the scar.

“I’m sorry. I was insensitive, brash. Taking off like that. But you have to understand, I've fended for myself for so long. I’ve had to.” You explain.

“I get it.” He nods gently. “I can’t lose ya,” he says, barely a whisper.

“You won’t. Promise.”

“No,” he shakes his head and looks up at you. “Ya can’t make that kinda promise, not now.”

“Then,” you sit opposite him. “I promise I’ll always do everything in my power to make sure I come back to you. I promise not to be so reckless. How’s that?”

Joel sighs, his giant palms dropping onto his knees as he massages one gently. “Better,” he gruffs. He tries not to smile, but you can see he’s struggling.

“I get it too.” You say, after a few minutes pass between you that’s filled with a suffocating silence.

“Get what?” He questions.

“You’re scared of the way I make you feel.” You begin at him. “Because you don’t want to feel anything. You’ve spent so long making sure that you don’t.”

He shakes his head as your nodding increases.

“And it's terrifying. It is for me, too.” You admit. "It's easier to have nothing then lose something you care about, right?"

Joel frowns. Then sighs. Then wants to strangle you because you used to do this. You used to get into his head with simple ease. Break down his impenetrable walls and sneak in, and he has no fucking idea how you do it. Or how you can still do it after all this time.

“It’s better that way.” He mutters bitterly.

“For who?” You watch as his back stiffens. His neck disappearing into his shoulders. His serious expression melts away a little. Another chink in his armour. Then he shakes his head again, muttering incoherently under his breath and you can hear some cursing going on.

“Why are you doing this?” You question.

“I lost someone,” Joel drones, reminding you; his tongue turning around his teeth.

“Sarah.” You confirm, accepting his pain and understanding. Or at least trying to; you would never understand that pain he harbours fully as you’re not a parent.

“No,” Joel shakes his head and looks at you, despite the pain twisting around his scruffy face. “Myself.”

It comes out as a croak that dies a horrific death on his tongue. You watch as his eyes glisten and you reach for him instinctively. But it’s not enough.

You get up and sit in his lap and he doesn’t resist this time when you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He buries his face into the crook of your neck as you offer him what he so desperately needs.

“I don’t deserve any of this,” Joel begins, a mouthful of your skin.

“What makes you think that?” His brown eyes are red in the whites and you watch as he wipes them with the back of his hand quickly.

“‘Cause, I’ve done so much that I should be punished for. In the old world, I'd be rottin’ in a cell now.”

“We’re not in the old world anymore, Joel.” But he was still there, stuck and forever looping it seems.

"Ya've no idea what I've done. If ya did, you'd take that rifle n' shoot me between the eyes. N' I wouldn't stop ya."

You scoff. “You think because you did bad things, things to survive, that you’re not deserving of affection now? Of redemption? You’re wrong, Joel.”

“Ya don’t get it, darlin’.” He shakes his head solemnly.

“No, you don’t get it.” You correct and he looks at you with a quick shift of his eyeballs and nothing else. “We’ve all done bad things, things we had to. Terrible things. The world forced us to. You think we were prepared for it? That this is the curveball life was going to throw at us? Every single one of us has done things that, yeah, sure in the old world, we'd be punished for. But now? If faced with it, we’d do it again. You wanna know why?”

“Why?” He asks softly.

You breathe in, reciting Kelper’s words when you’d needed them the most. “Because in this world you have to have something to fight for. To be reckless for… To kill for. If you don’t have that, you may as well roll over and die now because there is nothing else. It's all gone. It's all fucking gone…" You sniff as your own eyes water. "And something tells me you're not ready to do that.”

Your fingers stroke at the nape of his neck softly, curling his hair around your fingers.

“Are you?” Joel asks tentatively.

“I was.” You say, glancing down at your scar as your hand rests on your thigh. “But turns out, I still got some fight in me. And so do you.”

Joel sniffs deeply and sighs out; his head falls forward and rests on yours and you stay like that for a little while.

"How’d ya fuckin' do that?" He asks into your eyelashes in wonderment.

His arms just wrap around you and hold you to him as you kiss the top of his head gently.

“I just know the subject matter really well.” You smile into his crown. “Better than he knows himself.”

“Ya do,” he pulls away to look at you; deep browns with a pulling, hypnotic warmth boring into you and heating you up.

You feel his hands sliding up your back, fingers notching over your spine nodules and making you shudder.

He smiles at your reaction, the smile blooming on your lips as you enjoy the feeling of him exploring.

“Know ya really well too, darlin’. I never forgot.” He says, as he latches onto your lips.

Joel switches the walkie-talkie back on later, and you both wait silently.

He throws a glance at you, one that tells you he can still taste you in his mouth. You squeeze your thighs together at the recall of him laying you back down on the cot after your heart-to-heart, and proving to you again how much love he did have inside him, as he filled you up with it.

But now you both sit silently, waiting for any news.

You can feel your gut weighing down to your feet like concrete blocks, and sure enough a voice comes through over the static that’s more clear to receive today.

It’s a voice you recognise and Joel grabs it and speaks. “Tommy?”

“Joel. Goddamn. Ya guys hangin’ in there?”

“Just ‘bout.” Joel's eyes dart towards yours and you smile tightly in agreement. Fine, hanging threads.

“What happened yesterday? Had a small pocket of infected pay us a visit.” He speaks into the walkie, his thumb letting go of the receiver when he finishes.

“I figured they’d head ya way. Ya pick up my signal?”

Joel swallows as he glances out the window, his eyes squinting in the light. “Yeah.”

You both know it was a close call and your mind shifts to that strident moment when Joel was yanked backwards by the body and tumbled down the hill with it, and it makes your stomach lurch.

That could have ended very differently and it doesn’t bear thinking about as you swallow it away.

“We handled it. ‘Bout twenty or so. Put ‘em down.” Joel explains.

The walkie crackles. “Horde’s gotten bigger. We had to regroup, weren’t expectin’ it. Was fuckin’ chaos.”

Joel grits his teeth and you sit forward in the chair sighing, your hands fisting together under your chin and listening carefully. Trying not to imagine the guys - Kelper, Max and Sal - out of their depths. But you hold fast and steady. They can handle it, deep down you know it.

They’re fine.

“Second team managed to get the explosives laid down. We’re ready for tomorrow. S’gonna go down as planned.” Tommy continues.

“Good,” Joel replies.

You nod with some small relief ebbing through your bones.

“Listen Joel. I gotta tell ya somethin’.”

“M’all ears.” Joel says as he looks at you; his brown eyes softening as he takes you in, sending a small affectionate smile back up at him.

He swears in this moment he's probably never loved you more, and the thought makes him sweat a little. He reaches for your knee and gives it a squeeze, watches with some contented awe as your fingers lock into his.

“We were ambushed by infected breakin’ off. Chased us down. We had to let ‘em. Couldn’t risk the whole horde noticin’...”

Joel nods even though Tommy can’t see. You swallow thickly as you both listen.

Your heartbeat speeds up, you can hear it start to steamroll in your ears, almost drowning Tommy’s voice out.

“What happened?” Joel asks with a brewing frown.

Yesterday...

The sun hangs low in the desolate sky, casting an eerie glow over the barren landscape. Sparse woodlands with resilient trees run parallel, separated by a wide stretching field that’s filled with the moving shuffle of infected bodies en masse.

Tommy can feel the sweat pooling at the back of his neck, gathering in the jet curls where he rubs listlessly at his sun-beaten nape.

From this position, hidden craftily behind the bushes, he’s got a good view.

Kelper, kneeling beside him, peers through the binoculars and sighs gently; but his face is etched with acute determination, watching the horde move towards the direction of the canyon as planned, that seems to echo with the ominous whispers of impending danger at any moment.

Tommy adjusts his position carefully, crouched behind the thick brush, with aching knees and thighs; his fingers tightly gripping the worn handle of his weapon should he need it.

His breaths come in shallow bursts, the tension in the air almost suffocating. Kelper, the seasoned survivor, keeps his gaze fixated on the passing horde of death, just a few yards out from them.

“How many do ya think there are?” Tommy whispers.

Kelper shrugs. “More than a thousand now, that’s for sure.”

They've swelled in numbers; strays attaching themselves to the wider congregation as they move, led by the unseen force of the group spread up and down the route ensuring they don’t divert.

“How is this even possible?”

Kelper turns to look at Tommy and shakes his head at a loss. “Evolution?”

The moans of the infected reverberate, creating an eerie symphony that underscores the gravity of their situation. Tommy shifts uncomfortably, glancing between them and in the far direction of where the explosives are being set to detonate.

“Come on ya bastards…” He mutters.

Kelper smirks. “We’ll get ‘em there. Plan’s been working well so far. We keep pushing. Last hurdle, right?”

“Don’t be fuckin’ jinxin’ us now, man.” Tommy says, a thin smirk pricking at the corner of his lips.

“Hold your nerve. We’re almost home. Get you back to your lady and your kid.” Kelper assures.

Tommy smiles and looks at him. “What 'bout you? Ya got any family left?”

Kelper shakes his head. “Just the ones I arrived with.”

Tommy nods. “Right.”

“They’re all I need.” Kelper nods, smiling to himself.

“Do ya ever wonder if we're becomin’ as heartless as ‘em?” Tommy asks after a few beats of silence.

He nods out to the horde. His eyes bear the weariness of a thousand battles, yet a glimmer of something unresolved flickers within the darkness of them.

“You start to blur the lines between the living and the dead out here, Tommy. But heartless? No, we're fighting for something more than just breath in our lungs.” Kelper says.

"Ya think they know? Like they still have some conscious thought or shit?"

Kelper shakes his.head. "Nah. Whoever they were, they're long gone."

"Whatever makes ya sleep at night, right?"

"Maybe." Kelper replies.

“I just don't wanna forget what it means to be human, y’know? My brother… he’s lost his humanity. I see it when I look at him now.” Tommy says, shaking his head despondently. “I love him, but… I can’t be like that.”

“I don’t think anyone ever truly loses their humanity.” Kelper says. “If we did, we’d be exactly like them.”

“How’d ya know we ain’t? They’re just tryin’ to survive, like we are.”

“You feel bad for them?” Kelper's jaw tightens, his gaze drifting to the distant shadows where the infected still roam. The burden of leadership etching deep lines on his face and casting deeper shadows under his eyes.

“They were people once, even if they ain't now.” Tommy states. “Hard not to feel some guilt sometimes.”

Kelper smiles. “That’s how you know you’re still human.”

Tommy glances down at the ground and nods contemplating.

“Being human means adapting, surviving. Sometimes, it means doing things you never thought you would. But it's also about holding on to a glimmer of who you were. You just need to remind your brother of that sometimes. And yourself.”

Kelper's gaze meets Tommy's, a shared understanding passing between them. The depths of the woodlands seem to amplify the words, carrying them into the void where shadows whisper of both survival and sacrifice.

“What if there's another way? A way to survive without sacrificin’ our humanity all the time?” Tommy queries, his voice a low baritone.

“There isn't room for what-ifs in this world. Every move we make is a gamble. We're just trying to tip the odds in our favour. This world doesn't care about ideals. It cares about survival.”

The weight of Kelper's words settle on Tommy's shoulders, pressing down with the burden of a world gone mad.

Kelper shoots him a glance, a look with the harsh realism of their existence. “We're all paying a price. Sometimes it's just steeper for some.”

“I just... I need to believe there's somethin’ more than just survivin’. For my son.” Tommy says.

Kelper's gaze softens for a moment, a flicker of sympathy cutting through the grizzled exterior.

“I think ‘bout the world waitin’ for him. If it can ever be like it used to. Sounds fuckin’ dumb, I know.”

Kelper shakes his head. “Not dumb. You survive long enough, you start thinking about living. But first, you've got to make it through the hard nights.”

They both glance at one another again.

“We’re changing the world, for your son; for everyone. One dead parasite at a time.” Kelper says with a sincere smile offered.

Tommy nods, and then jumps as the bleep of his radio sounds on his hip.

“Fuck!” He scrambles for it. “I said radio silence!” Tommy hisses into the walkie.

He shoots his glance up, muffling the sound of the walkie with his jacket.

Kelper keeps watch on the horde, who don’t seem to have heard it.

A voice crackles over the low frequency. It's Max. “We got a problem… there’s… shit! Run!-”

Kelper scans the horizon with the binoculars. “No, no, no, no…” He murmurs in an increasing tempo shaking his voice.

“What?!” Tommy rushes forward and snatches the binoculars as Kepler stands.

In the distance he can see bodies breaking off from the rear of the horde and disappearing into the woodlands.

“Fuck!”

Kelper moves and Tommy follows.

“Hey!”

“We gotta stop this!" Kelper says, frantic. “We can’t let them change course. We need the others to keep them moving forward.” Kelper pelts as he starts to run. “If the bulk of the horde notices, they’ll all come at them!”

“Fuck!” Tommy paces after him.

“We have to create a diversion.”

“How?” Tommy pulls Kelper back by the shoulder, yanking him fiercely. "What d'ya mean a diversion?"

Kelper weighs it up and comes up with a desperate blank before a dark realisation settles in over his features. “We have to take them.”

Tommy shakes his head. “Thats fuckin’ suicide.”

“You have another idea? We have to get the others. We can’t do this without them.”

Tommy’s stumped and shakes his head. “It’s not worth the risk. A few strays-”

“Fuck the risk! I’m not losing anymore people to these bastards!” Kelper spits.

A few beats exist and pulse around them before the decision is made.

“I’ll draw them back through and join you on the other side of thise trees." He points across the field to a clearing beyond the woodlands there. "Round up the others ready.”

Tommy doesn't have time to protest further. He can only watch as Kelper sprints off towards the small branch of infected that have wandered off into the trees after Max's group.

“Fuck!” He grits and takes off towards the field. Tommy radios the others, instructing them to meet him, but he’s met with crackled silence as he runs.

His face batters wayward branches as he dashes forward; the beat of his heart in his throat. Then he stops as though hitting a wall as he hears it.

The echo reverberates through the clearing, and the small swarm of infected, like puppets drawn by an unseen force, turn their attention towards Kelper.

His defiant shout slices through the air; a battle cry tinged with both bravado and desperation.

“Fuckin’ idiot!” Tommy seethes.

As the infected converge towards Kelper instead, the small group, including Tommy, seize the fleeting opportunity to slip past unscathed and unnoticed into position.

The air thickens with a cocktail of relief and guilt. The clearing seems to close in around them, casting shadows that pulse with the haunting thrum of brutish survival. They can only hope the main horde didn't hear Kelper.

Tommy steals a glance back; the torment of leaving Kelper behind etched across his face.

The sounds of a struggle punctuate, each blow landing on undead flesh as Kelper fights them off bravely. The air feels charged with an unspoken understanding - Kelper's creating the diversion, but at what cost?

As the group distance themselves from the small swarm, the guilt claws at Tommy's chest. A corridor of remorse that resonates with the cries of the infected and the desperate struggle of a man who has willingly put himself in harm's way.

“We can't just leave him!” Max whispers to Tommy.

“He knew the risks. We gotta keep movin’.” Tommy ushers him forward, but hesitates himself. His stance falters, a magnetic pull urging him to turn back.

“Okay, we take ‘em. All of ‘em. Not one of ‘em lives, ya hear me? Make it snappy, make it quiet. No guns. Just blades.” He instructs.

They all nod at him, eyes wide and ready to go as chaos spills out into the clearing.

Kelper's eyes flick with a mix of surprise and relief as Tommy and the small group flood in towards him. The reinforcements inject a surge of hope into the struggle, weapons slashing through the infected with calculated precision.

The small swarm, once focused solely on Kelper, now face a united front. They fight with a fierce determination, their movements synchronised in a brutal beat against the encroaching threat of screeches and teeth.

Kelper, momentarily freed from the relentless assault, locks eyes with Tommy. There’s gratitude in the glance; a recognition of the camaraderie that has driven Tommy to return.

The fight rages on, but in that moment, a silent understanding passes between the two leaders as they resonate about not leaving anyone behind, no matter the stakes.

The commune needs a man like Kelper, Tommy thinks. Perhaps he can spend more time with his son and less time making decisions.

The skirmish continues; the group pushing back the infected with a collective force that speaks of their shared resilience.

They can do this. Nip it in the bud now.

“Shit!” Tommy cries, as more infected flood through the trees towards them.

Kelper turns at the commotion as they run out, and he locks eyes with one.

It stops him in his tracks and he feels it like ice in his bones.

It looks like… you.

It has your face, your gait, your hair even.

And he knows it isn’t you; knows somewhere in the back of his head that Joel’s taking care of you at the outpost, or you're taking care of him, but for a split second, it’s enough to render Kelper useless on his feet as the sinking realisation of failing you floods through him.

He’s frozen to the spot, frozen in fear just watching the infected impersonator run closer towards him.

You're coming for him.

Somewhere, he hears his name being yelled as it hits the back of his head in a dull fuzz as he stands there, unable to move his limbs, for what feels like an age.

But it’s long enough for him to feel it; that searing burn as teeth clamp down on the side of his neck and his blood spills into its mouth.

The world has stopped turning, leaving him alone inside his frantic battle with screaming and viscera everywhere.

The bloodstained face of Tommy holds dark, cold eyes as he works his way through the infected effortlessly. Picking them off one by one with his bare hands it seems and leaving no indication of remorse as he goes and yells frantically at Kelper.

The thuds as the lifeless entities fall to the ground thunders through the clearing, sending vibrations towards Kelper. He can feel it in his toes.

He’s not sure how it happens, but the one who is latched onto him is now dead at his feet as he tries to stem the bleeding.

The noise is deafening and Kelper is lost out of eye sight, somewhere amongst the throes of more bodies ramming against them; their faces mangled with bitter hatred and the determination to slaughter the infected with just cause.

The infected have gathered their numbers well, and it appears as though Tommy is outnumbered as Kelper glances back at them, stunned and shaking.

A single handful of elite warriors facing off against a swarm of hideous monsters, intent on shedding blood in their ravaging hunger. It's like watching a movie play out in front of him, and he's helpless to intervene.

And like those ancient Spartans from film reels gone by, Tommy commands a small unit of his most relentless soldiers. Determined and hell bent on seeking justice and retribution. Their strength is not in their numbers, for they could stand alone and wield the power of many.

Regular men and women, baptised into the fire of combat, they’re taught from the aftermath of the apocalypse never to retreat, never to surrender. No pain, no mercy.

Endure and fucking survive!

A well orchestrated phalanx, breaking off into sections when under threat, but soon chaos ensues, blood is spilt. God’s wrath pouring across the land like hot, bubbling lava.

But still they hold strong.

Tommy fiercely wields his machete as though it’s fluid; sharp steel thrusting in and out of rotting, fungal skin in mere seconds as he fights his way to Kelper.

His cries of war echo over the field and into the ears of those who are in earshot. Instructions in wrath, commands in murder, and praise in blood.

A fearless leader despite his earlier reservations, and it’s not hard to see why the others admire and follow him so.

Kelper smiles, not burdened anymore with that baton previously held tightly in his grip; he’s happy to hand it over. He never was a leader, not really. Just a determined son of a bitch to not falter and wither.

But it's time to rest now. He had his moment in the sun; plenty of them as they flash behind his flickering eyelids as his vision starts to water and blur.

The warmth of his mother's embrace. The first time he smoked weed under the bleachers in high school. His first gay crush on Bobby Denton. Man... Bobby fucking Denton. He smiles as he remembers a pretty face he thought he'd forgotten.

Coming out to his father who looked upon him with scorn and disappointment, while his mother welcomed him with open arms. She never did blame him for their divorce. Not once. But he knew.

His first love; the first time he bared his puny heart to Phillip, who reciprocated. The first man to actually love him back.

Phillip, who was wrenched from his arms on outbreak day, in mass hysteria at the shopping mall - at the fucking Gap of all places. He couldn’t find him. Lost him amongst the crowds running and screaming.

He never got to give him the ring...

Kelper remembers the small band of survivors he’s called family for the last several years. Remembers when he found you huddled in a dirty, shivering ball and trying to take his head off as he approached tentatively.

Fuck, he can’t leave you. What the fuck is he doing?

He looks down at his hand, covered in his own blood, and already feels lightheaded.

“I’m sorry, Goose…” he chokes out, blood gushing down his front and sticky on his chest.

Flashes of your hands are on his, nursing him back to health. He can taste the time you kissed him, and then apologised, and it took everything in him to pull away from your lips, questioning everything he’d ever known about himself. Drawn to you somehow. What was it, loneliness? Desperation?

Love?

Did he love you, more than that?

The hungry, consuming eyes stare down upon him in their millions it seems, and he welcomes the whisper of death with a smile on his face and a middle finger.

A small grunt of satisfaction tears through him and the faint beats of his name are heard somewhere in the distance.

He knows you’re strong. That you crinkle your nose when you laugh at something he says when you feel bereft, he can see it now. Hear it even; it’s echoing all around him as they tear into him, blocking out the sun.

At the end of a hard day enduring, surviving, seeing you smile at him makes everything alright. He never told you enough.

Never told you everyday that he fucking loved you.

He hopes you knew. Hopes you knew that in another world, he loved you the way you might have wanted him to.

He should have been the one, in another life he deduces that he probably would have been. You’d both be married with papery skin, sitting on rocking chairs overlooking the ocean with fat grandchildren playing at your feet.

But in this life, he had you as a friend. A soulmate. And it seemed better somehow. Transcendant.

It was worth it all.

Kelper drops his weapon, his fingers weak and unable to use it now. Unsteady on his feet as they devour. Blurred vision splits the sun in two and hot wetness is felt below his abdomen, searing at first, but soon massaged away by the delight of nausea.

He’s deluded and sincere. He knows you love him. That Guthrie, Max and Sal love him. That Phillip loves him, wherever he is. Perhaps he’ll see him soon.

He believes it and it will ensure he can pass on happily. Content. At peace.

Fuck, he deserves some peace. He chuckles, hearing it in his ears above the cacophony of their grunts and groans.

He recalls those precious moments; moments where the darkness of the world disappeared for a while. It wasn’t all doom and gloom and fungal bloodshed.

There was always light in the darkness when you were lost, you just had to look for it.

Remembering his smile lost inside of your freshly washed hair that smelt of wild flowers, breathing in the notes as you slumbered peacefully on his chest after he saved your life.

He can smell them now, the clearing has come alive with them, sprouting up everywhere and beautiful from root to petal.

He wishes he could show you them.

It gives him comfort in his last moments where he falters now alone in this barren clearing, where the earth has been cracked and splintered by the creatures that ravage it now.

Kelper falls backwards against the hard ground, but doesn’t notice the pain. The lights will soon dim, but he can’t take his eyes off of your smile, your resilience.

How strong he knows you’ll be in this world without him.

You’ll be alright, Goose…

He gives into it now, comes quietly despite the sound of teeth around his face.

And as Kelper slips away from this world into the next one, a single tear flows from the crease of his eye, never to be seen by anyone.

“... We lost Kelper.” Tommy confirms over the static.

Joel’s eyes immediately flick to yours; his face sinking as you sit forward gripping the chair rests, your eyes filling with water.

No.

“He didn’t make it.” Tommy says. “They got him. Was pretty bad and-”

“Tommy, stop talkin’!” Joel hisses down the radio cutting him off as he sees your expression changing.

No.

You’re shaking your head, but you don’t feel the physical motion. You’re instantly numb.

No. No. He’s wrong.

The next thing you know you’re screeching into the walkie, having snatched it from Joel’s hand, and telling Tommy frantically that he’s wrong.

Yelling through to him to stop fucking around and put Kelper on so you can talk to him. You need to hear his voice. Hear him say he’s okay.

Because he is - he has to be! There’s no way that he-

“M'so sorry, sweetheart," Tommy’s voice says, as Joel grapples with you, but you don’t hear it.

You don’t hear anything else except your own frantic wailing and screams as you sink to the floor, Joel catching you in his arms and crushing you tight against him, as you finally break in two.

No.

NO!

To be continued...

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unhappytimeleaper · 8 months

Text

I don’t know how to feel about this. I just couldn’t stop thinking about watching the rain and reflecting on Neuvillette. Also, who knows what might change as he is officially released. This is just an idea that was eating my soul.

Also, requests are open. I don’t really need to close them, but I am still slow with writing since I work full-time. I am hoping to branch off a little more from just Enstars requests, and ,I’ve taken a lot more of an active interest in writing for Jojo specifically, but anything works.

Neuvillette; Unedited. Gender Neutral Reader.

Warnings: very vague for the most part but talk of isolation, mental and physical abuse, and manipulation. It’s still Yandere.

Word Count: 2,300+

This blog is 17+ please have your age in your bio or tagged; any ageless blog and below the age asked for will be blocked at the end of the week.

plitter-platter, plitter-platter, plitter-platter—

The rain had been pouring for some time now, longer than usual. What could have set him off for so long was still unknown. The drumming of the rain against the window, your head pressed more into it and away from the armrest of the chair, almost as if hoping by sheer luck you’d phase through the glass and be set free. The sound of the rain, once so peaceful, has grown to become nauseating. Ringing in the depths of your ears and into your soul, plaguing as a reminder of the life you now had. When there is nothing to shut it out, it only digs in more into the predicament you’ve been chained to. No more are the cozy aspects of the rain curled up in a family home with food, cooking, and music as the rain danced across the roof or the time with friends running through the storm in attempts to find shelter, laughs filling the air—just you and the room.

Well, the room could be your fault. You weren’t physically chained there— not anymore, but the walls of the home, as big as they were, only served to mock you. Too big of a cage, a labyrinth that could only make the looming fear of loneliness bury itself between your ribs and bloom across your heart. The shadows of people known not to interact with you but their whispers tickling in your ears. Sounds of them adding about their personal lives and families, trips, gossip across Fontaine… all while your days had become mostly kept in silence. No, you’d rather stay in here… just one room that you could build into an escape paradise from the weighing ache the rest brought you—filled with books, a window [that you had spent countless hours fighting with], plush chairs, and per your request some plants. You managed to get your argument across to him on allowing for such necessities; although he liked to remind you what he had given, he could just as much take away. Though you knew his bleeding heart for you, that under it all, he craved the love he one day believed you’d give him. Punishments were honest; you knew that much had been burned into your brain, but it was rare that little things would be a trigger for him to take account less you become too much of a “brat.” Ugh, how easy it was to scoff at that term— treating you like a child having a tantrum compared to the reality of a human stuck in the grasp of the inhuman judge himself.

Sometimes, you wondered what was better; he often was gone. Working, fulfilling a role you had to bite your tongue to denounce him from. If someone couldn’t understand humans, couldn’t understand what drove them to petty crimes and the struggles so many befall, why should he be allowed to make the calls? Judge-free, unbiased… no, that isn’t the way to handle it; you knew the pain of it all weighed down on him, which was something enough [better than doing so without remorse] but didn’t alter the unfair nature of the law. Not when, through it all, you ended up here, a product for his love rather than a participant. But him being gone didn’t change the aching; with the limited interactions, it was only through him the loneliness had a moment to dull. Even if you hated to admit it, you were only human— only able to crave someone to share time with to break the deafening silence of the home. Of the rain. It scared you. To know if he was around more, around enough that your fight to be free would extinguished. You’d lose yourself, complacent in a life you never asked for. If he was home more, would you lose yourself faster, lose the motivation to escape, and become just another wheel in the cog of fate? Or would you have more time to whittle down his defenses and create more openings for means of escape? The thought could only make your heart beat faster, drumming along to the rain, though was it out of fear or excitement? It was hard to tell.

plitter-platter, plitter-platter, plitter-platter—

Breathe fogged up a patch of the window, the cooling glass chilling the chunk of the forehead that was placed against it. The feeling was uncomfortable, both in angle and blooming chills from the material, but not enough to want to move. The rain was still falling, though slowly dying down. He’d be home soon, creeping into the room looking for you just like every night. Days spent on loop, blending more and more into each other. He didn’t mind crying in front of you, often the tears adorning your shoulder or back as he held you close, but he seemed to try to keep the outside world— well outside. He knew it upset you, that it’d turn into some argument, and he’d need to find a reason to punish you for breaking the rules. You often had to bite your tongue, wanting to tell him this is why inhuman creatures shouldn’t have human partners. The gap in communication, feelings and needs was too much. It was killing both of you. You could feel it as he wept, the soft rain showers of him just not understanding, not being able to communicate effectively the motions of his heart.

Two drops lined up just centimeters from your face. The mark of a race, the starting line. It was a time that once was so innocent when you were a kid choosing a random drop and narrating it in your head as you waited for the storm to pass so you could go out and play. ‘Woe is me’ could only be how you thought of it now. Him and you set up for the race— the starting line and… go.

Rolling down the frame and collecting other droplets, their trails jumping and altering in their paths as gravity dragged them down. One pulled into the lead, always him. He was always one step ahead, one smarter and more intuned. Like a kid with their hand in the cookie jar, he always found your new escape attempt and could see through your flowery words of deception. In that sense, you had to admit his role fits him well, but only left the bitter remains of the stems in your mouth when he locked you back up with a ‘you’ll be let out when you learn not to lie.’ It must be something tied to him on a fundamental level, a sense. Or perhaps it was just age, something you could never achieve. You couldn’t count how many times you watched the droplets race, hoping that maybe just once you could be one step ahead, one…

No. Even if you did, where would you go? The melusine were everywhere, and getting out within reach of the court would be a life sentence of punishment. Perhaps solace somewhere in the underground community, but someone likely would sell you out to better favor their outcome. You could break for the border; it’d be brutal and dangerous, a bounty on your head faster than you could imagine. Would other regions even be safe from a runaway? Maybe some other small communities… would become looking for you? Would you have to always stay alert for the rest of your life? Would you have to live alone, fending only for yourself? You’d lose yourself just as much in a life like that, but maybe it was the price of freedom. The price of not playing a role, soul withering away trying to maintain the rules and ideals of something you could never understand. When did your thought become so sorrowful, the fight you once had? A flame extinguished by the rain left only as sparks fumbling to stay lit. Look away, it wasn’t over yet. There had to be good out there, people who could understand, you’d take you in. Life would never be easy again, but it wasn’t over. Not yet.

Lifting your head from the window was always weirdly comforting, the movement restored to your neck and it stretching back into place. The coolness of the glass no longer flushed against your skin, allowing the heat of the room to melt away the temperature. Rest your mind, reset your body. He never minded the long game, maybe as time for him felt infinite. But rushing would only cause holes in a plan you couldn’t keep affording to lose. The storm would pass, and you’d find a way to relight that flame. You couldn’t let him win, and you couldn’t let this system win.

plat, plat, plat…

“My love,” he spoke. He— Neuvillette, was home. The rain had stopped, only some residue drops highlighting the storm moments before. He stood in the doorway, hand holding the frame as his voice reverberated across the silent room. He always waited for you to notice him before entering. Permission didn’t matter, but in a sense, it tended to bring some comfort to know where the dragon lurked. It only took a brief flash of eye contact for him to take it as clearance into entering the room, legs quickly carrying him to your seat.

Neuvillette stood in front of you, pristine and put together; his eyes sharply focused on you, and his neutral expression made him seem more intimating than you knew he was. You had been here long enough as well to see the faint but dried crust of where his tears had pooled down his cheeks from moments just before. It didn’t change the power radiating off him, seeping into the room and over you like a blanket to remind you he was in charge here. Curiosity burned in your stomach, leaping up your throat, wanting you to ask what could have caused him to cry so much.

Gossip regarding the law wasn’t to be taken seriously, but the lack of outside world stimulation always makes the prospects more enticing. It burned in your mind to know what was happening outside of your cage, in the world below. Though asking would only come back to haunt you, the fights that led to punishments burned into your mind and skin even if the physical sides had healed. Not to mention the way he would take it if the words even managed not to set off a disagreement, that you cared. Neuvillette may be blind to human emotions and feelings, but he did have his own set— and that presented as caring for him on the most basic level of touch or tone only worked against you. Solidifying your partnership, your love in his mind.

The silence was always more deafening when he stood before you; that even a breath would break the moment. His hand was delicate, though, floating to your head before wistfully tracing your hair and to your chin. It tickled, enough you wanted to flinch but knew better as he tilted your head to look into his eyes more. Pulling his hand from your face, he held it with his palm up. You knew what he was asking. Take his hand, but don’t look away. Unlike his graceful movements, you didn’t have as much time before his eyes would narrow, a sign of rejection in his eyes— he couldn’t take it. Unlike for humans, you could only assume there was something dormant, something innate that drove the ideas of jealousy, rejection, and the need to isolate on a biological level rather than mental. People could do just the same; you knew this for a fact, but the way he carried it out felt more visceral. Not doing so wasn’t an option; it freed him from his own judgment because nothing could defy the fact of biology.

Your hand moved from instinct; at least, at this point, it was strange to think of how things now were ingrained in you. The movements of hands, replying to questions, from when it was time to sleep and wake up to where you walked through the day. That it just instantly would click, a passive thought or action. Not trained into you but a reflection of your life, how the passing days and routines with him had become a staple in your life. You had changed since then, proof that whatever was to come was inevitable—a mark of fate.

Pulled to your feet, Neuvillette wrapped his arm around your torso, still ghostly with his touches. His face now resting on your hair as he breathed– in and out. The tension in his body released just slightly, but as if you were the answer to what had been weighing down on him. “My love,” he repeated, lips softly tickling the top of your head, “come on. Let’s have dinner.”

The routine of your long day: Neuvillette returns from work to fetch you from your room to a meal before settling into bed together. He’d try to make a convo, and sometimes you’d reply. Other times, he’d focus on reading something, and you’d do the same or just turn your back, hoping he’d get the hint. There was no use in fighting it; the rules layered in stone.

“Okay.”

#genshin.leaps #yandere #yandere writing #yandere x reader #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere neuvillette #neuvillette #neuvilette x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin x reader #tw: yandere #tw: isolation #genshin impact

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imaginethezeldaverse · 8 months

Note

Ahhh I love your work! Every work of yours I’ve read has been absolutely amazing, you write so beautifully. I was wondering if I could maybe request a Revali x reader headcanons of Rito mating season or heat/rut? Have a wonderful day/night as well!

Hmmm okay, I think I can give you a few off the top of my head, sure! Since we're talking about a mating season, I'm going to write reader a female/afab/child-bearing capable perspective, if that's okay. There's a headcanon I have that will involve that aspect (so trigger warning for that too btw - I'll add it in in the tags but just an fyi!) I also added a little mini fic in there for funsies lol enjoy!

It's overwhelming for him. Being with you is the first time his heat has ever truly affected him before, so the experience engulfs the poor Rito man. It's a new experience for you both.

He's scared he'll hurt you - like...actually scared. For as headstrong as he can be and how well he carries himself, he very much is still a hero - and that means no harm comes to people that don't deserve it. Especially you - who he loves so dearly and would give his ability to fly if it came down to it.

His instincts are so strong he almost can't control them this time. There's a sensation in him that needs to breed you - take you over and over until he knows he's successfully put a child in you.

Should you decide to help him, he's definitely not going to be gentle. You'll likely sustain some scratches, rug burn, and a few hickies here from his love bites. He's giving in to inhibition here, running with something more primal and animalistic than either of you are used to. But if that scares you - please heed his warning and leave! He absolutely would not hold it against you.

Afterwards, he's very cuddly and it's then you'll realize that he's made a makeshift nest out of a bunch of soft things he owned: garments, shed feathers, even all of his scarves that he's owned through the years. He'll hold you to his chest (and his heart is beating FAST), his chirps and trills are quiet but against your body you hear him clear as day. It takes a few minutes for him to slip back into a less animal-like frame of mind, so forgive him if he doesn't answer any questions or respond to you coherently right away.

Normally Revali had never had an issue with mating season before recent - without a mate to call his own, the ruts were never something he couldn't handle. However, after falling for you, the creation of an unbreakable bond of love and trust changes things inside him. His Rito DNA senses the deep affection he holds for you and ultimately alters his internal biology to reflect as such. So when mating season comes around, you're both blissfully unaware at first. Until you walk into his hut and find him doubled over. The scent of you hits him right away, and in a very rough, shaky voice he begs you not to come any closer. But you can clearly see that he's sweating profusely, feathers fluffed and tousled. He's disheveled and groaning in what sounds like pain so immediately you're thinking he's injured...or worse.

When you try to approach him again he raises his voice to leave him alone. "Please!" he begs - and the red alarms in your head are blaring because he is not one to beg for anything - "I need you...t-to leave..." his head hangs and his chest heaves as he tries to keep a semblance of his decency intact, "I c-c-can't...pro...tect you..." You look at him confused, protect you from what? There's currently no danger! Scanning the room, you still don't understand. But then you remember, from a book you'd read a while ago that Princess Zelda has lent to you (just so you could understand Rito culture a bit better) - spring always meant mating season. Your eyes connect with the foliage that peeks just outside of Revali's window - an elder tree in full bloom. So Revali was-- "Let me help you," you offer, realizing now why he seemed so pained. You didn't think about the decision, didn't think about the repercussions - all you wanted was for him to no longer be in distress. The black pupils of this emerald eyes withered to slits. His breathing picks up, a few short huffs away from a hyperventilation. With the last shred of coherent thought he could must, he exhaled out, "I'll...hurt...you..."

Perhaps it was your bravery, or maybe your caring, stubborn heart that would shrug off your coat, laying it on the ground before him. Revali watches you through his exasperated panting, the erection in his lower garments straining terribly, though he's trying to hide it. The groan he lets out sends a chill down your own spine when you move to gently cup his beak in your hands. As soon as you understood what was happening, you knew the risk of staying there. "I don't care, Revali...I know what you need..." his feather take on a more purple shade as he flushes, "...And I want to help you."

You barely have time to undo the bodice portion of your dress when your hands release his face and you turn to undress, because he almost immediately pins you down. His rush on your body has you landing a little awkwardly on your chest and stomach, but it's soothed by the sensation of long, soft fingered-feathers caressing your sensitive skin. The Rito's beak pecks everywhere he can reach, even plucking at your sleeves to release more of your skin from your dress. You feel his taloned foot wrap around your ankle, not necessarily doing anything to you other than anchoring you beneath him. His winged digits pinch your nipples to stiffness: the combination of those pulses of electricity and the very obvious hardness poking at your backside have you gasping already.

His rut makes him impatient; you know this as you already feel fingers circling your entrance, half to rile you up further, half to make sure you're ready. But again - Revali is impatient, and so up goes your dress, over your hips. There's brief shuffling behind you and then just as you brace your hand around what would essentially be his wrist, Revali is already spreading your legs and sliding between them. The pressure of him inside of you has you keening, and you're thankful for the little bit of foreplay you were given, making you just wet enough to accommodate him. The wing that toyed with your chest was now crowding around your neck, pulling your body upright and flush against his chest as he took you.

Revali is far less than gentle, the rough huffs and deep chitters falling over your skin as he held you still: one wing wound very loosely around your neck, the other gripping your thigh for purchase. His beak nibbled at whatever flesh he could reach. "Re...valiiiiii" you whined out, breath hitching mid thrust. But he could not hear you, his mind so incensed with fucking you to fullness, more avian than anything else as he slammed his hips into you. Yes, he would bed you multiple times that evening, and in multiple positions no less, spilling his seed so deep inside you, even he wasn't able to get you pregnant - he was surely going to take you like he planned on it.

------

After all is said and done, you eventually wake upon a bed of soft clothes and feathers. As you look down you realize it's shaped meticulously, as though it was made to have a form. It was then you realize his need to mate had him go through all of the motions: including building a nest for his mate. You look up at your Rito Champion, the tufts of his feathers much more relaxed than earlier as he rests. Your fingers gently stroke his beak, and the pleased chirp he lets out warms your heart. His wings wrap around your frame a little tighter; your hands waft through the down of his chest. You've no idea if this means you'll actually conceive or not - but you do know you don't mind in the least. You love Revali entirely, you wouldn't have offered if you didn't, and you're hoping that making love to him through his rut was proof enough. His beak finds your temple, carefully nibble and peck at the strands of your hair as if to preen you - it makes you giggle, his animal instincts still showing out in small ways as he settles down into sleep.

You'd assess any repercussions of his rougher handling when you awoke later, right now it just felt good to be in his arms like this.

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satanwritesfanfiction · 5 months

Text

Paladin Danse x f!reader || Under you || SMUT

Title: Under you

Rating: explicit, smut

Category: f/m

Fandom: Fallout 4

Relationship: reader x Danse (can be read as ss x Danse)

Characters: Danse, reader

Tags/ triggers: smut, pwp, power dynamics in a sense that he outranks her in bos and that's used as a flimsy thread for pwp??, desk time, p in v, doggy, threat of being caught, injury that's basically forgotten halfway through, argument, ooc

Wordcount: 2800

a/n: the first fanfic for fallout and first time writing in a while so its has its issues but we ignore that for the serotonins my boiiii Danse gives me

***

Opening the door to Danse's quaters onboard the Prydwen, you were greeted with his back towards you, broad shoulders covered by his BOS uniform. It wasn't every day you were faced with the realities of him outside of his armour.

However, you didn't look forward to this conversation given how he had left you at Knight-Captain Cade To get stitched up. His disappointment wasn't without merit, you had disregarded that order but with good reason, the civilians were the priority to you, not your own sensibilities of survival or self preservation.

You cleared your throat as you moved your hands to hook at your back. "Danse."You closed your eyes briefly and took a breath. "..Paladin Danse." You stated, keeping the clench of your teeth out of your voice as best you could ad you took the formal route.

He turned to regard you, eyes raking over you in a way that made you feel small before he took a breath.

"Did Knight-Captain Cade clear you?" He inquired, voice void of emotion as the remnants of the battle still courses through him, the images of your body bruised and bloody, the results still shining on the arch of your brow prominently. It's been a few hours and he's kept busy but it lingers on him, haunts him in a way he hadn't anticipated.

"Yes." You stated. "Well after few days rest, its honestly not even that bad Danse." You pulled against your shirt to reveal the stitched wound on your stomach, slight redness to the skin but nothing that would cause any worry. "Few days and I'll be back to kicking ass like I never even left."

Danse stood frozen for a moment, hands tightening ever so slightly at the clipboard he was holding at the sight of the exposed skin, knowing he shouldn't feel this way and much less when it was such an innocent gesture on your part when all you wanted to do was set his mind at ease. But the problem was that he had imagined it, had imagined his hands curled around that very skin, indenstations on your hips, on the smooth skin.

He knew his duties and what should take precedence but thoughts sometimes got a bit jumbled around you, feeling something growing in his chest, movement within in a way he couldn't decipher, anger at your actions and fear at your failures which he could argue was because of his role as your sponsor but he knew there was more to it and he should probably create some distance... but at the same time he had been elated when you asked him to accompany you on your outtings.

"That's.. uh that's good. "he stated, averting his eyes for a moment to think as he cleared his throat. "We still need to discuss your performance on the battlefield today, (Y/n).“ he took on the professional demeanor as he placed the clipboard on a nearby surface.

"I understand." You stated as you moved a few paces in his direction.

"You failed to follow a direct order." He stated. "You know what I told you when I chose to sponsor you. You are my responsibility and I can't have you-" he sighed and ran his hand over his face as he boiled at the thought. "You have a duty to this team."

It was definitely not an opportune moment as you watched him chastise you to feel the warmth in your body, the firmness in his stance, the power as he spoke. The brief flashes of when he carried your body to safety. Your attraction to the man was your own issue to deal with but it always creeps up when you need it the least.

You had imagined it was the lack of action that had you so wanton for the man but after a few nights with your hand between your legs with his name on your tongue and even a few drunken nights in goodneighbour, you had come to the conclusion that there had to be a little more to it than that but even so, the knowledge didn't stop the way you felt weak with his attention solely on you, it didn't stop your gaze from lingering or the butterflies in your stomach as his voice carried within the room.

You swallowed. "There were civilians, Danse. I could not let them be another casualty of war."

"You shouldn't have disobeyed." He stated firmly, brows furrowed as his voice raised slightly. "We would've-"

"They would've died." You interrupted. "You can't expect me to watch that happen when we could-"

He was always softer when it came to you, he knew that, he would wager that you knew it as well. He dismissed and even ignored many actions that might've seemed harsh in anothers eyes but nothing quite like the action he would commit when his lips met yours, a quick action that his mind couldn't quite compute but at the same time he felt vindicated. An entirely unprofessional offense against much of what he told himself and how he arrived to behave but you felt so real with his hands pressed to the side of your face, so soft pressed to his lips, so warm and pliable when you didn't pull away.

"You need to learn your place." He whispered against your lips as he pulled away, hands falling to your hips and pressing into the flesh. So many thoughts circling that were both impure and against the ideals of the brotherhood when it came to subordinates and colleagues.

You bit into your lip as you looked up at him, not quite the place you saw the conversation moving but it was definitely not unwelcome, just surpising and a little distracting with the way his fingers pressed into you, causing your brain to play catch up and wonder if this was real or not and whether you could push forth in the direction you desperately wanted to go.

"Are you gonna show me where that is?“ you whispered, breathe feeling like it was sucked from your body as you anticipated his reaction. Damn the pulsing between your legs that could have you on your knees in front of this man with a mere motion, a mere sliver that he wouldn't reject it.

He was quick to move you after the question, pressing you against the desk and hovering above you as a few small objects from his desk tumbled to the floor.

"Do you want me to?“ he asked, searching your expression for any sign of discomfort, wondering if he read the situation wrong, part of him wanting you to be the one to stop this so he didn't go against any of the bos ideals but hoping to whatever merciless god was out there that you wouldn't.

"Yeah.."you said softly, pushing through some forced confidence as you cleared your throat, meeting his eyes with a new form of what you hoped was seen as assurance. "Yes."

He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear as his eyes stayed trained on you, an act that felt soft and intimate in the way silence fell until his hand slipped into your hair, grip tightening and crashing his lips to yours once more. You gave as fervently as you got, hands pressed to his chest.

His own hand lingered at your chest, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt and easily pulling it over your head and then came the bra, frustration evident as his need for you grew. An array of pushing and prodding as the frustration lingered in veins at the limitation the pieces of cloth supplied.

Finally he manages to push the small piece of clothing from your body to some place on the floor, watching you sit on his desk like this with an expression that anyone would call wanton. His hand cupped your breast in his hand, watching as you worried your lip between your teeth at the action. Softness even in sound when he ran his thumb over the bud.

He had been gentle in the journey to get you somewhat undressed but he hadn't forgotten the comment that lead him here, the boil within his blood at the thought of your actions and the unobstructed sight of the wound now before him. The image of you had not been enough to still the turmoil within him. The kindness he valued in you was the thing that would disregard order and yourself which brought him to this bridge but he could easily show you order, power, even show you your place as he had said. He would not be entirely wrong to say you place was under him but perhaps not in the sense that he would like and would enforce tonight.

He quickly undid the button of your pants, hands wrapping around your hips at a lingering thought, the need growing within him, a grip that lingered but didn't alarm you as he pulled you towards him but then a sudden shift as the direction changed, as he flipped you around, using his body to press you to the desk, hand pressing against against your upper back until you took the position he wanted. The new position added an ache to the wound on your torso, slight hiss that you doubt he even heard.

The desk was cool against your breast, anticipation as you kept yourself pressed to the surface, eyes looking behind at the man and only feeling the anticipation and want grow as his eyes travelled across your body.

"Such disobedience." He murmured as his hands slid down your back, fingers hooking in the waist and of the pants and pulling it over the curve of your ass along with your underwear. "Perhaps I had been too lenient with you." He stated, a tone that didn't quite match the content as his hands spread over your ass and squeezed. He lowered himself over your body, chest ghosting over your back as his lips pressed close to your ear and his own bulge pressing against your back side so temptingly. "I should correct that misstep, shouldn't I. Show you what insubordination gets you." He punctuated the word with the grind of his hips to yours.

You bit your lip as you spread your legs as much as you could given the pants around your thighs limiting your movement. Needing him to touch you in any way he wished, to use your body just as long as he touched you without all the layers between you.

The press of him eased up when he fiddled with his uniform, fighting to pry it from his body as quickly as possible at the sight of your pliable form. He hadn't bothered further than getting it passed his hips. For a moment he was dumbstruck, so many things he wanted but the uncertainty of whether he would get such a perfect opportunity to enact them made him slow to act, pressing two fingers to your entrance and spreading your slick and shallowly pressing into you to test the waters.

A whimper sounded past your lips as you closed your eyes at the feeling. It had been so long since someone else had touched you and though you had the nights where you had came around your fingers at the thought of him, it was miles apart from this, from his warm fingers spreading your cunt.

"That's a good girl."He commented, watching as his fingers disappear into your needy cunt, glistening in the light when he retracted, soft whimpers spilling from your lips and body rocking back against him softly. You were so compliant like this, such a pretty image that he would definitely be revisiting at a later time.

He removed his fingers from you, earning an annoyed sound and a glance back, he couldn't hide his glee at the state he could leave you in but at the same time, he needed to be inside you, needed you to clench around his cock and take him like you were meant to.

His hand wrapped around your hip, the other going to his cock and lining up. He pushed in slowly, groaning at the wetness until he settled, hips pressed to yours. The situation led you to believe he would give the time for you to adjust, he had always been accommodating and he had taken his time with pushing into you but he had other plans, other wants to allowed him to bypass that courtesy.

His hand slipped into your hair and tightened, pressing you to the desk if you just so happen to get any other ideas. His hips snapped, shallowly at first as he got used to the tightness. You cried out at the feeling, the pain that got dwarfed by the pleasure and he quickly pressed a hand over your mouth to silence your cries as he pressed closer to your ear.

"Wouldn't want anyone to come see what's wrong, would we?" He granted against your back, teeth scratching against your shoulder blade as he momentarily slowed his movements. "This is quite the position for a knight to be in."

Your hand wrapped around his wrist as his hips picked up the pace, closing your eyes as you took what he gave, imagining if someone did walk in, perhaps a scribe or Cade or even Maxson, seeing Danse give it to you, perhaps they could corroborate that this was real because it felt like you were floating, like he was splitting your skull in half and all you could do was think about how fucking full of him you felt. Punishment be damned, you needed them to know Danse was fucking you, that he chose you even if just a momentary lapse.

Suddenly he pulled out, flipping you over like you weighed nothing, you bit into your lip at the full sight of him, bare chest and cock at attention. He, on the other hand, had no notions of taking in the moment, taking hold of your legs and pressing them to your chest so he could get easy access to that tight cunt of yours, immediately pressing home at the first opportunity.

You moaned at the feeling, pressing your palm to your lips given his previous comments even with your own voyeuristic fantasies and the need to have him do it, to control every aspect of the situation, to set the perimeter and feel his hand press to the sides of your face as you just laid there and took it.

He could feel his end approaching, hand pressing and prodding at your skin at the thought of losing access, finally lingering at your clit at the thought of you coming on his cock.

"Hold this." He commanded, taking your free hand and wrapping it around your legs. You did as you were told, glossy eyes watching the man before you and then keening when he touched you, thumb rubbing against your clit in fast, tight circles and you knew you were done for.

"Danse.." you cried, hand slipping from your lips as you moaned into the air, neither of you seeming to care at the moment as his hips snapped into you with renewed vigor at the sound of his name falling from your lips. "Please-I.."

"I know." He stated, interuppting your train of thought. "Be a good girl and come for me."

Again, you did as he asked, feeling the warmth spread throughout your limbs as your walls clenched around him. The cry that left your lips would most likely be heard past his door followed by the mantra of his name as you fought through the intense emotion.

He had to fight to keep moving past the the clench of you, giving a few shallow thrusts before he came inside of you, ropes of his come hitting your walls as he stilled deep inside of you with a grunt of your name.

A few moments passed of heavy breathing before he pulled out, watching as his come slipped out of you which he promptly pushed back inside of you with two fingers which elicited a whimper from you.

Coming back to his sensibilities, he retracted from you, softly removing your hand from your legs and setting them to the floor and pulling you to a seating position. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead and pulled your pants back over your hips and then picked you up bridal style, wordlessly. He hoped you were alright, that he hadn't made a mistake by giving into his most base desires for you. He cared for you and he hoped for more than the structure provided under this militarristic life but that was a whole other can of worms.

He placed you in his bed, getting in behind you and wrapping an arm around your middle. He could steal this moment, could he not. If you were to resent him for his actions, at least he could pretend in this moment as you fall asleep pressed to his chest.

#fallout 4 #paladin danse #paladin danse smut #pwp #satanwritesfanfiction #smut #Paladin danse x reader #paladin danse x sole survivor #danse

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tswaney17 · 4 months

Text

Shadow Puppets

For the amazing @leiaamidala!! I'm your Secret Santa this year, and I hope you love cheesy, Elriel fluff! Thank you for being such an amazing person and a wonderful friend. I wish you a year full of happiness and cheer (and confirmation 😘)!! ❄🎄

This fic is based on the artwork linked here.

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Please let me know what you think about this update. I love getting your feedback. Constructive criticism is always welcome. 💕

Trigger warnings: minor language. Mostly tooth-rotting fluff

Word Count: 1,136

This fic will be posted on AO3 only. Read here.

Azriel shadow-walked them to the front door of their home from the River Manor. Typically, he preferred to fly. But with Elain two months from giving birth to the twins, and their adopted Illyrian son, flying became too much of a challenge to do so safely. Especially since Kaden was still learning how to properly fly, having not been taught before he was left at the orphanage, nor during his time spent there.

It was something Azriel could relate to more so than anyone else. That fear of flying becomes ingrained into your mind without realizing it until you’re standing on the edge of a cliff with a looming drop before you.

Kaden had tremendously improved since they began their flying lessons, but he still struggled to maintain himself if caught in a wind draft and Azriel preferred not to have his pregnant wife in his arms should he need to save his son.

So, when it was the three of them—soon to be five, gods spare him��he preferred the easier method of transportation. He still couldn’t believe they were going to be a family of five soon. He didn’t know what he did to be blessed with such a beautiful wife and the most perfect children. Lord knows he had done atrocities for the sake of his court. But somehow, through all the darkness surrounding him, Elain saw the light he never knew was shining inside of him.

A soul to match hers.

~~~~~

Remember, sharing is caring! Please reblog if you liked the fic. It helps spread my work and I truly appreciate it. 💕

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jasntodds · 10 months

Text

Too Heavy | J.T.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Request: @just-lost-inbetween-worlds : Can I get Jason Todd (doesn’t matter which version) with the prompts: bloodied knuckles, wiping the others tears away, as well as crying into their chest. Maybe bloodied knuckles bcs of punching something in a mental breakdown and then the rest happens. Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompts

Summary: Sometimes things get a little too heavy for Jason

Warnings: Angst, blood, mentions of death, mental breakdown, hurt/comfort

Words: 2,802

A/n: I was listening to a lot of Too Heavy by The Plot In You while I wrote this so here we are lol If you wanna be added to my tag list, click the link below, send me an ask, or comment!! You can also follow my library blog @peteprkerlibrary !! If you like this, please reblog it and/or talk to me about it!!

masterlist | request info | tag list

Everyone has bad days. They come and they go. It gets better. It always gets better. But for Jason, his bad days are sometimes so rough and harsh, the world collapses from under him. He falls through the cracks into a black abyss, surrounded by every failure he’s ever had. He falls and falls and falls until he finally hits the bottom and the wind is sucked from his lungs in a hard smack. Leaving him alone in the pitch black coldness. Today is one of those days.

He’s just gotten back from patrol and he was quiet not to wake you. He walks steadily to the bathroom but his thoughts are circling the drain. Every step he takes is like twenty pounds added to his ankles and another thought joins the damned ride. Jason’s chest grows heavy as he finally reaches the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind him.

The worst nights of patrol involve kids and tonight did. It’s always the most innocent of people that get to him. Most nights, he can handle it because it’s part of the job. It’s one of the reasons he puts the helmet on every night. But tonight is different. Tonight is different because it didn’t have the hopeful ending it should have and it’s not fucking fair.

Jason’s hands grip the bathroom counter so hard he thinks he might shatter it in his palms. He almost hopes he does. He looks at himself in the mirror, his back slightly hunched over and he looks hollow. A discarded shell of who he should have been. And he can’t stand it. His head spins while his eyes slam shut and his grip tightens harder against the cool stone.

His chest starts to heave as his breathing quickens. His chest grows heavy and he wants to start ripping out every single one of his organs in hopes it’ll lift some of the weight. The heaviness is suffocating and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think this would be his end.

But he knows better.

And this is the never-ending hell he’s trapped in while the inability to save the kids tonight triggers memories to flood back like overflowing rivers in a flash flood.

There’s the echo of metal on concrete seeping into his blood stream and that menacing laugh that never should be called a laugh beats against his eardrum. The feeling of the panic he felt that day wraps him in a cruel and painful hug as if to be living off of his inability to breathe properly. Images of the Joker and the look on his mom’s face flash across his eyes and he can’t take the heaviness of it all anymore.

The grief he suffers with is nearly paralyzing and it is agonizing. They say grief gets better but when is it that supposed to happen? Because it’s been years and he can’t breathe and he wants to rip his lungs out of his chest just to feel anything other than this. He was just a kid.

Jason was a just a kid.

Tears burn his eyes, one slipping by and sliding down his cheek and he grits his teeth so hard they nearly shatter under the pressure. All he wants is for it all to stop for even a second. He wants one damn second of relief.

He looks up at his own reflection once more and he can see some bruising from last week and he hates it. The white streak in his hair almost seems whiter in the light of the bathroom and he hates it. He hates it. He hates it and he can’t do it. He punches the mirror in a quick motion, just once and it shatters into the sink and over the counter.

“Fuck.” Jason groans because he knows it was loud and he can’t stop the tears now. They’re drenching his face and his breathing is racing, quivering.

Blood spills into the sink as Jason hovers his shaking hand over it. Not a single part of him even cares or pays the stinging any mind. All he can do is try his best to breathe and shake his thoughts away but nothing works. They’re still there. Flashing across his eyes like lightning in the middle of a raging storm.

His legs start to feel weak as if he’s just gotten done running for miles on end. It’s getting harder to stand the more he tries to fight his own breath and thoughts. His head spins and he his stomach turns and twists into gnawing nausea. And he can’t even be bothered to stand anymore because that is just getting too damn hard too. His own body is growing too heavy with every passing thought and he swears that’s some sort of cruel joke.

Jason sits on the floor against the counter, hanging his head and pulling his knees up to his chest. Tears fall down his cheeks and he tries to fight them off with every thought he has but nothing works. They fall anyway, staining his cheeks in a wet mess.

“Jason?” You call from outside the door.

The shattering of glass woke you up and for a few seconds, you thought someone had actually broken in. And you were nearly frozen, stuck thinking if you had a weapon of any sort in the bedroom you could use. But then those seconds faded and you didn’t hear footsteps or shuffling through the apartment. You didn’t hear anything and when you checked the time to see it was after three, you knew.

“Jay?” You call again, knocking on the door gently when he doesn’t answer.

Your groggy voice breaks his heart. He never meant to wake you up.

Jason slides his hands over his face and clears his throat. “Go back to bed, sweetheart.” Jason tries to stabilize his voice but you can hear the weakness and quiver. He’s mastered the art of hiding pain but not disguising the pain of crying.

Taking the knob in your hand, you twist it slowly, gently pushing the door open. You spot Jason still in his Red Hood gear, minus the helmet, sitting on the floor with drops of blood on the floor. He keeps his head hung and his forearms on his knees. You spot blood on his knuckle with open wounds before you see the broken mirror and your heart just breaks for him.

You step in slowly and cautiously as if moving too quickly will make him dissolve right into the floor. “Hey,” You crouch down beside him, tilting your head to try and get a look at his face that’s covered by his messy hair. “What happened, Jay?”

“I’m fine.” Jason forces the words from the back of his throat and he hates how weak they sound.

You don’t like the answer because anyone who’s fine doesn’t break a mirror. Anyone who’s fine doesn’t sit on the bathroom floor at three in the morning with bloody knuckles crying. He’s not fine but Jason has never been very good at admitting to anyone when he’s not. He’d rather drown than ask for a life preserver.

You move in front of him, sitting on your knees. You reach out cautiously, putting your hands on his wet cheeks. Jason’s eyes shut down hard with your touch and you’re so gentle with him. Why? What’s he done to deserve it?

You pick his head up softly and Jason lets you. His eyes are bloodshot as he looks at you. His pretty blue eyes are now a haunting shade of navy, like the sky over the ocean in the middle of hurricane. Why does the world treat him with such cruelty?

“Please, go back to bed.” He nearly begs you because you shouldn’t have to deal with all of his trauma.

It’s not fair for you to lose sleep over him. He swears you shouldn’t and you don’t deserve it. All he wants is to be alone with his grief. If anyone has to suffer what he went through, it has to be him. It can’t involve you. Not you.

But you’re stubborn and that thing in your chest beats endlessly for him.

You can see his chest moving harshly with every breath and he might be Red Hood but he was Jason Todd first. A kid trying to survive the best he could. A kid who just wanted to learn and be a kid. Smart mouth and relentless as hell. But a kid no one looked out for. Red Hood looks out for so many people, but who’s supposed to look out for Jason Todd?

“Please, I’m fine.” Jason voice finally cracks as a tear escapes his bottom lid. “Just go to bed. I’ll be there a minute.”

You move your hands from his cheeks and he thinks, for a second that for once, you might actually listen to him. And he’d be lying if that didn’t hurt, too. But, it’s you and you were never very good at following his instructions even on good days so you move closer to him and stretch out your arms.

“Come here, Jay.” Your voice is soft, etched in worry and love.

He’s reluctant at first because he knows if he does, he’ll lose it entirely. Every piece of him that’s been able to hold in a sob will finally crack and that’ll be it. But he sees the worry in every tired line of your face and you always look so inviting.

“I’m worried about you. Please.” You plead with him, your voice cracking with a mix of tiredness and sadness. And Jason can’t hold it in anymore because you’re worried about him.

Jason moves his legs and moves closer to you, resting his head against your chest because at his point, it’s all too heavy for him to even try for a proper hug. And folding into you seems a hell of a lot easier for everyone. You wrap one arm around his side and rest your other hand in his hair. And just like he breaks.

A sob rips through his throat, echoing through the bathroom and you have to swallow the lump that forms in your throat. He shakes against you, sliding his hands to your back and holding onto your shirt. His grip is tight as if he’s stuck between thinking you’ll disappear if he lets go or that he’ll disappear if he does. Your hand runs through his hair and you try to console him, knowing there isn’t much that can help at this point. But you try by playing with his hair and whispering softly to him despite your own heart aching and breaking for him.

Tears brim your own eyes as you hold him against you. If you could, you would claw out your own heart and replace his with yours. Maybe that would help some of his agony. Maybe that would make his pain a little more tolerable. Maybe if you could swap out your hearts, you could take some of his pain away. You’d do it if it meant he wouldn’t suffer so much.

Minutes tick by and his breathing is still harsh against you but the sobs have slowed. His grip is still iron-tight on your shirt and all Jason wants is for the world to stop spinning. He wants the aching in his chest to stop and he wants everything around him to stop feeling so damn heavy.

You pick his head up, cupping his cheeks in both hands again. His cheeks are tear stained and you swear you’ve never seen him look so broken before. Your thumb awipe over his cheeks, brushing the tears away gently.

Jason nearly shudders with the action.

“It’s okay, Jay.” You assure him and your voice is strained as if begging him to believe you.

“It’s fucking not.” He sputters, his brows pulling together and you can see him clench his jaw. “It’s all shit and those kids deserved fucking better.” His breath is hot, boiling on your skin as he seethes. And you know what lead him here tonight.

He told you. Right to your face he told you he died. He left out the gory details of it all for your own sake but you know he was just a kid. And you know why he was there and about the Joker. He was just a kid.

“Kids?” You questions and you know Jason always has a bad night when it involves kids.

“Forget it.” He lets out a scoff because he doesn’t want to talk about it. You don’t need to know the details.

“Hey, no.” You shake your head, eyes scanning over his face as your brows pull together. “I’ll listen all night, okay? I won’t ask anything if you don’t want me to, okay? You can talk or not. But, you’re gonna be okay.” Your eyes lock with his and he wants to believe you.

But he also knows he’ll back here again. He always comes back here. Haunted. The ghost of who he was then and the ghost of who he should have been follow him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to shake them as much as he wants to.

He places his hands over yours and you can’t help but notice how big his hands are whenever he does this. “Just so damn sick of it.” His voice is rough and exhausted.

“I know.” You nod with understanding.

You’ll never be able to understand how he feels or what he goes through but you try. And you see it across his face. You see it in the way he turns in his sleep, when he actually gets sleep. You see it in the way he’s always observing everything around him, always on guard. And you can see it in the way he is with his weapons, there’s always at least two weapons on him at any given moment. As much as you want to understand exactly what goes on inside of his head, you won’t but you can see it. So, you try your best to help and just be there in capacity he’ll let you.

“Why don’t we get you in the shower? I’ll wash your hair, clean up your hand, and we can get into bed? I’ll rub your back and you can tell me what happened if you want. Or I can read to you until you fall asleep.”

He’s almost always reluctant when it’s been bad. He never thinks he deserves the kindness and care you offer to him. On good days, he can accept it. It’s something he struggles with still because no one ever been so kind and careful with him before. So, it’s hard but on good days, he finds it easier to accept. But on bad days, like these, he’s reluctant because if he can’t see the good himself, why should anyone else? But he looks at your eyes that glossy with worry and you give him this look that makes him feel like he’s been put under a microscope. And you would do anything for him.

“Thanks.” He mutters, taking your hands away from his face. “I got it.”

“I know.” You nod your head. “I want to.” You smile gently at him, tilting your head slightly to the right. “You’re not alone, ya know?” You assure him because you think it must be lonely dealing with everything he goes through. “I got you.”

He knows. As hard as it is for him to accept the care and kindness you offer him, he knows because he notices everything. He notices how he always wakes up with a blanket on him when he falls asleep on the couch and the way you always have his favorite protein bars on hand even though you don’t like them. You’re the one missing sleep when you have work in the morning to sit on the bathroom floor with him. It’s hard to accept sometimes and he gets in his own head about it sometimes, but at the end of the night, he has you.

And you’ve always had a way of lifting some of that weight for him, maybe without even trying.

“Okay.” Jason finally agrees, still a hint of reluctance in his voice.

You get to your feet and offer him your hand.

He almost chuckles because you can’t actually help him from the floor. But he takes your hand in his anyway, getting to his feet. You look up to him with gentle eyes before closing the distance between the two of you and wrapping your arms around him as tight as you can.

It takes a few seconds before you feel Jason relax under your hug and his arms come around your waist. His chin lays on the top of your head and he feels like he can breathe a little better now.

When things get a little too heavy, at least he has you to help lift some of the weight.

Tag list: @jasontoddsmentaldisorders // @purplerose291 // @lovelessamai // @makaelaseresin // @lenidaslenchen // @mayfieldss // @ghostkingblake // @dgraysonss // @im-done-with-this-im-out // @velvetskies // @vivian-555 // @kebonita // @deyja-the-duck // @jasontoddslover // @captainmarvels-blog

#jason todd x reader #jason todd fanfic #jason todd fanfiction #red hood x reader #red hood fanfiction #dc fanfiction #dc fanfic #dcu fanfiction #dcu fanfic #jason todd one shot #badthingshappenbingo

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wandering-winchesters · 1 year

Text

Not A Demon In Hell

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,173

Summary: The reader is taken by a Djinn and the turmoil that follows.

Trigger Warnings: Swearing, mention of death, injuries

AN: Requests are open! Please send them to me. If you’d like to be added to my tag list, please let me know!

Masterlist

Guilt, anger, fear. These are the emotions flowing through my veins as I pace in the confined space of the motel room. Guilt, because she is missing. Fear, because I could not stand the thought of something happening to her. Anger, because whatever took her, was going to have hell to pay. My fists clench and unclench, my body so filled with adrenaline that my hands have gone stiff and cold.

I could faintly hear Sam on the phone with Bobby, discussing what had happened and what they think could have done it. But I cannot listen, the only thing I can do is pace. If I sit down, or stop to dwell on it I will go crazy. I will break anything or hurt anyone if it means getting her back. My body is on fire, like a live wire sparking on the ground. Every muscle amped, every sense heightened. Ready. Waiting.

“Dean.” Sam said softly, jerking me out of my thoughts. I did not respond, just pause in my steps and look over at the younger Winchester. Sam sighs, his brow creased, the bags under his eyes nearly as bad as my own.

“Bobby and I talked, we think it is a Djinn.” Sam’s words echo around my head, every second it repeats it distorts and grows louder. Djinn. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end, goosebumps spread quickly over my skin. Those ugly bastards. The memory of the one that had me, chilled me to my core. What hallucination did it have her locked up in. Was she scared? Was she alone? Did she think I had abandoned her? Where had we encountered the Djinn? I had not let her out of my sight this whole trip, we had been together the whole time, except...

"The bar. Sam, the bar." My voice is soft at first, rising steadily as I recall when, and where we were. "I left her to go get another beer, the Djinn must have been there and poisoned her!" I curse, clenching my hands into fists again, to keep from punching a new hole in the motel wall.

"Where would it take her?" I question, mostly talking to myself. I resume my earlier pattern of pacing, every second I waste feels like an eternity. How long had she been gone? How long had she been in pain? How long until that Djinn drains her entirely? He did not know.

"They tend to like caves, are there any cave systems nearby? We should start there." Sam says, already pulling out his laptop to search for whatever he could find.

The next hour passes so slowly, every minute dragging out longer than I thought possible. The level of fear and anxiety running through my veins, something I had not felt in a very long time. Maybe never, before this terrible day. Y/N is my best friend, there is nothing in this world I would not do to keep her safe. Keep her earthside. This is all my fault.

We had met as children, on one of the numerous occasions dad was out of town and left me to take care of Sam. The same night that the Shtriga came for Sam. She had been at the arcade, entranced by the same game that I had snuck away to play. The one that almost cost Sam his life, if my dad had not come home just in time.

I kept her at arm's length for a long time, unable to trust anyone besides Sam and my father. But she just kept showing up, she would not give up on me and I just could not figure out why. I eventually stopped resisting and slowly, overtime grew to love Y/N. Platonically at first. Over the years, we grew closer. I shared every aspect of my life with her that I could, leaving out the demons. I did not want her to think I was crazy, but deep down I really did not want her to worry about the monsters that plague my nightmares.

It was not until her parents died, an accident that I was trying to prevent. One of Sam's visions predicted it. But we didn't get there fast enough. It was then, that I told her everything. I spared no detail, fully expecting her to scream at me, tell me never to talk to her again. Y/N listened, absorbed every word, her face passive. When I finished telling her everything, what happened to mom, where I had been all of those years, why I was always travelling, what happened to her parents, I quieted. I did not dare to look up from my shaky hands.

She simply crossed the room and hugged me. Telling me that she had known something was different about me all along, and that she was grateful for someone like me, keeping others safe.

It was not long after this that she brought a case to Sam and my attention, begging for us to let her tag along. Since she was the one that did the research. I finally caved, after days of her calling and texting, she finally showed up at the door to our motel. How could I have turned her away? We were all she had left, Sam and myself.

I have known, since that night when I told her everything, that I loved her as more than a friend. I just could not bring myself to cross that line. She meant too much to me to risk losing her all together if the feelings were not reciprocated. I would rather have her in my life in a strictly platonic capacity, then not at all.

"I found it, Dean. There." I am jerked back to reality by Sam, sliding his laptop across the table and pointing to a cave system. Twenty minutes north of where we currently were.

"Lets go."

We wasted no time, grabbing the gear we would need to send this bastard back to hell. Hopefully never to return. Sam drives, which is probably a good decision. The adrenaline at an all time high as we near the caves. I am silently praying that Y/N is there. Begging any God or Angel that might exist to keep her alive, just a little while longer.

"We are going to find her, Dean." Sam says, his foot pressing the accelerator to the floor. Driving as fast as he possibly can, the need to get to Y/N just as important to Sam as it is for me.

Time is still dragging, but we eventually pull up to the spot that Sam thinks to have an entrance to the cave system. We hurriedly jump out of the Impala, wasting no time to rush into the woods.

Her flannel, rain soaked and torn is laying a few feet in front of me. A sharp punch in the face. She was here. She has to be close still. Sam sees it at the same time and nods, a silent understanding. We both approach the spot and see the entrance to the cave.

"We're comin' sweetheart." I whisper, following Sam into the darkness. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust, not wanting to use a flashlight and give away our location to the Djinn. It is relatively easy to navigate, the cave not nearly as big as the map had made it out to be. I am grateful, if it had been any longer I might have gone crazy. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest, reverberating in my ears to the point where I cannot hear the gravel crunching under my soft footsteps.

We walk as quickly, but as quietly as we can. Finally reaching an opening in the cave, wooden beams formed a rough structure within. Rope dangles down from the cross beams, loops tied in the ends. Bastards. This was definitely a Djinn. The question still remains, where is it? My grip tightens on the silver knife in my hand, the lambs blood still dried on the blade.

I turn the corner and all the air is knocked out of my lungs. Y/N. She's there, her wrists strung up above her head. Limp, Pale, sweaty and covered in bruises, but she’s breathing. In that moment, nothing else matters. I rush across the cave, my senses overwhelmed. The only sound I can hear is my heart thumping in my chest. I wrap an arm around her waist, hurriedly cutting the rope that is suspending her in the air. Her body slumps against my own, I cradle her close one hand on her back the other gently grasping the back of her neck. I brush her hair back from her face, wiping away dirt and sweat in the process.

“Y/N, sweetheart, it’s me. I’ve got you” I whisper, pressing my lips to her forehead. She’s so cold. It’s at this moment that I hear Sammy yell out a warning, my eyes snap up, locating the danger that is present. I lean Y/N up against the nearest wall, quickly stepping in between her and the Djinn that had made a sudden appearance.

“Hey, asshole!” I yell, the anger returning full force, flooding my senses. He grins, and charges full speed towards me. I grab the handle of the knife that I had sheathed, in order to hold Y/N. A fact that he fails to notice, running straight into the outstretched blade.

“Lambs blood, very useful.” I twist the blade as I speak, wishing I could have made him suffer longer for what he had done to Y/N. The Djinn falls to the floor and a small wave of relief washer over me.

“Dean.” I hear her say, a whisper, barely heard over the adrenaline pumping through me. I turn around on my heel, immediately walking back over to her. Dropping down onto my knees, I cradle her in my arms once more.

“I’m here, sweetheart. You’re okay. I’ve got you. I promise.” She looks up at me, her eyelids fluttering, exhaustion sweeping across her face.

“Am I dying? I thought I was dying, we were together in my.. my dream? It was weird, things were different-“ she stutters, confusion overwhelming her features. The grip she has on my T-shirt increasing.

“No,” I interrupt her, “no, you’re not dying. You’re okay, I’ve got you now.”

Back at the motel I insisted on patching her up myself, ignoring all of her firm protests. I couldn’t bear to let her out of my sight. Every bruise and cut, every scrape and mark on her skin hurt me as if they were my own injuries. She sat, on the counter in the small motel bathroom, the scent of antiseptic overwhelming my senses. Her eyes swollen from tears, lips trembling, brows drawn together in a heartbreaking manner.

“I don’t know how it happened De, one minute I was with you and the next, I was just gone.” She whispers, shivering slightly as I cleaned another gash I had found on her ribs.

“I know, sweetheart. Im so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight, I never will again. This is all my fault.” I drop the antiseptic wipe in the trash and pull her into my chest. I wrap my arms around her as tightly as I dare, not wanting to hurt her any further. She relaxes against me, her hands gripping the back of my shirt pulling me even closer. I can feel her trembling, fear and anxiety still coursing through her veins.

“It’s not your fault De, you found me. I knew you would. I knew you’d never let me die. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

Her words cut me to my core. Now that I have the time to reflect on everything that had happened tears sting the corners of my eyes. How close I had come to losing her, the fear that she had experienced. Everything came flooding over me at once.

“There’s not a demon in hell that could keep me from you, sweetheart.” She sighs, wrapping her arms around my waist and slipping her hands under the hem of my shirt.

“Y/N, I can’t keep pretending here.” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “This may be terrible timing, but I love you Y/N. More than anything in this world, or the next. I love you.” I can’t bring myself to look at her, keeping my eyes trained on my reflection in the mirror behind her.

Her hands find my face, tilting my chin down towards her own. My eyes flutter closed as she presses light kisses over my chin, the corners of my lips, my jaw until finally, slowly. She presses a soft kiss to my lips. Her fingers gently stroking the sides of my face.

“Dean Michael Winchester, I love you, too.”

AN: Requests are open! Please send them to me. If you’d like to be added to my tag list, please let me know!

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #deanwinchesterblurb #deanwinchesterxreader #spn #supernatural #supernatural dean #dean x reader #dean winchester fic #deanwinchesterfluff #dean winchester comfort #dean winchester fluff #dean x you #wanderingwinchesters

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paracosmic-murdock · 10 months

Text

Tell me what are my words worth ; Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Chapter 2: "Oeillets, coquelicots et saphirs"

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: While the other ladies have grown with the mindset of marrying and having children, you, as the daughter of a man who wanted a son, grew up being both. You learnt how to embroider, play the pianoforte, fence and manage the estate. However, there were some things that not even the Duke of Burgundy could do, so after he passed and you thought there was nothing left for you, you decided to move to London for a while and go to the Royal Academy of Art.

Nothing was going to keep you from what you wanted, and you would do whatever it takes: you would lie to everyone, you would live to death, you would pretend to be a man. You had a plan and it would be a piece of cake for you. But again, when has something that she wants and should not do easy for a woman? Especially when a man like Benedict Bridgerton gets in the way in more ways than one.

Warnings/tags: idiots in love, eventual smut, love triangles (but not really), lgbtq+ themes, bisexual benedict bridgerton, feminist themes, historical inaccuracy (for the sake of the plot), inspired by mulan (1998), song: the lakes (taylor swift), other tags to be added

Chapter summary: The Royal Academy of Art was your dream, and you were finally there. Even though the main purpose was to get your portrait painted by the artist of your choice—whose charm drove you to that decision—, you took the opportunity to make it your first day of Art School.

Word count: 2.4K

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"Lady Y/N, are you aware of what could happen if you get caught?"

You sighed. "Antoinette, I appreciate your concerns, but nothing will happen."

"Nothing will happen until it happens, the less protection you have, the more careful you must be… And with your father gone, who is going to take care of you?"

"I can take care of myself, I don't need a man to protect me," you answered, wondering why you didn't change her as your maid before. She was the voice of consciousness in your life, was what your father had said when you considered it first. "The only thing a man is good at is being the epicenter of every problem that has ever existed. Forgive me for only wanting one of those hideous beings to be worthy of me."

Antoinette snickered. "Love… you talk about it all the time, do you not? Once you fall in love, you will change your mind and make some sense."

"I do not need a man I am in love with, perhaps loving in a non-romantic way… As long as I can trust him with all that I have, all that my cousin's life is not long enough for him to touch, I think it would be enough."

"You might as well find that man in Art School and he will not like you if you look like another man."

You laughed. "I cannot marry an artist! Lady Carrington advised me not to, and I must follow her recommendations. Also, I will be saying that I have a twin who happens to be an elegant, dazzling, funny and beautiful young lady."

"Anything you say, my Lady." She rolled her eyes.

"I'm so excited!"

She curved her lips, internally not hating it entirely. Deep down, she admired your determination and the way you always end up making the most out of every difficulty.

Astounding was the way that a situation triggered your impulsiveness. On this particular occasion, a conflict at the Château made you send a letter to your godparents, steal clothes from your cousin—who is strangely your same size—, and run away to England. Antoinette knew she could not do a thing about it and that her job was to comply with your every wish.

"Are you ready, dear?" Lord Carrington asked as he saw you reach downstairs.

"Yes!" you exclaimed. "What will we do today, Lord Carrington?"

He shook his head in amusement. "I will accompany you to a classroom full of our most promising artists and have one paint you… Then, I shall leave you to explore the Academy by yourself, I am certain that you will have the time of your life."

The widest of smiles shone on your face as you hurriedly followed him to the carriage.

Your path was full of chit chat, nothing too interesting as your mind was set on your plans for the day.

When you arrived, you could not do much but look around, mesmerized.

Since you were a child, you wished to go to school, to university, and while your father used to indulge in your ideas and wishes, there were certain things not even a duke could have done.

He did hire a different educator for each of your diverse interests: languages, art, literature, history, astronomy, music, fencing, or archery. He taught you himself how to manage the winery, your properties, your fortune, a thing or two regarding mining, and the value of every single thing in life.

There were life lessons, advice, and love every day you spent together, and you would always be thankful for that.

When you finally got to the classroom, you encountered about half a dozen gentlemen in a semicircle, painting a woman sitting naked in the center of the circle.

You looked to another spot, any, as your only way to show respect to her.

"Will they… paint me like that, too?" you asked your godfather, and he chuckled.

"Do not even consider that idea, dear. It will be a portrait of you just the way you are right now."

You snickered nervously for a moment.

"Look at their work, my Lady," he ordered. "Then, pick whomever's you like best and we will have him painting you."

You did as he told you, lying eyes on a particular man. His work was interesting, remarkable even.

You correctly guessed that he was new to the Academy as his strokes lacked perfect precision. You did not care.

You did not look at any other's work, you just decided that was the man who would paint you. There was just something about him and about the way your heart jumped when he locked eyes with you for the first time.

So you made a gesture at Lord Carrington, who dismissed the model and every other artist in the room, leaving only you, him, the artist you chose, and your maid.

"Mister," Lord Carrington called for his attention, not knowing his name he just opted for the safest option. "Here is my goddaughter, Lady Y/N. She picked you to paint her portrait."

"I… Yes, of course, Lord Carrington."

He nodded. "I'll leave you to it."

You smiled at the unknown man with those glorious ocean eyes. "I am Y/N, enchantée."

"Benedict," he stopped himself when he noticed you didn't say your surname or present yourself with any title. "Are you French, my Lady?"

"Oh, what gave it away?"

He wrinkled his nose. "I have no idea, you look like someone who loves to walk through des rues de Paris. It could also be the accent, or perhaps introducing yourself saying enchantée, that is very French."

"You also speak French in Monaco, Belgium…"

"Are you Belgian or…"

"No, but still."

Benedict laughed, putting aside the halfway painted canvas of the naked woman, and taking an empty one. "So, French?"

"Yes, French."

"The color of your dress is one of my favorites," he commented with a smile, looking at you attentively as he mixed paints to come up with the perfect shade. "And the jewels contrast perfectly with everything."

The apricot orange silks of your dress did contrast perfectly with the necklace, gold accompanied by diamonds and carrying the bluest sapphires brought directly from the Americas.

"Almost as if I had chosen it on purpose knowing I was going to be painted by a skilled artist."

"I am flattered, my Lady."

You smiled, seeing as he started painting you. "You can call me by my name when no one is around."

"You as well." he agreed with a lopsided grin.

Slightly crooked teeth formed a smile that resembled the waxing crescent moon.

"So, Benedict… How long have you studied in the Academy?"

"Just a few weeks," he replied. "Does my poor experience show?"

"I picked you, and not precisely for your charm," you answered with a flirty smile. "Okay, perhaps I did! But I wouldn't want to embarrass you."

"How could I possibly have charmed you with a single glance?" he questioned with faux confusion.

"You underestimate yourself, it seems."

"It's part of my charm, if you must know."

He was the most enchanting individual you have ever encountered, and during the hours filled with fun small conversations in which you got to know each other, you regretted everything you told Antoinette about men.

It was wonderful that he never asked you for anything private, as if he knew which questions you would answer or not in advance.

"Do you come from a big family?" Benedict asked.

You shook your head. "Not really."

"Siblings?"

"Uh… one, my twin," you rushed to answer. "You?"

"Seven."

You gasped. "Seven?!"

"My parents used to have a lot of spare time or so it seems."

"I can't imagine how difficult it must have been to give birth and raise eight children!"

"It was hard work, I am sure."

"You looked like you were trouble, were you not?" you joked.

"What is there in me that screams trouble?" Benedict inquired, pretending to be offended.

"Everything, I should know."

He hummed. "What does that even mean, Y/N?"

"Make a guess."

"I could never."

"Then live under the shadows of ignorance, Benedict."

You both laughed, but as soon as you noticed his eyes locked on you, you returned to a neutral look.

"Wait, go back to that smile!" Benedict pleaded, and after a few seconds, you managed to. "That surely is a smile worthy of my first portrait."

"Oh, am I your first?" you questioned funnily, ignoring Antoinette's knowing look she threw from afar.

He chuckled loudly. "That sounded terribly not lady-like. Never say anything as such in front of Lord Carrington."

"I will take the advice," you answered. "But does it bother a gentleman like you?"

"On the contrary, I find it quite diverting."

"That is good since I said it to you."

He was finished, it took him a few hours, but you would approve of a conversation as such to last days, even. "It's done, come here."

You ran to him, looking at the painting he did of you smiling happily, which was uncommon for a portrait in the current days.

"It is perfect." You smiled, being closer to him than you had anticipated.

He smirked, and you could not help but melt under his glance. "I am glad you liked it."

"I, uh… must go, but you know what? I will have my brother find you and befriend you. He will study here."

"Are you artists, too?" Benedict asked.

"Uh…, no, not really," you answered. A lie. "He is the talented one, an artist if you have ever seen one, though not formally educated. And I am more inclined to literature."

"I believe you and my sister would be an insufferable pair."

You laughed. "Are you calling me insufferable? How disrespectful of you!"

"My apologies," he excused himself jokingly, standing up. "I hope I see you again, Lady Y/N."

"I hope so, too." You curved your lips.

He nodded and left you alone in the classroom.

"My, my…" Antoinette shook her head. "Not even a day has passed and you will have to eat your words."

"I will not eat anything, I was just being respectful."

"Respectful? Introducing yourself with only your Christian name is not respectful in the slightest, my Lady!"

"Oh, do not make a fuss out of this… One day people will introduce themselves with only their names, so I am just… a lady ahead of her time."

Antoinette sighed at your impertinence, giving you the clothes she carried in the suitcase. "Get changed before anyone comes in."

You did so, taking off your dress firstly and undoing the small, neatly combed, bun in your hair after. The corset was still on, and you took a piece of fabric that was in the suitcase and wrapped your cleavage with it. Antoinette helped you, and even though you could not properly breathe, you were happy.

Your cousin's attire fit you well enough, and you had at your disposition a pair of shoes your size. The diamonds and sapphires in your collarbones were quickly discarded, and ended up in the deepest pockets.

You tied your hair in a slipshod low bun, looking at Antoinette with a smile.

"Hello!" you exclaimed with a more grave voice and a sharper French accent, making her snort. "I am Mr. Voclain, enchanté."

"I am not sure men introduce themselves or, in general, act that way."

You clicked your tongue. "How would I know?"

"You live with one."

"My cousin does not count."

"How does he not?"

"He just doesn't, Antoinette, stop asking me questions!"

She sighed annoyed. "Clean up your face, you look like a woman."

You wrinkled your nose and did as you were told. "Go hide somewhere until I am done, alright?"

"Wait, that is not how a man stands!"

"It's not like I want to attract a lady's attention," you murmured. "Nor a man's."

Antoinette gave you a pointed look. "What is your name, my Lord?"

"Is it not too ambitious to call myself Lord?" you asked, rehearsing the masculine voice you would have to use. Antoinette shook her head. "Alright, I am Lord…" you paused for a few seconds, not knowing what your name would be until it occurred to you. "Antoine Voclain!"

"Antoine?"

"Antoine as in my loyal maid Antoinette who always supports me without complaint," you explained sarcastically. "Aren't I a handsome gentleman?"

"Do not get too confident over there, remember the things you said about them."

"Well, I am one of them now, so count me as a hideous being, too."

Antoinette was your age, a year or two older if anything. She acted as if she had twice that experience in life, a thing she took from her mother, who was your Mama's maid. Antoinette's mother was initially against you leaving for London, but knew there was nothing she or anyone could do or say to stop you from doing whatever was the thing that you pleased.

She sighed and left the classroom on her way to the carriage, leaving you in there alone with only your suitcase next to you.

There were all sorts of things. You arranged in a vase many flowers you found: carnations and poppies. The blue of the sapphires would contrast with the red hues of the flowers, but you kept the necklace only as a guide in your hands. You took fruits as well so you could eat meanwhile, not caring for their actual purpose.

You did not realize when the classroom got full of other men who joined you in painting the flowers on each of their individual canvases.

Different techniques and colors could be seen, though yours shone brighter as it came from an unfamiliar face with no formal artistic education.

Once you were finally finished, your hands and arms and even your face were stained of paint, you looked around and noticed the many other men who had joined you. You saved the jewels in your pocket again and did not leave until the 'Bourgogne' signature was there.

No one asked questions as you left, if you got a glance or two it would be saying too much. You walked out of the classroom and paced for a couple minutes until you saw a bathroom miraculously empty.

You cleaned yourself until there was no trace of paint in your skin, then left and looked for an empty classroom for more than you are willing to admit. Once you finally did, you got changed and quickly ran through the halls to try to find your godfather.

"Lady Y/N, why the hurry?"

"Oh, Lord Carrington… I was looking for you!" you exclaimed, fixing your hair.

"Shall we return home?"

You nodded eagerly.

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fanfiction

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