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navybrat817 · 4 months

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How often does Dad!Bucky get hit on when he's in the baby aisle grabbing diapers?

A lot, Cia! And you get to see it one day.

The Dad Diaries: Diaper Aisle

Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: You witness a woman flirting with Bucky, but you don't react the way you expect. Word Count: Almost 1.2k Warnings: Fluff, flirting, reflecting, first time dad, slight feels (it's me), parenthood, random woman thirsty for Bucky (we get it), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning and a dad, okay?). A/N: Next part of The Dad Diaries and from your perspective. Hope you lovelies enjoy. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky doesn’t like to make a big deal out of people flirting with him. For starters, he’s a married man and has made it clear that he has no intention of ever stepping out on you. He would never. You are his wife and soulmate, the love of his life, and the mother of his child. You’re all he needs.

Second, he’s unassuming. You tell him regularly how handsome he is, but he isn’t arrogant about his looks and doesn’t think every woman who looks his way has the intention of hitting on him. He may give a polite smile or nod if he catches someone staring, but will immediately divert his attention back to the task at hand, such as getting those diapers for Jamie.

Fatherhood is sexy on him.

“Your Dada is amazing,” you say to Jamie as you wait beside your cart for Bucky to grab the box.

You smile to yourself when a woman nearly runs her cart into the shelving when Bucky walks past. Not that you blame her for staring. With his luscious locks flowing free, his worn jean jacket fitting like it was made for him, and the sweatpants leaving little to the imagination, you would’ve gawked at him, too.

Which you did earlier and were now.

“Excuse me,” the woman calls out loudly, making Bucky pause as he puts the box under his arm. “So sorry to bother you, but would you mind grabbing a jar for me off the top shelf? I would really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he says, giving you a small smile from across the aisle as he goes to help the woman.

You wait patiently as the lady thanks him with a grin. You get why she wants Bucky close by. Beyond his overall gorgeousness and kindness, he displays a responsible side of himself when he walks through the baby aisle. He never carries himself in a way that says he’s annoyed or inconvenienced by being there. Carefully selecting the diapers and anything else needed shows how attentive he is. And responsible.

You understand the appeal.

Though, you do wish the lady would stop undressing your husband with her eyes. You practically hear her inhale when he’s close enough. He does smell good, but does she have to step into his space?

“This one?” Bucky asks.

The woman has to blink a few times before she responds. “Oh, sorry. The one next to it. You really are too kind,” she answers, sweeping her gaze over him from head to toe as he reaches over for another jar. You have to bite the inside of your cheek when she takes it from his hand. “It’s too bad you can’t help me bring this stuff in when I get home.”

Yeah, it is too bad.

Clearing his throat, Bucky nods in your direction. “Well, my son might miss me if I’m away for too long. And I’ll miss him and my wife.”

The woman goes rigid as she looks your way. “Your wife?”

Bucky smiles from ear to ear when you wave. “Yeah, my wife,” he proudly states, making your heart skip a beat.

Any jealousy or bad feeling you have slips away when you see some of the light leave the woman’s eyes and the sag in her shoulders. It’s almost like seeing her in a different light because you know how you’ve felt since giving birth. At times, you feel less attractive than normal, that your body won’t be the way it used to be. You wonder if Bucky still wants you.

And you want to be seen.

While you don’t know her story, you understand the need to feel wanted and desired. It doesn’t go away when you become a mother. You don’t even know if she is a mother or if she’s in the aisle shopping for a sister, friend, or someone else. Maybe her partner isn’t giving her the attention she needs. Maybe she isn’t with anyone.

Maybe she just needed a win today.

“Take care,” Bucky says politely before he walks toward you, leaving the woman alone to stare after him. “Anything else we need?” He asks once he puts the diapers on the bottom of the cart, giving Jamie a small tickle and making all three of you smile.

“I think we’re good,” you say, glancing down the aisle. You could grab Bucky’s hand and stake your claim as the woman makes eye contact with you, but you give her a small nod and a sympathetic smile instead before you push the cart away. “That was nice of you to help her,” you say once you’re out of sight.

Bucky raises an eyebrow as he glances your way. “I don’t usually say this outright, but I’m pretty sure she was hitting on me.”

“Oh, she was,” you agree.

“Does that bother you?” He asks, brushing a kiss to your temple and making your heart race.

You shake your head as you think about it. “It did at first because it’s only natural to feel that way, but it went away pretty quickly. I have no reason to feel jealous or defensive. If it would’ve been bad or crossed a line, I would’ve stepped in. But you proudly proclaimed that I’m your wife and she backed off right away. And I know you’re coming home with Jamie and I, so why would I let it bother me?” you explain, spotting something soft in his gaze.

Like he’s amazed by you.

“That makes sense,” he says.

“I can only hope that someone like you comes along for her,” you add, your heart going out to the stranger.

The blue of Bucky’s eyes shine a bit brighter when you catch his gaze. “I love you,” he says so tenderly that you feel butterflies in your stomach and heart.

“I love you, too,” you promise before you nudge him. “And you know what? I don’t fault her at all. You know what wearing those pants does to people. It’s like some sort of sexy magic.”

His nose crinkles as he laughs, the sound making a few turn their heads. Once again, you don’t blame them for gawking. “Did you just say ‘sexy magic’ in front of our son? Is that why you like these pants?”

“Oh, yeah. You put a spell on me,” you smirk before you smile gently at your son. “And I’m very lucky for that because now I have you.”

You don’t know it yet, but Bucky will write in his diary to Jamie about how you handled yourself today. How you could’ve stormed over and grabbed him or made a snide comment to the woman, but you didn’t. And that if you felt jealous, even for a moment, you didn’t let it cloud your judgement. You know when to observe and when you need to step in. You know when to lead with your heart.

Just one of the many reasons Bucky Barnes considers himself lucky to call you his wife and the mother of his child.

And no matter how many times he gets hit on in the diaper aisle, he’ll always come home to you.

I adore this family. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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artethyst · 4 months

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~ Leaves In A Sky Full Of Stars ~

Eris Vanserra x Rhysand’s Sister! Reader/OC

“Lucien,” Eris growled, stalking over to his sobbing and heavily pregnant mate, his brother could only stand there awkwardly, in a fruitless attempt to soothe her.

“I swear I had no part in this!” The Emissary raised his hands in mock surrender as his sister in law continued to cry, unrelenting tears spilling down her pale cheeks.

Eris sighed, and whilst he wished she would stay inside like the Healers had recommended, he couldn’t deny her anything.

His only request was that his brother chaperone her should she feel restless, especially if he happened to be caught up in meetings he was unable to be in absence of.

Eris gently removed his overcoat and draped it over her shoulders, overly paranoid that she would catch a chill in her weakened state and ignored the way Lucien rolled his eyes at his brother’s worrying.

Lucien knew, beneath everything, the feared High Lord of Autumn was nothing but a softie. A mama’s boy who would do anything for his wife should she merely ask of it.

He was certain Eris would have surrendered even his own crown- the one he had spent centuries suffering for, if it meant she was happy.

“I can’t understand what she’s saying,” Lucien was almost just as panicked, knowing whatever was wrong he’d surely be blamed for it.

“Well, we both know how successful you are with the ladies,” Eris drawled and Lucien snarled at the reference to his own mate. “My work is done for the day, you may leave.”

Lucien bowed and sent one lasting gaze at the two of them, admittedly unnerved by her frantic state.

Until recently he had never seen her cry in the many years of knowing her, and whilst he would never admit it out loud, she had always been his favourite member of the Inner Circle.

“My love,” Eris soothed her by playing with her hair, she had found solace against his hard chest as she let out small gasps, taking comfort in his scent as he provided comforting waves of love down the bond. “Tell me, what is making you so upset, hmm?”

His words held no taunt as she sniffled, and he would never tell her that he found it rather endearing how she looked- so vulnerable with her cheeks aflame and violet eyes glossy.

“T-That hawk!” She whimpered, a shaky hand moving to point at the tree before them, and only he could’ve understood her choked out words as they were sobbed into him. “I-It pushed a p-poor baby b-bird out of i-its nest a-and-“ the next part was too horrific for her to say and she cried harder as Eris sighed, stroking the back of her neck.

Oh, for anyone to see her now.

The Crown Princess of the Night Court, feared magic wielder who helped slaughter many in the war and High Lady of Autumn, brought to tears- over a baby bird.

He supposed it had something to do with the little flame growing in her stomach.

“E-Eri I want you to kill it,” the soft tone of her voice betrayed its sentiment as he paused his ministrations for a moment, his eyebrow raised in amusement. “Make it p-pay for s-slaughtering that d-defenceless creature!”

He withheld a chuckle at the irony of her demand, pressing a light kiss to the crown of her head before adjusting their position so her back was flush against his front.

His chin grazed her scalp as he effortlessly flicked his hand, the unassuming hawk turning to ash in an instant as she watched in satisfaction.

No matter how silly, trivial or frivolous her demand, he would always comply.

“Better now my love?” He crooned as she became giddy, throwing her arms around his neck as he breathed in her scent- a sickly sweet smell of a youngling mixed with his own.

It brought a new possessiveness- pride within him to know she now carried his smell with her, a subtle hint of spice and ember imbedded in her natural twinge of jasmine.

He felt her heart soar as she tugged against his own through the bond, her soft cheek nuzzling against his rough hand which came to gently rub at her damp skin.

“I’ve missed you,” she mumbled, as he unwittingly melted at her words, thinking he might never get used to the love she had shown him- insisted that he deserved.

“You saw me this morning Bunny,” he teased as she pouted.

“That was hours ago!” She insisted guiding his calloused palm to her slightly protruding stomach. “I need you…We need you.”

He couldn’t help a genuine smile overtaking his wry smirk, feeling the life they created flicker beneath their joined hands.

“It seems our little ember agrees,” he mused and despite his biting fear of her upcoming labour, as everyone knew- Fae births were not only extremely rare, but horrifically dangerous, despite it all he was happy.

Despite what having a child would mean, a new threat to him he had no doubt people would take advantage of, he couldn’t help but feel at peace too.

At peace with himself. At peace with his mate and their unborn baby which would soon complete their little makeshift family.

#eris x reader #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris vanserra x reader #eris x oc #eris vanserra x oc #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar x oc #eris vandaddy #acotar fic #fanfic

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notroosterbradshaw · 7 months

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about: just some smut to fend off jetlag. i love sleepy Bradley, I make no excuses that I feel he does his best work in the early hours of the day. This was supposed to be a drabble… it’s not anymore. Sorry.

word count: 3.2k

warnings: nsfw 18+, language, pure fluff, smut.

masterlist.

The morning after the night before when Bradley met your family for the first time, you'd flown across the world to surprise your dad for his birthday and really, it luckily coincided with Bradley's time off. When you mentioned heading home for your old man's special day that usually kicked off your family's holiday season, you almost fell out of your seat when he said maybe it was time he met the fam face-to-face, not just making small talk over FaceTime. It almost didn’t seem fair that he was subjected to meeting everyone this way, but alas… here you were the next morning, jet lag kicking in while wrapped protectively in Bradley’s strong, golden arms and washed in the relief your family fucking loved him. You weren't overly surprised.

Bradley's quiet, unassuming charm was just who your mum wanted you to end up with, he was into golf and surfing, so your dad and brothers thought he was the bee's knees. Your sister on the other hand...

You had to fend her off more than you would have liked. You were confident in your relationship with Bradley, knowing he'd never allow anything to happen. "You're coming across a little desperate," you hissed after one or two drinks, which mortified her, and she apologised, admitting she was just happy to finally get to meet the guy who'd swept you off your feet. "Yes, my feet," you reminded her. When she pointed out how possessive you sounded, you didn't deny it. But she got it and gave you space for the rest of the evening.

Ahh, sisters.

Bradley felt your body writhe in the gentlest of movements against his and he sighed. Sleep hadn’t come easy for either of you and compounded with the food and booze you’d indulged in the day before, neither of you slept much. “You okay, sweetheart?” he whispered at God-knows-what-o’clock.

“What time is it?” You asked softly.

“I dunno, baby. Sun is barely rising,” he admitted. “Can’t hear a peep in the house.”

Which was nice because yesterday was intense. Everyone was so excited to meet your new American boyfriend (fairly, it’d been about eight months, give or take with a few deployments), the incredibly handsome navy pilot whom you’d met one evening at a naval bar while travelling. You’d caught his eyes behind his sunglasses while he played the piano, the crowd around him as swept away with him as you were. The first half-smile in your direction, as he sang, had done you over in a way not one single person on the planet had before.

He'd charmed you instantly. He still charmed you constantly.

“Did you get any sleep?” you asked, biting back a yawn.

“Not really,” he peppered tender kisses into your shoulder blade and smiled into your skin as you pressed back into him, the oh-so-quiet moan made for his ears only waking him from his dreaded fog as well. “I’ll try and get a kip somewhere today. That fuckin’ flight murdered me.”

“You were happy to fly economy,” you muttered. “I know you’re used to tight quarters, but fuck Bradley. It was 15 hours."

“I know, I know I fucked up. I was looking at upgrades overnight. I’ll use my discount and stuff; we can do it flying home.”

“You sure?”

“Sue me for wanting to save a buck,” he sighed, with a tired, deep chuckle. “Flight was so full; people may as well have been sitting on the wings.”

“It’s Christmas. People travel.”

“You don't say,” he affectionately gripped your waist, rolling you to him and kissed you. “Good morning, I think," he nuzzled your nose against his and asked if you wanted some water or anything.

You shook your head, rolling back and snuggling into him as he adjusted his arms around you again, his nose buried in your hair. "I think Dad is gonna expect you for at least nine holes today."

"I think so, yeah. Grill me and make sure I'm good enough for his little girl.” He murmured and if he was honest, he was the teeniest bit nervous. He’d never really been in relationships long enough to meet families… and who would he introduce anyone to, except for Mav?

"I think you'll be fine."

"He probably wouldn't be if he knew what a deviant I've turned his smart, beautiful baby girl into.”

You giggled quietly as you could feel the soft ends of his moustache curve into a smirk against the nape of your neck. "He'd send you back on the first flight to LA."

"I would believe that," he said softly.

"I think yesterday went really well, Bradley," you confided quietly to him.

"You think? I was on my very best behaviour," he teased you.

"Yes, you were," you admitted. Not that he ever wasn't. Bradley was instilled with a remarkable set of manners. He was chivalrous and courteous to a fault, incredibly sweet and at times, pensive, even shy. Almost make believe that you were lucky enough to share his time. You wriggled back against him, and you could feel the hard-on straining through his boxer briefs. "Down, boy."

"Can't help it," he sighed. "You know what you do to me with that ass. I know what you want. You're not that transparent."

You bit back your pleased smile as his wandering hands travelled down your side, fingertips toying with the hem of his old Navy tee that was now your bed shirt. At home, you were nude sleepers. At your parents' home during the holidays? You showed decorum and respect and you both hated it, preferring skin-on-skin of the other but alas, anyone could walk in at any time.

“Have a thought about how we might be able to fuck this jetlag off…”

“Oh, yeah?” at this point, you’d do anything and with Bradley’s travel for work, you hoped maybe he might have some insight. You had planned to just power through and try not to be the world’s most exhausted asshole.

"You just move your thigh a little this way..." he murmured, his palm cupping your hamstring and you pressed back into him, grinning softly. “And I just slide up in here – ”

“Confident of you, don’t you think?”

“You’re always wet for me,” he whispered against your skin. “Unless you deny it.”

“Never…” you told him, reaching back to wrap an arm around his strong neck. “I just can't keep it down with you. Why didn’t you convince me to get the AirBnb?”

He loved how vocal you were during sex. Your moans, the hisses, the way you'd bite your lip when you were so close. That groan as you came, or the little squeal when you were too sensitive was burned into his brain as his favourite sounds in the world.

"Just lemme hold you then, it's okay, sweetheart," he grumbled. “I’ll live if you can.”

“Asshole,” you muttered as he chuckled.

“Do you want a blowjob?” You nervously offered, turning back to him and he looped your thigh over his hip and perched you above him with such little effort on his behalf - you loved how strong he was but you knew what was waiting for you, Bradley made no secret he was turned on and you loved that you were able to have him on a knife-edge at all times.

The one per cent, he’s told you once before.

You’re so sweet to him as you slowly dragged your hand into the waistband of his boxer briefs, revealing more and more skin, cock springing free, slapping against his toned, tanned Adonis belt. Long, thick and dripping with precum already and he almost blushed at how eager he was.

“I’ll never say no,” he replied, “And I know you might be uncomfortable here. Your dad is right across the hall, baby."

“But my daddy is right here…” you immediately corrected him, and he smiled darkly to himself. You didn't use that term lightly, you couldn’t nfi fed to him he had the ability to bring out your innermost feral when you least expected it and he would do his utmost to encourage it (if you were comfortable).

“Jesus,” his head was swirling, trying to keep calm and not blow his load the second you bared your tongue to him but there was absolutely nothing sweet about it. He was a preening mess when you went down on him. The night you'd told him you weren't overly experienced in blow jobs was the greatest night of his life, coaching you through what he liked and watching you perfect your generous technique time and time again.

These days, you loved giving Bradley head. He gave you confidence, he made you feel sexy and not like it was only about him on the receiving end. He’s whispered and encouraged, and when it all got too much, he told you he was close. He was neither here nor there on the whole spit or swallow thing… until you and your preference but he was never left empty-handed.

"Shh," you hissed. "Not a sound."

That one thing you did for him that absolutely made him come undone. And he'd bury his face in your pussy all day if you allowed him to show you how fucking grateful, he was for all the pleasure you presented him. Your sweet, tight wetness that he would eagerly drown himself in if you’d let him.

Your honeyed tongue delicately tasted the flawless head of his cock, lapping up the precum as Bradley's eyes rolled back into his head and his big hands reached to knot into your hair as you went to work, swirling your tongue and looking up with your big, scheming eyes, knowing you had him at his most precarious.

He was a weapon in his training, his mind and body were always primed to do what was asked of him, but you were the exception and it scared and excited him.

He could feel himself getting so close to painting the back of that beautiful mouth, and while it pained him to say it, the way your eyes softened told him he’d made the right choice. “Come on, baby, I want you.”

You gently pulled away and asked, “You don’t want me to finish?”

“No, I wanna fuck, baby. Watch you lose control.”

“Okay,” you said, your soft hand trading with your warm mouth to tenderly pump and tease him.

“Gimme a sec. I don't have condoms close,” he whispered. “They're in my luggage.”

"Just pull out, sweetheart," you enticed him, wanting to feel all of him. It was so infrequent you fucked without protection, and of course, you both preferred it that way but after a pregnancy scare (or not, neither of you was really sure) a few months back, you'd both decided to stop tempting fate and ensuring there was a stash of condoms at his place, your place... the goddamn Bronco – Bradley understood that it was your body and you didn’t want to be on the pill. A condom was the least he could do, and he knew it.

Bradley helped you move up his body and rest you above him. "Are you sure?" he kissed you, your gleaming teeth lightly stinging into his bottom lip with an affectionate nip.

“I trust you,” you told him. "Cum where you need...”

Truth be told, he wanted to cum deep, but he licked back a wet smile and he moved to his knees to pull his navy tee over your head, bearing your beautiful breasts to him, full, round, nipples begging for attention. “On your back, baby,” he urged, guiding you under him, anticipating how wet you were for him, legs splaying open unashamed. He rested the head of his cock on your weeping cunt, his fingers spreading your bare lips and sweeping your slick across your clit, fascinated by that little peep of desperation from you. Your head fell back against the pillows, bliss sweeping through you as he sweetly pressed one finger into you. “Drippin’,” he reported, pressing in another finger and his thumb rubbing tenderly against your throbbing clit. “Gonna gush for me?”

You probably would, Bradley’s ability to drag absolutely everything out of you blew your mind each time. “Need your cock. Fill me up, Bradley.”

Pushing in, one delicious inch by delicious inch, licking his full lips as your back curved to take him as deeply as possible. He buried his face in your breasts, holding one in his calloused palm, eyes fluttering closed as he traced, left wet, open-mouthed kissed and tenderly bit the other, and the groan you let you made him clamp his palm over your mouth. “You’re so wet, baby,” he stared deeply into your eyes as he evened his breath with the first few rolls of his slender hips. "But you're gonna wake your parents if you don’t control yourself."

"Let them fuckin' hear," you muttered behind your hand (you’d die if they heard you though) as he chuckled and began his ruthless assault on your senses, one thrust at a time.

"You're too good to me," Bradley reminded you in disbelief.

"All for you," you confided, as you watched the beads of sweat break across his brow as you dug your nails into his well-worked traps, willingly knowing it would leave a mark courtesy of your fresh manicure. You raised your hips to meet his deep, plunging thrusts, fucking into you strong and deep. He felt incredible, you don't think anyone had loved on you as Bradley Bradshaw could. So thorough, and never one to leave you hanging.

Too long, too sore? He'd pause and tenderly withdraw to hold you, reassuring you that it was fine, and your comfort was paramount. Too sensitive after coming too hard, he'd give you time to recover, finding other ways to bring you pleasure.

It was nice to be considered in your relationship, in your sex life especially. In the past, you'd been made to feel like a machine, if you didn't cum, partners still could, and you'd just deal with it. For a long time, that stuck with you and having someone consider you like Bradley would almost seem too good to be true at the start.

But that consideration never lapsed. He was make-believe and you fucking hoped if this man and everything he brought to you was a dream that you’d never, ever wake up.

Desperate to keep himself controlled, Bradley reached for the headboard of your old bed, gripping it for dear life as he tried so damn hard to avoid coming. He loved fucking you raw, and since birth control was completely your choice, you two had to stop playing this dangerous game. Because one day? It would beat you both.

"I need to cum, Bradley," you whined to him as he nodded, chewing his lower lip, and putting your delicate fingers in your mouth, not losing his rhythm. He knew. He knew how close you were.

"Lemme see you touch yourself, baby. Get those fingers - " he gasped as you clenched around him. "Get 'em nice and wet and play with that sweet, tight pussy. Lemme see you fall apart.”

Before, language like that would embarrass you, but with Bradley, it only spurred you on. It was incredible the ways he’d helped you grow and mature as a friend, partner and lover. As instructed, and in the low early morning light, Bradley’s breath hitched, watching you touch yourself and you couldn’t help it, the beat of his cock against your g-spot, your fingers pressing rough circles into your clit and you started to come.

“Yes, baby. Yes,” he urged, moving his mouth to your ear, whispering his sweet encouragement. “You feel so good, just a little mo – ” he forced his mouth against yours, kissing your pleasure to him, to keep the noise down. He wrapped his hand under your hip, lifting your waist to push harder into you as you trembled below him, your pussy clutching his cock, spasming as he shuddered against your lips. “Yes, baby.”

“Jesus, Bradley, fuck me,” you begged as his hips speed up like a piston, thrusting hard into your swollen, sensitive pussy, his hand clutching yours away from your strained clit and pressing intensely in your place, hoping to drag your orgasm out and as you fell, lifeless, back against the squishy pillows, pussy pulsating, Bradley grunted low he was coming and after his final few thrusts, he quickly withdrew and unloaded, stroking himself until he was spent, pearly ribbons of cum decorating your belly and breasts.

He collapsed beside you, taking your cheeks in his face and kissing you wildly. “I love you. I love you, baby,” he kissed you again, and though you were spent, you returned his affections, because truly… you loved Bradley Bradshaw with your entire being. It was going to take a lot to change that. “Are you okay?” he asked, chest still heaving as he breathed, his pointer finger tracing through the mess he made on you.

“I’m good, sweetheart,” you assured him as he gave you one last, final kiss.

“Think that helped with your jetlag?” he teased.

“Makes me want another round,” you admitted as he chuckled and raised an eyebrow.

“Of course you do,” he pressed a kiss into your pulse and lifted his lips back to yours, holding you close and just like horny teenagers, enjoying making out for a few moments in the afterglow. “Where’s that shirt gone?” he asked, peering over the side of the bed, and cleaning you up. “Jackson Pollack painting here.”

“Be less proud,” you told him as he snorted.

“Yes, ma’am,” he pressed another kiss to your lips. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Perfect, but let me go pee,” you whispered as Bradley kissed you long and deep, he nodded into the kiss but was not quite ready to leave you leave him.

“Go, clean up, baby,” he helped you up from the bed, your legs precarious and meandering like Bambi. “Careful,” he sighed, wistfully. But he knew it already, you were thoroughly fucked, just how he liked it.

A few hours later and thankfully, a few more hours of sleep, your alarm woke you, the sun much higher in the sky and the heat of the day starting to rise. You’d showered and told him to come down when he was ready, you’d help your Mum with some brekky.

“You want eggs?”

“Anything,” Bradley admitted. “Famished.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” you cupped his face in your palms and kissed him lightly. “Don’t rush.”

“Okay,” he gave a small grin but didn’t much feel like lingering. After a quick shower, he dressed, annoyed he didn't pack any golf gear, at minimum the shoes that you gave him grief for every time he wore them, but maybe he'd treat himself and buy some at the course today. He rifled through his bag, clutching the velvet box in his palm tightly, convinced more than ever that this was real, this was happening and soon, he'd hope to have you wearing his mother's engagement ring too.

Slapping on his CVN-71 cap, he knew you went a bit feral when he perched it backward. May as well leave you with good thoughts while he was out and about, asking your old man for your hand on the golf course. And if it went badly, it was also something to identify him when the authorities found him if your dad said no.

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pedgito · 5 months

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MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter Three: Forbidden Fruit

Chapter Summary: Mr. Miller receives your assignment in it's full detailed exposé and despite his reaction, doesn't seem as pleased as you anticipated. It leads to a tense interaction that lands you in his office with more questions and confusion. [4k]

[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]

Chapter Warnings: fem!reader, professor!joel miller (his teacher persona is v different from outside of the classroom, so if he seems slightly ooc....close your eyes), dom!joel, sub!reader, reader is a little obsessed with joel (and delusional), background tess x joel, inappropriate relationships/actions, masturbation (m), confrontations, joel manhandling reader (kinda roughly), panty ripping, one (1) forbidden kiss

— AO3 | PLAYLIST | PINTEREST

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec

Joel takes the plunge into the assignments the following night—it was a small class so he knew it wouldn’t take a large chunk of time, a couple hours at the end of his day and he’d have it out of the way and grades posted before the following morning. It was always easier to do things this way, hidden away in his office to force his focus and block out the rest of what was going on.

He flies through the assignments with a detailed precision, giving proper and full notes on things he thinks the students could work on or tweak, give some personal thoughts on creativity, and allow some encouragement where it was needed.

But, your name sits in the bottom of his inbox, bold lettered and unread—he saved it for last.

He could lie and say he didn’t do it on purpose, but he’s come to thoroughly enjoy your writing, so he pushes it off until it’s the final thing he has to grade that night. He knows Tess should be arriving home soon, so despite his want to give you his full, undivided attention—he intends to give it a quick skim.

Joel knows there’s no real notes he can give you. You always had a clear idea on your work, so meticulously planned out that it reminded him of himself in a way.

He takes a sip of the quickly dissipating bourbon in the cup sitting on his desk, ice clinking against the glass as he clicks on your essay and watches it expand onto the screen.

He likes to jot down his thoughts on paper as he goes, making it easier to format and type as he replies—he grips the pencil tight, reading the title of your essay.

ill-suited innocence

In a crowd she finds herself searching, looking for him. Days and days of tense glances and inappropriate thoughts—he must share them too? While she can’t be bothered by the fantasy of mythical creatures and things that only made sense in fiction, she did believe in the fantasy of wanting what she couldn’t have. Him.

Much older, wiser—grim around the eyes and a deep sorrow that burrowed its way into his chest and made home. He couldn’t fix himself, but she could. At least, she thinks she could.

Joel straightened his back, leaning into the screen to assure himself he wasn’t misreading. It was…an interesting take on the assignment he gave you, but he’ll bite. He’s used to your stuff being a little more unorthodox.

Something along the lines of forbidden fantasy? A tale of love? It wasn’t his particular choice of fiction but he wasn’t opposed to it. He squints, reading more.

He drops the pencil for a moment

Their lives mundane and unassuming, they traverse through life with little enjoyment. Two sides of the same coin and he was too oblivious to realize. He offered smiles and kind words, guidance that seemed from a good place but only allowed her to feel more misdirection. He was an enigma, difficult to decipher and she craved him.

And though he tries to fight whatever attraction he may feel, she can see it in his tense gaze. The lingering touches he leaves on her body. Secret meetings, talks that allowed themselves to be more deep than should be allowed. He was allowing her in little by little but she needed more.

She just had to ask, so she did.

Joel feels a tightening deep in his gut that wasn’t there before, reading between the lines of text and allowing faint glimpses of memories with you to match themselves with the words—his brow furrowing under the guise of…anger? No, frustration. He shouldn’t be equating his perfectly…appropriate relationship with you to this. In fact, it shouldn’t cross his mind. But, it does.

All of this from a dream? He could lie and say he wasn't intrigued, but that wasn't the case.

Joel doesn’t expect the full 180 turn as he glances down at the chunk of text that follows.

“You’re my student,” He whispers to her, “I can’t allow this.”

She bites at her lip, noticing the subtle click of his heels as they hit the floor, back them against his desk as she takes a seat, plastic cup full of pencils falling to the floor but neither of their eyes leaving each other.

“You can,” She encourages, “I’m hardly a student anymore. I’m a friend. We’re friends, right?”

And given his ability to let her in so easily, he also considered her a friend. Naively. He’s gotten himself into this position and he can’t find a reason to not give her what she wants—what he wants.

He captures her lips in a searing kiss, much less polite than a friend would, her fingers quickly undoing his belt—

Joel feels his cock hardening under the confines of his slacks, clearing his throat slightly. He should stop reading—he knows he should. The glaringly obvious lines being crossed are blurred for a moment. He shouldn’t have led you on like this, allowed you to cook up some depraved illusion of what you thought things could be.

Because they couldn’t. That wasn’t what this was. Joel had told himself over and over—he was helping. He didn’t think you’d take advantage of the scenario like this. Still, he finds himself loosening the buckle of his belt as well, unzipping his pants enough that he can stuff his hand into the tight space between his bare cock and briefs, palming himself impatiently.

And he skims—words sticking and fading in his mind. It starts of with a slow, sensual make out and a messily described handjob that has his cocking throbbing with every tight stroke he pulls at his shaft, eventually tired of fighting the tight space he’s allowed with his slacks making it impossible to move, he leans back and pulls his cock out far enough that he has free, unrestrained range. The bourbon glass leaves a sweat ring on the oak of his desk but Joel can’t be bothered, he scrolls down further, taking in the last few scenes that allowed him a full idea of just what exactly you thought was going on between the both of you. Or, what you wanted to happen.

He allows himself a moment to slip out of his headspace and imagine, selfishly.

Bent over the desk, items scattered to the floor he pulled at her skirt, something she wore necessarily—easy access, she whispered against his lips before he bent her fully over the desk, chest pressed against the solid wood.

Joel imagines it vividly, his breath quickening as he tugs at his cock in rough, fast strokes and pictures it—you, bent over his desk and your ass presented to him like a prize and how good it would feel to squeeze the flesh between his hands. He knows your sounds would be sweet, divine, and it drives him wild.

He’s thought about you before like this, hand wrapped around his cock, but never in full detail as you’d written out.

And then he slips his cock inside of her, a small gasp of, “Just like that, professor.” falling from her lips and it only spurs Joel deeper into his despair, tugging himself until he feels his orgasm creeping up on him, a churning in his gut that feels too good to quit and he reads out the last few lines, as he comes deep inside of, recklessly and without much decision making.

He thought you were smarter than this. Expected more out of you.

There’s a creak of a floorboard down the hall that sends his world crashing down on him, dampening his orgasm almost immediately as he scrambles to shove himself back inside of his slacks, buttoning and buckling his belt hastily as he clicks out of his browsers and feigns exhaustion, Tess’s fingers curling around the doorknob as she peeks her head in, watching as Joel’s fingers circled the glass of liquor.

God, he hates her.

Not you. Tess.

He figured his reasoning was valid, but truthfully—he just couldn’t stand her any longer. He's been battling the decision to go through with his divorce, but this seemed like as big a sign as ever. It's the unbridled rage he was tired of harboring around her, trying to act like things were fine.

Nothing was fine and his life was imploding.

He was lusting after a student and worse, he know you were after him—actively, clear in the boldness you showed through your assignment.

He thinks back briefly on the video call that he shouldn’t have allowed, your question that seemed…vague but unassuming. Had you planned this the entire time?

Was he just that stupid to not see it?

“Coming to bed tonight?” Tess asks hesitantly.

Joel offers a clear and concise, “No.”

He wasn’t sure if he could even sleep, contemplating over how to handle this…situation.

He couldn’t allow it to stray further.

It would damage his career and ruin his life.

But truthfully, he felt like he’d already reached that point, so what did he have to lose?

You wake up on Monday with a deep pit in your chest, knowing that grades were posted that morning. You knew it was a risk, being so open with him—but he couldn’t fail you. You followed the parameters of the assignment and made sure to clear the few questions you had with him.

Part of you is expecting another email from his private account, wondering his thoughts beyond what he would address appropriately. But, the moment your eyes drag along the screen, still blurry from sleep, you feel your heart stop.

0/100. A complete failure.

No comment besides—Rewrite and resend immediately. No extension. Due by the end of the day.

Your jaw clenches in frustration.

Oh, you were not being ignored that easily.

You storm into his room later that day during your free hour for lunch, knowing he’d be saddled up at his desk eating his own lunch.

You couldn’t even think about eating, full of anger and annoyance that kept you full and ready to strike. He can hear your footsteps before you approach and is wiping at his mouth with a napkin when you stop at his desk.

He holds a hand up, face steely and emotionless.

For a moment, you think he might break. Crack a smile and say it was an excuse to get you here.

Instead, he has your essay printed out and ready to shove at you, your fingers curling around the stack and crinkling the edges.

“You can’t fail me,” You start tensely, “I did your stupid assignment and I followed the steps you asked for.”

“I expect a new one by the end of the day. Appropriate to the topic. End of discussion.”

You scoff, not daring to look at the glaring zero he drew out on the paper just to prove a point. It lands in the trash as you throw it down, “No.”

Joel’s chair squeaks as he rises and it startles you slightly, and suddenly he’s invading your space, the muscles in his neck tightening as he pointed an accusatory finger at the trashed papers.

“In what situation did you think any of that was appropriate to write and send to your professor?” Joel asks, noting the way you blink quickly, backing away slightly.

He almost…feels bad? No. He quickly wipes the thought away as more anger crosses your face, eyes dilating in rage.

You lean in slightly, thankful that the halls were quiet around this time of day and that you had closed the door behind you.

“You started this,” You argue, “You crossed that line when you messaged me on a private email. Telling me that you liked the time we spent together. I’m your student—maybe you should’ve taken that into account first.”

His fist clenched at his side, almost to restrain himself, knowing he’d rather shove that finger into your chest and blame you. But, you were both to blame. And he even more so. Still, he doubles down.

“Rewrite it or I’ll fail you for the entire semester.”

Your mouth gapes open, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“That’s…completely unfair.” You settle, voice softer as you drop the act. “I just—”

“Rewrite it.” Joel responds firmly.

“Mr. Miller—” You begin, trying to find a feasible way to get him to listen.

“Or I fail you.” He says with finality. “You’re lucky I don’t take this to the board.”

Which, he never would. He’s just as much at fault. But, he’s taking his frustration out on you. An easy target, slim pickings.

You weren’t playing into that though, not now.

“You won’t,” You challenge him, “because if you do—I can assure you, you won’t appreciate the results.”

It was a threat. Cold and plain.

“Rewrite it,” He reiterates again, his voice softer now. “I have to submit these assignments at the end of the semester and if—that cannot be in there. I need a real essay. Real. Not some fucking delusion.”

It’s the first time he’s talked so…out of term. It feels like him, the real Mr. Miller.

Fine—you’ll write the goddamn essay as he intended. You roll your eyes and Joel relaxes slightly, seeing your defeat as you settle your shoulders back.

“I want it on my desk by the end of day.”

Sure, you could manage that.

If anything, it gave you more of an excuse to drag out his torture a little longer.

You spend the entirety of his class working out a new essay, bullshitting your way through an hour of class and typing up something feasible enough to get you a decent grade, knowing that his views of you were already tainted. But, that didn’t matter.

You had plans.

When evening rolls around and classes are finally done for the day, you make the long trek across campus to his class, finding it empty but spotting the light in his private office is still on, a low and muted orange that shined through the window. You approach slowly and knock on the door, hearing his muffled greeting on the other side.

You peek inside, noting his position as he rests with his fist pressed against the side of his face, seemingly nursing a headache as he rubs the fingers of his free hand over his forehead and sighs, closing his laptop as you hold out the small stack of papers for him to grab. He does, skimming through it briefly. You toss your bag off your shoulder and rest it in a nearby chair, standing quietly.

“Something bothering you?” You ask politely, hands crossed over your front as fiddled idly with your fingers, “Mr. Miller?”

He looks up tensely, eyes darkened and foreboding.

“What did you mean earlier?” He asks suddenly, reading your essay with a careful eye. Scribbling something down before he pushes it away, fingers clasped together under his chin as he gives you his full attention. “That I wouldn’t…appreciate the results?”

“Oh, that was—”

A threat. He knows it. You know it.

And he voices it.

“It was a threat, wasn’t it?” He asks coarsely, his voice sounding rough.

He seemed worse for wear, with good reason.

The dignified squeak of his chair is like deja-vu but you don’t back away this time, turning to him as he rounds his desk—his tie is gone, starch pressed shirt unbuttoned to a dangerous degree and his belt is missing, your eyes tracking it in a nearby corner where it’s slung over an empty chair.

He allowed you in here, the small glimpse of his relaxed state. He wasn’t shutting you out necessarily, which was good. But, you still felt unwanted. It was almost like he was dangling a myriad of fruit in front of you, ripe for the taking, but riddled with poison. Forbidden.

“No—”

He grabs your wrist suddenly, tight and gasp-inducing as he pulls it up until it’s level between you both, right at chest level and you’re waiting for him to let go, but he doesn’t.

“Tell. The. Truth.” He says pointedly, a small jerk of your arm with every syllable as he pulls you undoubtedly closer, “I want to hear it.”

Instead of admitting that you did openly threaten him, you switch gears.

“What? That I want you to fuck me?” You ask innocently, pulling your wrist away harshly. “Joel, come on—don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.”

His name is like a gut-punch, a reminder that he gave you that information under the idea that you would keep it safe, but now you were using it against him.

“Don’t—” He warns and your hands press into his crisp button-up, scrunching the fabric in an effort to wrinkle it, feeling the solid press of muscle under your hands that makes your mouth water, eyes widening slightly at the touch and for a split second, he allows it.

He had to escape the situation before he acted on something he would regret.

“Get out.” Joel responds through gritted teeth, shoving your hands away harshly and in turn, forcing you back a few steps with the urgency of it. “Now.”

Still, you step closer, chest against chest as you can feel the distinct bulge in his slacks against your front, tongue clicking in your mouth as you cocked your head to the side mockingly, a finger tracing along the buttons of his shirt until you can curl the tip of it around the hem of his pants.

“You can do it, you know,” You offer, “You could fuck me right now and I wouldn’t tell a soul, not even your wife—or…ex-wife? I’m not sure since you never wear your ring.”

Fuck this and her smart ass mouth, Joel thinks.

Joel’s nostrils flare and he snaps, backing you into the wall by his hand pressed against your chest, the bookshelf beside you shaking with the force. His hands creep up your neck, pressing rigid against the skin and he keeps you there, trapped.

“I can feel it,” You tease through strained vocal cords, his finger squeezing against your neck–not quite cutting off air flow, but the pressure is there and you feel it. It makes your head swim, squirming against his hold as he shifts closer, body pressed against your own firmly, “is that why you asked me to turn the paper in by the end of the day? You wanted me here, didn’t you? I guess my essay did strike a nerve after all.”

The laugh that follows is sickening, a grin appearing under his sneer. His fingers move up a few inches to grip your face. Hard. Squeezing until he feels the solid press of your cheekbones under his thumb and he speaks, so quietly into the space you can barely hear him, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Your eyes drift to his, his head tilting up slightly away from your ear that he had whispered into and there’s glint in your eye. It’s exactly what you wanted. You wanted to burrow yourself under his skin so he couldn't get rid of you.

He feels your fingers continue to trace along the seam of his shirt, tracing over the bumps of the material until you meet his slacks, pressing your palm flat over his cock, hardened under the material and straining–and he can’t help the way his breath intakes sharply, the full body restraint it takes to not rut into your hand. He knows he has the upper hand here, but with the small amount of effort it takes to break his revere for himself, he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.

“I would,” You nod slowly, eyebrows furrowing as he tightens his grip with your admittance and in turn, you squeeze him just a little harder. He hisses and leans in, letting go of your face to return to your neck–he isn’t squeezing this time, but his hand is a solid presence. You move, he moves. And if he doesn’t like how you move, you would end up exactly where he wants you to, “Come on, Joel. You read all about it. I can do so much more than whatever your wife is doing—isn’t that why you reached out to me?”

“Don’t—stop saying my name.” He warns, trying to keep what little line of professionalism he had between you there, unblurred. “I reached out to help. As your mentor.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s a few things you could teach me.” You say sweetly, the deft sound of his zipper being undone by your hand, popping the button on his pants, “Joel, please.”

He stops your hand in it’s decent, fingers tracing along the hem of his underwear before he’s gripping your arm and turning you with little resistance on your end, front pressed harshly against the stucco wall, a sharp gasp emitting from your throat as he crowds you in again, whispering harshly into your ear, “Mr. Miller. Not Joel. You don’t get that privilege. And stop talking about my fucking wife.”

You moan brokenly at the feeling of his cock pressed against your ass, skirt riding up your thighs and you were sure—positive that Joel could see the fabric of your underwear clinging to your hips from how high up and mused your skirt was now, but he can’t take his eyes of your face, anger emitting from his own and suffocating you like a blanket.

You were pressing his buttons just right and he hated it.

“So, no marital troubles then?” You pester him and he shuts you up immediately, palm covering your mouth tightly as his free hand grips at the hem of your underwear at your hip and tugs—yep, he saw them. Some soft color, all lacy, meant to be attention-grabbing. And if Joel couldn’t have you the way he truly desires, he’d make you wish you could have it even worse than he wanted it. “You—huh, you can’t even wear your wedding ring, Mr. Miller—don’t lie to me.”

He pulls at the material of your panties until they’re riding up your ass slightly, pulled tighter against your cunt and the drag of the material against your clit is almost unexpected. He’s pointedly avoiding touching you so intimately, teetering on the edge of not enough and too much.

“You thought it would be that easy?” Joel asks testingly, jerking your head slightly when you don’t answer. You figured it was redundant but clearly not. You mumble against his hand, overwhelmed by his touch that all you can do is nod, forehead pressed against the wall as he breathes down your neck. “You’re mistaken.”

There’s a distinct rip of fabric as he removes his hand from your mouth quickly using his hands to grip your panties in tight fists, tearing it apart as it falls from your body and you think he might just do it—shove his slacks just far enough down his thighs and slip inside of you, bring an end to all of your suffering.

And his own.

Instead his fingers tighten around your forearm, spinning you in his hold and shoving the ripped fabric into your hand, leaving you bare under your skirt and exposed and Joel doesn’t mistake the wetness on the material. His fingers linger over your palm and you scoff, adjusting your skirt and slightly skewed shirt.

“Keep them,” You challenge, shoving the material into his chest before he allows them to drop to the floor, eyes trailing your departing figure as you reach for your discarded bag, “a gift for your wife—you know, the one who you avoided to spend time with me. Right?”

You want the words to linger and sting, bag slung lazily around your shoulder as you depart for the door, ignoring the quickly approaching footsteps. Joel, unbeknownst to you, had already pocketed your panties, torn to shreds in the pocket of his slacks. But, the words cut deep and he can’t leave things like this and allow you the final word.

Joel yanks the strap of your bag and backs you against the office door, the wood rattling against your conjoined weight as his lips press against yours in haste, messy and uncoordinated but your brain quickly assess what’s happening and joins, your lips parting to allow his eager tongue into your mouth. His kiss is biting and furious, mean and full of nothing but tense emotion. It’s months of suffocated lust pouring into you, out of him, and you swallow it down eagerly. His hand holds your chin forcefully, sloppy exchanges of spit and forceful bites, a battle for dominance that Joel quickly won out on.

And you think that maybe that comment was the final straw, that he might just give you what you want, but your delicate moan that slips into his mouth as chase him, his head pulling back slightly at the noise—it had him falling back to reality, right on his ass.

There wasn’t any line left to cross anymore. He’d obliterated it.

“Don’t threaten me again,” He warns, “ever.”

There’s one solid shove against the door as your head hits the surface gently, his touch quickly dissipating and his disheveled appearance a tell-tale sign in your mind. He was fighting his own battle and losing terribly.

“Of course,” You agree sardonically, “Mr. Miller.”

The silent click of the door is deafening and Joel retreats to his desk, punching a fist into the solid wood, the papers of your assignment flying to the floor. He can't be bothered to pick them up or even allow them the proper glance they deserve.

Because you—in his mind, don't deserve it.

And he's not going to give you that satisfaction.

It's unprofessional, but he'll allow it this once. It only takes a few quick clicks and he's adjusting the assignment out for your new one.

Poof. Gone. Like it never existed.

But, the grade is unchanging and he knows that will make things tremendously worse, but he can't be bothered to care anymore.

You'd be back and that's exactly what he wants.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #professor!joel miller #tlou fanfic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #my writing #pedro pascal characters

378 notes · View notes

embyrinitalics · 1 year

Note

Have a fun little prompt:

TP Zelda gets a dog. Link is unimpressed. She calls the dog Link. Chaos ensues.

That's it. That's the prompt.

— Replaced —

“What is that?”

“The latest taxation proposition for Lanayru province.”

“Not that. That.”

The queen set the top page of her report aside, not deigning to glance beneath her desk.

“It’s a dog.”

“Yes. But what is it doing here?”

“It’s mine.”

The captain of the guard waited a beat. She turned another page.

“You got a dog.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“Dogs are good companion animals.”

He folded his arms, frowning at it. It laid down and folded its paws, unmoved.

“And why do you need a companion animal?”

“You seem needlessly fixated, Sir Link.”

“You’re avoiding the question, Your Majesty.”

“Why? Does it pose a threat to my security?”

“It’s unlike you.”

“Not so. I’ve always liked dogs. And companion animals can be very soothing.”

“You already have—”

Her eyes met his at the same time his teeth met each other. Her gaze lingered, and he strategically uncrossed his arms. Beneath the desk, the dog sniffed.

She turned another page.

“Did you have something for me?”

He did. He fished the envelope out of his breast pocket and stepped closer to hold it out to her across her workspace. She reached for her letter opener and sliced it neatly down the seam, and he let his eyes drift down near his boots and bared a tooth.

“Thank you,” she said, and leaned back in her chair to read.

It was as polite a dismissal as he was liable to get. He saw himself out, glancing back from the shadow of the door.

The dog looked smug.

⬫⬫⬫⬫

The delegation arriving that afternoon was large, and the staff had been agitated as a cucco swarm seeing to the last minute preparations. Fortunately, the captain had some experience with cuccos, and was adroit enough to stay out of the way as he oversaw the finishing touches on the security measures.

One of the kitchen maids, sheen on her forehead and pink on her cheeks, came out of the dining room with a platter big as a Hylian shield balanced against her shoulder. The frustration on her face melted a bit when she met his eyes, giving way to an exhausted half-smile.

“Hello, Captain,” she said, breathless, and he nodded.

“Miss Tilly.”

“No room for a fourth platter of bouchées,” she sighed, dragging her wrist against her brow. Her eyes sparkled beneath. “These’ll have to go back down.”

“Pity,” he said.

She plucked an hors d'oeuvres from the top of the arrangement and held it out for him.

“Care to lighten my load?”

The pastry hovered between them a moment—unassuming, bite sized, glistening with eggwash—before his fingers finally lifted along with the corners of her mouth.

If anyone knew how to tempt the otherwise impervious captain of the guard, it was the kitchen staff.

He was halfway to biting into it when the queen’s voice, raised, urgent, startled him so badly he pulled it out from under his teeth and whipped his head aside.

“Link, no!”

A blue-eyed shepherd bounded down the hallway like a shot and back up again, twirling a circle by the trailing queen’s skirts and hopping a bit until he pulled a smile out of her. He let his tongue loll out and pranced at her heel as she walked.

The captain’s teeth hadn’t quite found their way back to each other.

“You—” he started, and then closed his mouth at her sudden, innocent attention.

She waited, elegant. He tried again, off kilter.

“You named the dog Link?”

“It’s a heroic name,” she reasoned, fingers feathering the silky top of his head, and Link preened. “Don’t you agree?”

Miss Tilly ducked her head and scurried off, hiding her toothy smile very poorly.

The captain shoved the whole pastry in his mouth and stomped off.

⬫⬫⬫⬫

The queen brought Link to the reception.

He was bouncy and very good at manipulating his eyebrows to swindle the guests out of treats. He was light enough on his dainty paws that he stayed out from under the foot traffic, and small enough that he could slip under tables with ease. The Zora also found him novel and charming, which made absolutely no sense.

His good behavior did not keep the captain from glaring at him whenever they crossed paths.

After dinner the queen stayed up late entertaining and listening to informal presentations of the Zora’s concerns. Link laid at her feet, occasionally offering his chin and ears for scratches. The captain of her guard stood stationed at the far end of the room, where he could keep an eye on all the entrances and wouldn’t eavesdrop.

It was his usual spot at functions like these. But tonight he felt leashed up outside.

When the guests had finally gone to bed, the queen glided towards her chambers, trailed by two shadows. It was a sleepy procession. And as the delegation was staying for the better part of a week, there would be more of them. The dog whined.

“You poor thing,” she murmured, reaching down to stroke his chin. “You haven’t had your supper yet.”

Neither had the captain. But he refrained from whining about it.

They reached her room and the queen went inside. Link followed, nails dragging noisily on the carpet, but stopped wedged in the doorway to look pointedly over his shoulder. The captain felt his hackles raising.

“Was there something else?”

“Nothing else, Your Majesty. Get some rest.”

“You as well,” she nodded, swallowing a yawn. “Come to bed, Link.”

The dog trailed her inside, making a beeline for her mattress.

When the door closed, the captain bristled so hard he felt the need to shake down to his tail.

⬫⬫⬫⬫

The next few days were more of the same: crowded meals that lasted for hours, long walks through the castle grounds speckled with talks, and tired evenings brimming with wine. The queen’s captain and her dog liked each other less and less.

The last morning of the visit, nerves frayed, tension wound tight, Link growled when the captain wandered too close to the queen’s desk, and without thinking the captain bared his teeth.

“Link!” she scolded, and they both flinched, tails tucked.

The envoy met with her one last time for what was sure to be a long negotiation, and the captain took the opportunity to attend to some pressing business.

He snatched the dog by the collar and dragged him, nails scuffing everywhere, to a broom closet, and locked them both in. He changed, and the dog screamed.

“OH GODS! WOLF! WOLF! HELP! SOMEONE HELP!”

“Stop barking! Stop—shut up, shut up!”

Link hesitated from where he had reared back on his haunches, breath puffing and chest fluttering, before he took an uncertain sniff. The whites of his eyes receded a bit, his forepaw meeting the ground and his nose drifting closer as he investigated. And then his eyes—as much as a dog’s eyes can—rolled.

“Oh. It’s you.”

The wolf let his lip curl, and while Link’s ears drooped, he planted his paws and raised himself a little taller, not to be intimidated.

“Let’s have it out,” the captain growled, “before this becomes an issue for her.”

“Well I certainly have nothing to apologize for,” he snuffed. “I’ve been nothing but well behaved!”

“You took a snap at me under her desk this morning.”

“You were asking for it.”

If the captain had a palm to drag across his face, he would’ve. Instead he pinned his ears down and huffed, glowering, “The safety of the queen and her household are my responsibility. You don’t need to like me. I don’t need to like you. But I am going to protect her. So stay out of my way.”

Link snorted. “That’s what she keeps you around for? Protection?”

“At least she has use for me. I can’t fathom why she’s kept you as long as she has.”

“Because I am the best boy. And the goodest boy. And the prettiest boy—”

“All right, shut up, shut up.”

He planted his tail on the ground, trying to think. It swished like an irritated metronome.

Link’s ears perked, head tilting and eyes going horribly wide with realization.

“You’re jealous!”

The wolf sneered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It all makes sense now. You’ve been unwelcoming from the moment I arrived. And at first I thought, Perhaps he’s one of those unpleasant people who simply doesn’t like dogs—insufferable, yes, but mostly harmless. But it couldn’t be clearer now what this is about: territory.”

“The queen is not territory.”

“But the place beside her throne? At the foot of her bed? Those certainly are, and I’ve never seen you in any of them.”

Link put on his best smug face. The captain entertained thoughts of cleaving his head clean off his shoulders.

“So, what did you do to get yourself ousted?”

“I haven’t been ousted.”

“Fine. Replaced.”

“I haven’t been—!”

“Well you must’ve done something wrong. How else do you explain my arrival? Were you too noisy? Too big? Too intimidating? Do you give subpar cuddles?”

His eyes narrowed. “The queen and I have never cuddled.”

Link looked mortified. “How can you even be a lapdog and not give cuddles?”

“I was never her lapdog! I’m her head of security!”

He hesitated.

“She does… know you’re a dog, yes?”

The wolf huffed again. “Yes, she knows.”

“Because I’ve never seen you like this in front of her before. And we’re mostly inseparable.”

“It’s been a while,” he grumbled.

“But you used to.”

One of his ears went sideways.

“And you liked it.”

Both of his ears went sideways.

Link beamed. “Doesn’t she give just the best scratches?”

“Listen, lapdog,” the wolf snapped, teeth meeting loudly, and Link shrank back against the wall. “The point is we’re stuck working together, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it. Deal with it.”

“You could ask for reassignment.”

He snarled, “Excuse me?”

“You can talk to her,” he explained, reaching with his back paw to scratch an itch. It made his collar twirl. “Tell her things. I envy you that, though I do a fairly good job of getting what I want besides. But you could tell her you don’t want to be her head of security anymore. Tell her you’d rather be a lapdog instead.”

“I don’t want to be her lapdog!”

“You just want to be closer to her.”

The wolf’s ears pinned back and his lips curled. “Why am I even having this conversation with you?”

“Because you locked us in a closet!”

His growl rumbled so low the brooms rattled.

He waited.

So did Link.

Finally, he murmured, “I can’t tell her that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

Link tilted his head at him again.

“Is that common among humans? They can’t say what they want?”

“I’d say so.”

He considered that a moment. Then he glanced up at him, eyebrows quirked.

“I think you’re dense.”

The wolf looked suddenly ravenous, but Link was unbothered.

“You’ve been outside wolfshape for too long, Captain. What do your senses tell you?”

That made him hesitate. He sniffed reflexively. “I don’t follow.”

“She got a dog to keep her company. With blue eyes. She named me after you. And you think you’re the only one who isn’t saying what he wants?” Link did his dog impression of an eye roll again. “Let me out of here. Your stupid might be contagious.”

The wolf blinked at him. “I’m going to let that go.”

“Well you know what else I think—”

The captain shifted, fur and teeth and claws melting back into softer shapes. The dog in the broom closet with him yapped incomprehensibly for another five seconds.

He smirked, “I think I like you better like this.”

⬫⬫⬫⬫

That night, when the door to her boudoir opened, the wrong sort of animal stepped through.

The queen looked up from her book from her seat on the couch. A wolf stared back.

After a beat he set his jaw, crossed the room with purpose, and dropped his snout into her lap.

Her lips twitched. The weight of his head didn’t let up in the slightest; if anything, her hesitation only made him sag harder.

“Link,” she murmured, carefully lifting one hand to trace a slow line from between his eyes to between his ears. “What have you done with my dog?”

I ate him, he thought smugly.

Her fingers dug a little deeper, and he leaned shamelessly into it. Because she gave excellent scratches.

“It’s not really appropriate for me to be overly familiar with my staff,” she mused, fingers sliding down, down, toward that spot behind his jaw. He stretched his neck to help her reach. Her smile turned pensive, and then faded just a little. “And even if I wanted to, that’s a lot of pressure to put on someone. It isn’t easy to say no to the queen.”

That’s sweet, Your Majesty, but I can handle myself.

She smoothed the fur around his ears, as though she’d mussed it. The wolf looked up at her out of fluted blue eyes, waiting. Expectant, more than hesitant. It made a smirk twist at her lips.

“It does get lonely, though,” she admitted. “Which is why I got myself a dog.”

Right. Because you didn’t already have one.

The wolf sniffed. He lifted his head from her lap and circled the couch, calculating, and then leapt onto the cushion beside hers with great care and laid down, tucking his legs so he’d fit. He plopped his head meaningfully on her shoulder.

“I can’t very well get rid of him now,” she argued.

He pushed his nose into her neck, and then wriggled to press in with his chest, encroaching as much as possible.

“Link,” she complained, puffing fur away from her mouth. “You’re too big.”

He only had two shapes to choose from, and wasn’t sure she’d be much happier with the other one. But neither was he about to call off his offensive after he’d come this far.

He shifted in a flurry of shadows. His elbow was planted on the camelback behind her shoulder, his temple planted on his fist. He was still very much in her personal space.

She arched an eyebrow, but made no move to pull away. He tested the waters, drifting closer. Her eyes twinkled, the way only hers could, and the grin that spread over his lips was probably too wolfish.

“I know a ranch in Ordona that would love a shepherd.”

On ao3 | masterlist

#Twilight Princess #Zelink #fanfic #Replaced #TP Zelda gets a dog #Link is unimpressed #fic request #mrmilktrayman14 #LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO YOU CRAZIES I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY!!!1!#THIS WON THE POLL YOU GET WHAT YOU DESERVE #also Link the Dog is an Australian shepherd #just in case anyone was dying to know that 😂#Zelink promptly #embyr writes

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atinylittlepain · 28 days

Text

Chapter One

jackson!joel miller x witch!oc

series masterlist

series playlist

He thinks he might fall in love with her. She can't let him fall in love with her. Or: a reimagined take on an infamous Practical Magic au by yours truly.

wordcount | 6.1K

series content info | 18+ slowburn-ish, strangers to friends to lovers to estranged acquaintances to ???, discussions of death and grief, a little magic, just a little, jackson era joel and all that entails, eventual smut, angst obviously, and love that requires a little elbow grease.

a/n | yeeeehaw, here we go. I have to just say, it was so damn fun writing this, and while I haven't gotten started on chapter two quite yet (hello, finishing undergrad, you thankless wench) I'm real excited to get started soon. As always, I'd love to hear what you think, thank you for reading.

............................................

He doesn’t understand this world of a town. Two months, maybe three, actually, and still not used to any of it. Not used to warm water and light switches that work. Not used to three whole meals, not used to whole anything. Tomatoes and peaches, sweet snap peas, the taste of summer. Not used to people living so closely and not trying to kill each other. He feels like a livewire strung taut, waiting for the shoe to drop, for the catch of it all. He’s starting to think there is no catch. And if there is no catch, he’s worried he’ll get too comfortable, too soft.

The people of Jackson live a different life. May as well be on a different planet. And as such, they treat him and the kid with a pitiful patience and a cautious distance. Careful, feral animals, still being housebroken, still learning not to eat with their hands and swear in the dining hall. Still learning not to flinch, or do much worse, when a friendly hand is placed on their shoulders. This strange world, strange life he’s walked into, and he’s pretty sure it’s not for him. But he wants it to be for Ellie, so he tries.

In this world, help is expected, and given freely. White-knuckling isn’t requisite, there are things that can be done for a fever besides waiting it out, ways to relieve a little suffering. Time and space, a luxury, he thinks. And so when the kid came home with a bloom of welts on her palms and up her bare shins, unaware of how easily poison ivy can spread, there was, for once, something he could actually do about it.

Tommy was the one who clued him in. The little shop that sits a few storefronts down from the Tipsy Bison which, in all honesty, he had never paid any mind to. He doesn’t get out much to begin with though, so that says very little. Unassuming, peeling blue paint and tall windows obscured by bursts and blooms of plants. A piece of smooth wood has been turned into a sign hanging above the door, letters seared into the grain. Apothecary.

He calls out, hesitant when he steps inside, unsure now if he came at the right time. No one in sight, the shop sits perfectly quiet, still, just the hum of a fan tucked into one of the windows, sending a faint shiver through the plants around it. He’s admittedly surprised by the sight, not that he had been expecting the clinical white of a pharmacy. Still, the shock of green all around him, warm clay pots on wooden benches, vines and leaves spilling over the edges like languid limbs in repose. Lush and strange, he steps further into the shop, foliage brushing against his shoulders, the cool, damp smell of earth. He calls out again, still silence.

There’s something that looks like an old checkout counter further back, a rusted-out cash register that now has thin vines growing along and in between the keyboard. The remnant stub of a receipt sits in its mouth, he thinks he can make out 2003, ink all but faded away. But the strangest of all things, as he’s studying the slumped machine. Someone else joins him. Or something else.

“Well, look at you.” It doesn’t exactly startle him, more like a small kick in his chest at the intrusion. Like black ink, sleek and shine and slipping up onto the counter, all ease, perched and staring at him. He thinks a bit idly to himself that he hasn’t seen too many cats in the last two decades. And this cat looks well taken care of, maybe even a little prim, if a cat can look such a way, sitting on its haunches and looking at him, unblinking, unwavering, and a little unsettling. Little impulse, before he can think too hard about it, he holds his hand out, a scratch between the ears that’s rebuffed as soon as it’s accepted, little snit and swipe, the sharp pin prick sting of blood over his knuckles. He presses his other palm over the small throb, the cat long gone by the time he has half a mind to look for it.

“Did she get you?” Now that does get a jolt out of him. Animals are easier. But people, well. He looks to his left, then to his right, deeper into the shop. He sees her hair before he really sees her. Piles of curls, gray starting to bleed through all that darkness. She’s standing in a doorway he hadn’t seen before, the cat rubbing its cheek against her shin. Somehow, he feels like he’s been told on, thick flood of something warming up the back of his neck.

“Just a scratch, think I deserved it though.” Somewhere around his age, he thinks, maybe a little younger. Her eyes do a lift and crinkle when she smiles, stepping closer to him. He sees the same years he recognizes in his own face, though she certainly wears it better, tempered smile, glasses getting pushed up into her hair, more mane now than anything else. What was he here for again?

“You’re Joel Miller.”

“I am, how did–”

“Tommy told me he was sending you my way. I didn’t know a person could come with a warning label.” Something southern in her voice, little twang, little twinge. Her words rasp just a bit, and it sounds like kindness, like a sharpness that could turn sour, though she keeps it sweet, tilt of her head, sweet.

“I guess my reputation precedes me then.”

“It’s a small town.”

“I’m starting to catch onto that.” The cat has taken an insistent twine between his legs, chewing at his shoelaces, until she, still nameless to him, hooks her arm around its belly, easy as anything, and Stevie’s a little curious is all, sending the creature slinking off and away from them, disappearing between all the green.

“I’m sorry, older I get the less I remember my manners. I’m Maggie.” Palm extended, and when he takes it, it’s like that thing he and Tommy used to do as kids, bored out of their minds and making a game of shuffling in their socks, fingertip shocks to the backs of each other’s necks, just a quick gasp of static, there and gone.

“Tommy said you could help me out with something for poison ivy?” Oh, she says, mostly pantomime when she takes her hand back and wipes it on the thigh of her jeans, is it for you? He’s surprised how easily that makes him laugh.

“No, it’s, well, it’s my kid, got it pretty bad.”

“Your daughter is in luck then. I’m almost sure every kid in Jackson under the age of sixteen gets it at least once, and I treat every single one of them.” A slip, a stutter, because did she? Did he? He must have, right? Must have used that word, daughter, for her to say it. Even though he’s pretty sure he didn’t, pretty sure of his pause, but he can’t give it any more thought because she, Maggie, has already turned heel, a cursory look over her shoulder at him that tells him, yes, he should be following her further back into the shop.

“So, witch hazel is going to be your daughter’s new best friend. Soak a little of this into a cloth or towel and dab it onto the rash a few times a day, you really can’t overdo it though.” He’s trying to keep up, really, nodding and mmhmming as she hands him a small bottle, already onto the next thing, her glasses now sliding down to the end of her nose as she looks through drawers and cabinets, plucking out things that look like old shoe polish tins, jars covered with cloth toppers. A mix of method and madness, a grace to her movements, though something skittish is threaded through. Bird of prey, he thinks, something of fierce and feather in all that motion.

A combination of workshop and kitchen makes up what he thinks is the backroom of the shop, large butcher block taking up most of the middle of the room, back door propped open with something that, frankly, looks like an urn. An impressive-looking range spans the back wall, and he thinks that, maybe, in the before, some kind of restaurant. But now, very different means to very different ends.

“Alright, this’ll help most with the itching. It’s a bit potent, so just tell her to take a little bit, warm it up between her palms, and rub it over the worst spots.” Ultimately, he’s left with a bottle, a small tin, and a few sachets of oatmeal bath soak, only half sure he got all her directions, trying to balance listening to her, and letting his eyes wander over all the cabinets, dried plants and variously odd containers spilling out from everywhere. Head spinning, already spun out actually, and he can’t help but wonder how he’s just now meeting this woman, a strange sense that she’s important, though why, or to whom, he isn’t sure.

“That should have Sarah all cleared up in about a week, but if it’s still persisting–”

“I’m sorry–” Whatever he’s sorry about, it cracks and fails in his chest. Like he’s been winded, or maybe wounded, a sort of deep suckerpunch shock hearing that name come from a stranger’s mouth. He has to clear his throat before he speaks again, posing it like a question, you said Sarah? And there’s a peculiar thing that happens in the silence, the quick pass of her eyes over his face, pull of her brow like she’s the one that’s confused. But whatever it is, it’s gone just as quick, lines smoothing, a smile so small it can only be apologetic. That queasy twist in his gut has loosened, but there’s still something unsettled, that lingering static all over his skin.

“I thought I heard that was your kid’s name, but judging by your reaction I must be getting people mixed up again.” She says something else, something about taking care, a lot of folks around here pass through my hands, sometimes they blur together. He believes that well enough, still uncertain about the rest, though too skittish to do anything other than drop it. That name isn’t for anyone else, not even a bird of prey, so he keeps it folded up close and tight between his ribs and lets out a sigh to blow out all of his held breath, slumping civility.

“No, it’s alright, I’m not too good with names myself.”

“Well, there hasn’t been much need for that in this world, don’t you think?”

“I guess not, though I’m getting the sense it’s a little different around here.” It seems like a nervous thing, a pulse point reassurance in the way she brushes a hand back through her hair, lets her palm curl at the nape of her neck for a moment, then hand to wrist. Never still, she’s done it a few times now just standing here talking to him, though her words come easy, if not a little sharp, a single, high note of a laugh.

“Oh yeah, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to work on that, unless you wanna hurt some poor bird’s feelings, you know.” Wave of her hand, you know, and the thought occurs to him, errant, that this is the most normal conversation he’s had with someone since deciding not to leave. And quickly after that, the thought that he doesn’t hate it, this, doesn’t hate normal, doesn’t want normal to stop. For once, he feels like he can do normal. For once, it feels easy.

“Any advice?”

“What, on assimilating?” That word rolls languid and loose off her tongue, making a joke out of it as she pronounces each syllable, that sour twang pitching up another key. He nods, try me.

“Give it time, the names that matter will shake out eventually. In the meantime, just avoid direct eye contact and the rumor mill will leave you alone, relatively speaking.”

“That right?” Shrug, sigh, she tilts her head to the side, smile going slanted and shoulder hiked, it’s been working for me, kinda, sorta. His eyes trail the slope of her collar bone, bare now with how the sleeve of her shirt has slid a little askew. Sunspots, a silver knick of a scar, paper thin and fine.

“Ellie, that’s, um, well, my kid’s name.”

“Got it, and you’re Joel.”

“And you’re Maggie.”

“Look at you, already getting better at it.”

“Is that short for something?”

“Unfortunately, my mother saddled me with Magdalene.”

“Don't hear that one often.”

“Nope, she was a little, well–”

“Eccentric?”

“I was going to say righteous, but that works too.”

“Religious then?”

“In a way, yes, you could say that. You too? Joel sounds very bible-y.”

“My folks were, I never really acquired a taste for it though.”

“Hmm, amen.” Easy, easy, easy, until time does that thing it always does, starts to fissure beneath that delicate freeze. She glances at her watch, a polite sigh, and he notices the thin band on her finger, a foolish drop of disappointment souring his stomach, trying, and failing, to double check if it was her left, if it was her ring finger. Not that it matters though, not that it would, or could matter. Already on the move, something about a colicky baby I have to go check in on, leading him back out to the front of the shop, and he finally remembers the bottle and tins he’s holding, what he came here for in the first place.

“I appreciate all this, really, just name your price and–”

“Oh, no, consider it a welcome gift. I hope Ellie starts feeling a little better.” And he wants to accept that, her kindness, and how easily she offers it. But there’s no muscle left in him for that, weak and wilted and wary of shoes dropping, catches, and being caught. Whatever remains in its place, she notices it, that nervous hesitation, that one step back, that shifted glance toward the exit, softening some of her sharpness. And it’s not pity, because he knows pity, seen a lot of pity in these few months he’s been here. No, not that, something simpler and saner. Seeing and being seen, the cool slip of relief from it.

“I might have an idea for a trade if you’re up for it.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Tommy said you’re handsy–” She stops herself with a gasp that sounds like a hiccup, seemingly just as stunned as he is by the word, hair falling in her face with the shake of her head, little laugh, little brightness. Handy, oh my god, I meant handy.

“I’m sorry, clearly I don’t get out much, lord.” All hands, talking with her hands, palm to her forehead, then back through her hair, quick flickers, he tries to track that ring through its orbit, a dizzying effort. Hummingbird hands, a woman who is all wings.

“It’s alright, reckon you’re still better at this than I am.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ve been the picture of civility.”

“Will you tell Tommy that?”

“I’m sure I can put in a good word.” He’s lingering, or maybe she is, or maybe they both are. Not used to this, taking time for time’s sake.

“I am though. Handy, I mean, if you need help fixing something?” She does, she tells him, stair railing that’s come so loose she’s worried she’s going to go right through it one of these days. And it’s been twenty years since he’s been in a world in which people worry about the upkeep of their stair railing, but it’s an easy fix, he tells her, he can do that, he tells her. Sunday? Sunday works fine. They shake on it, stepping out of the shop into the mid-day glare of sun, her with a deep canvas bag hanging off her shoulder. She squints at him, it was nice meeting you, and he says the same, and finds himself actually meaning it. But there’s still something strange slicking up and down his spine, he’s reminded of it watching her walk off in the other direction, though he’s not really watching her any more, but the people she passes by.

Small town, close town, everyone knowing everyone else, names pinned down under thumbs. Ellie had let out a loud what the fuck when a stranger greeted them, by name, the first time they went to the dining hall for dinner. He’s been feeling a similar way about all the greetings, all the good neighbors doing what good neighbors do. But Maggie gets none of that walking down the block. No smiles, no tipped chins, no knowing and being known. He swears he even sees a few swept away glances, a few steps back the closer she gets. If it bothers her, she doesn’t show it, a sort of easy sway to her gait, walking hips-first, there, and there, and then gone when she turns a corner. Strange, and stranger even, when he looks down and notices that the puddle of black ink is chewing on his shoelaces again.

Little trouble, yellow eyes that round and narrow on him, he takes one step, and little trouble follows him, close on his heels. He imagines that they’re putting on an absurd show walking down the main drag of town, him stopping every few steps to turn around and see that yes, little trouble is still following him, though at an admittedly respectable distance, settling back on its haunches and staring him down every time he glances back over his shoulder. Little trouble follows him all the way to the front steps of his house, seeming to finally lose interest in favor of a bee humming lazy around a patch of weeds. The last thing he sees of little trouble is pink-padded paws batting at dandelions, curled-lip grin and white fang chewing on stems, beheading thick yellow manes.

…

She lives on the other side of town. Older builds, he thinks, been here longer, windows with glass that warbles a little in its age like melted sugar, and deep-set porches washed with dark blue shadows in the early morning light. Cottonwood trees sway and dip, old limbs that arc and curl over the cracked-up sidewalk, slumbering giants making the sounds of all the small life it hosts. It’s a side of Jackson he hasn’t seen until now and it reminds him of a younger, simpler time.

The town follows an old rhythm, late starts on Sunday. There’s even a church somewhere, though he’s not particularly concerned with finding it anytime soon. It’s still early enough, however, that he’s one of the few people already up and out. She told him to come as early as he wanted, really, I’ll be up. And he sees for himself that she was being honest, because when he walks up to the house she told him to look for, he finds her waging a zealous war with a rose bush in her front yard, and it doesn’t seem like she’s winning.

When he told his brother he had taken his advice, he was met with a surprising amount of interest, talking quietly over a shared drink and well, what did you think?

I didn’t realize you were waiting for my report.

She’s a little different is all, does things her own way.

Well, she got the kid fixed up.

I had no doubt she would.

I’m helping her on Sunday with something, as a trade.

Oh?

Stair railing in her house is loose. Been a long time since I thought about stair railing.

Wait, you’re going to her house?

Yes.

Into her house?

I’d presume so. Is that a problem?

No, just surprising.

Why’s that?

She keeps to herself, not exactly one to make friends, though I don’t blame her with the way– well, people can be cruel, I guess.

What’s that supposed to mean?

There’s talk, stupid stuff really. For what it’s worth I like her just fine.

Talk, his brother said. People spinning stories out of fear, or maybe something weaker than that. He’s been gathering up some of that talk all week, enough of it to make his head spin. The only thing he’s sure is truth, Maggie was here before Jackson was even called Jackson, just a nameless group of people that somehow managed to survive, until it became something else entirely. The rest, however, weft and warp of fact and fiction. Plenty of good words, broken bones set back in place and flu seasons weathered, babies born and grown, though the praise seems to be given with a reluctant respect, skittishly, but, well. But, well, something strange about her, isn’t there? He’s heard plenty of strange too. Strange, the way she talks to the wind, and the way it seems to listen. Strange, that cat of hers, with lingering eyes that watch and watch and watch, a shadow showing up in all the close, quiet places. Strange, whatever it is she keeps on the stove in the back of her shop. He asked Ellie if she’s heard anything, and she, pleased with herself, offered up a fantastical report of flight and dancing naked under the full moon, a perfectly tall tale he could imagine the children of Jackson passing around a classroom.

One thing he hasn’t heard anything about, the ring and whichever finger she wears it on. His right, her left, she’s still wearing it this morning, simple silver glinting and a pair of garden shears aloft in her hand. She smiles sheepish when she sees him, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.

“Those are pretty.” She doesn’t seem to realize he’s talking about the roses, big white blooms that she absently looks at over her shoulder, scoffing, her mouth screwed to the side.

“They’re useless is what they are, taking up too much space and overcrowding the rest of my plants.” As he gets closer, stepping beyond the gate and into the front yard, he sees the errant chaos of her work, stray petals and entire threads of flowers lopped off around her feet. She’s a little breathless as she speaks, back of her hand to her forehead to wipe stray salt, and he wonders how long she’s been out here at this.

“Not a fan of roses then?”

“To be honest with you, I don’t know where these are coming from. It seems like I cut them back and by the next morning they’ve taken over even more.” She gives a weak stab to the flowers that remain intact, a shake of her head as she abandons her work, and he shouldn’t, just here to fix her stair railing, he shouldn’t, but he already is, already saying the words before he can think about keeping his mouth shut, you’re bleeding.

“What?” He gestures, at least having half a mind not to touch, his hand hovering somewhere in the vicinity of her forearms. Long, thin welts where he’s sure the thorns got her, and maybe he’s a little startled by her breathing out oh, those fuckers, and this again, on the move again, and expecting him to follow her up the porchsteps and in through the screen door and just let it slam or it won’t close all the way. She’s already tramped further into the house and he finds himself utterly unsure of what comes next, shuffling a little in the hallway she left him in, head tilting with the sound of a faucet turning on somewhere, pipes groaning.

Another truth he gets to see for himself, Maggie has lived here a long time, all the acquired detritus of life that only time can allow, that leaving washes away. Paintings dripping off the walls, a craned-neck glance into the rooms around him revealing worn-looking furniture, shelves of books and little nothing things, trinkets and half-melted candles. And more plants, more plants everywhere.

“So, the stairs.” The stairs, in question, are an easy enough fix. How nice, he thinks, to know what is needed, and to know exactly where to go to get it, a few tools and materials only a ten minute walk away. She tells him to make himself at home, let yourself in, I’ll be in the back, I’d warn you about my guard dog but she’s not very good at her job. The guard dog in question is rubbing its whiskered cheek against the leg of her jeans, thrumming a purr so loud he thinks it’s at least partial performance, yellow eyes skewing up at him every now and again.

The work itself makes up the morning. Methodical, monotonous work that allows his mind, and his eyes, to wander. Whatever that ring on her finger means, he’s nearly certain that nobody else lives here with her, except for the cat who spends the first few hours sitting on the bottom step, watching him. As for Maggie, he catches glimpses of her, in and out all morning between what looks like a sunroom and the backyard, never still, always something in her hands, always moving like she’s got an important destination to get to. She comes back inside just as he’s finishing his work, dressed down in a tank top now, all her hair pulled into a precarious knot at the nape of her neck. His eyes linger on bare collar bone, sun high in her cheeks, even though he tries not to.

“I completely forgot to ask if your kid is feeling better.” He tells her that she is, tries for a joke about teenagers and all their drama that just feels weird in his mouth, though she still smiles at it. And he feels it again, just the same as when he met her, that tug, that want to linger, even though the work is done, and she’s thanking him for it, and even he, and all his dormant manners, knows that’s his cue to leave.

“I was about to make some lunch if you wanted to stick around?” He shouldn’t.

“Yeah, okay, thank you.” And so he stays for lunch, and so there’s tomato sandwiches, thick and bursting, summer sweet and savor on her back porch, wiping dripping ripeness off on the thigh of his pants, a hum in his throat to be enjoying something like this.

“How’s another week of domesticity suiting you?” Words that crackle with a half-grin, her cheek cupped in her palm, a picture of afternoon haze, sleep and sate, and he finds himself being lulled by the sight, little slump back in his chair.

“Don’t think it’s something I’ll get used to anytime soon.”

“That’s to be expected, I don’t think anyone ever fully gets used to it though. Not unless this is all they’ve known.”

“Where were you before you came here?” It’s a question that borders on prying, he apologizes and you don't have to almost as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but she waves the apology off, it’s a little complicated. And she tells him that this is where she lived in the before, right up until the after, and that she, like so many others, got funneled into a quarantine zone in the earliest years.

“Were you ever in one?”

“Boston, for a while.”

“Then you know how maddening those places are.” Bird of prey, trapped in a cage. Bird of prey, who flew back home. Bird of prey, who found that a few other people had the same idea.

“It wasn’t called Jackson back then, wasn’t called anything, just people, you know.” Until it became something else, something bigger, and a little more serious, and if that bothers her, she doesn’t show it. And now he really is prying, asking after her accent that surely doesn’t come from the mountains. He’s not wrong, she tells him.

“I moved here when I was, oh, maybe nine? My parents, we lived in Mississippi before they passed, and when they did I was sent up north to live with my aunt.” It’s an old wound, whatever pain that remains from it has been transfigured into a sort of tired nostalgia around her eyes, the tempering of her smile. She’s quick to brush it away, a bright laugh and a shake of her head, I think I just told you all my secrets. He knows that isn’t true, though warmth still starts to unfurl in his chest. And when she asks him the same questions, he offers the same piecemeal parts of the whole truth. Offers Texas, and his brother, and a halfway truth about Ellie. Shards and fragments passed between each other’s hands, it surprises him how easily he has given his to her.

“I guess we’re not strangers anymore then.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I should– I feel the need to warn you.” Like she’s not sure how to put these words together right, brow pinched low and smile slanted nervous, you might not want to spend too much time around me.

“Why’s that?”

“People around here like to talk.”

“Right.”

“And they like talking about me.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And I don’t want– you seem like the kind of guy who just wants to keep his head down and get by.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“I’d like to be friendly, but I don’t want to take that from you.” The word friendly does something unpleasant in his chest. He does his best to ignore it.

“Why’d you invite me to stay?”

“Because I like talking to you and because I’m selfish. Because I wanted to.” And there’s something else, he thinks, something else unspoken behind her grin. Because he hasn’t made up his mind about her in the same way everyone else has, at least not yet.

“I have heard things, about you, I mean.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“And I have questions.” She sits back in her chair, an edge of a challenge in her jutted chin, palms turned up and open, try me. But given the chance, he doesn’t know where to begin, which thread to pull first. What comes out, ultimately, isn’t even a question, but plain and blunt observation. This is a big house.

“It’s just me, and Stevie. I’ve offered up rooms to folks around here, haven’t gotten any bites so far.”

“But it wasn’t always, just you.” Absent-minded, she spins that silver band with her thumb, another wound revealed.

“I was married until I wasn’t.”

“Before or after?” He doesn’t know where this is coming from, this plainly brash openness, though she doesn’t wince, doesn’t recoil from it, just as steady as he is.

“After, about a decade after. You think you’re in the clear and then, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for now. Ask me something else, why don’t you? Something more interesting.” Wave of her hand and a clipped laugh that’s more like a sniff, tender, don’t touch, don’t dig into that wound any deeper.

“People say you’re strange.”

“Strange.” Dragging out the word, letting it crackle with a grin that’s all teeth, little laugh on the end, picture perfect amusement in how she tilts her head at him.

“That you can do strange things.”

“That’s kind of a nothing word, isn’t it? Strange?”

“I thought you were gonna answer my questions.”

“Oh, I will. You’re gonna have to be a little more precise in your language though.” Back and forth, back and forth, why does he like this so much? Dragging his palm down his jaw to stop the spread of anticipation, heat-hazy in the mid-afternoon sun.

“That cat of yours, for starters.”

“Mmhmm?” Raise of her brows, voice high in her throat, and he has to huff, do I really have to say it?

“Are you referring to the rumor that my cat spies on people and reports back to me all their wicked, little secrets?”

“Sure, yes.”

“That cat right there?” His eyes follow her pointed finger out into the tall grass of the backyard, where the cat in question seems to have contented itself with tangling its paws in a loose length of twine, belly-up, writhing around in all that green. Maggie snorts.

“Oh yeah, she’s a real mastermind, you better watch out, she’ll be visiting your bedroom window next.”

“Then what about the rest of it?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“I’m glad you’re finding this so amusing.”

“Mmhmm, I really am.”

“I feel foolish even saying it.”

“If there’s a word you’re skirting around, and I think there is, it’d be better if you just come out with it.”

“This really is a nothing word though.”

“Oh?”

“Made up, make-believe.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Frankly, I’m not sure of anything about you.” She hums, chin cupped in her hand and her elbow propped on the small table between them, her brow dipping in mock consideration of his words. He can see that she really is finding all of this entertaining, something in her eyes like a squinted challenge, ghost of a smile twitching in the corners of her mouth.

“How about I say the word I think you’re thinking of?” Spiraling words, circling each other, he nods, and she purses her lips, getting ready for some kind of lift off.

“People have told you my cat is strange.”

“People have told you I’m strange.”

“People have told you I do strange things.” Yes, yes, yes, he nods with each statement, and her smile only seems to brighten.

“Joel, have people been telling you I’m a witch?” And that’s it, isn’t it? Foolish, and he doesn’t know why that word has seemed to stick in his mind. Maybe just because he’s heard it from enough mouths in the last few days that it almost makes it seem plausible. Maybe he’s lived in a world turned inside out on itself long enough that there is very little imagination that hasn’t been eaten away by reality. Maybe he’s just like the rest of them, looking for any way to explain someone who doesn’t do things the capital-w Way they are supposed to be done. Maybe he’s still thinking about Sarah, and where Maggie could have possibly plucked that name from. And maybe that word is just holding the place of something else, an uneasiness he feels around her, though not unpleasant, just other, and so very unlike any other. He opens his mouth to speak, but decides against it, and this seems to amuse her most of all, sharp smile now softening, no longer playing at a game because they’ve both caught each other now, haven’t they?

“That’s what people say.”

“And you? What do you say?”

“Does it matter?”

“If we’re going to be friends, yes, I’d like to know what you think.” Friends, they’re going to be friends. When did that happen? He thinks that may be the strangest thing of all.

“I think I don’t know enough yet to tell you what I think.”

“How judicious of you.”

“I think you’re different though.”

“Well, I think you’re different too.”

“Why?”

“Most people wouldn’t have gone past the front porch, and here you are staying for lunch.”

“I don’t mean to impose or–”

“That’s not what I meant.” The words are kind, but they’re also a conclusion, enough, for now, enough. He watches her get up and collect both their plates before he can think to move, and then another kindness, touch, her palm on his shoulder as she passes behind him, there and gone. He’s a stranger to touch that isn’t economical, or clinical, or plainly violent, and he finds himself unsure what to do with that, though inexplicably wanting more of it.

She thanks him again for the fix to the railing, and he thanks her for lunch. He lingers, and she lets him, helps with the dishes, checks the railing one more time. I’ll see you, she says, walking him out onto the front porch, and she does it again, touch again, somewhere at his elbow, as simple as anything. The roses are still raging in her front yard, a whole wave of them.

Somewhere in the middle of his walk home, he realizes the cat is following him, second shadow slinking low to the ground, dipping her head when he turns around, pretending at predator. He keeps walking, pays little attention to her pursuit. He’ll get used to it eventually. He thinks he already is.

...........................

taglist: @suzmagine @joelsgreys @vee-bees-blog @noisynightmarepoetry @kungfucapslock @iloveenya @evolnoomym @wannab-urs @survivingandenduring @thereaperisabitch @schnarfer @jessthebaker @tobethlehem

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller au #apothecary gv

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jabberwockprince · 4 months

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SPINA VENATORES A small organization of mercenaries working for Manus Vindictae, tasked with erasing people from history as a way to call upon the "Storm". Their targets' names, families, influence and connections to this world will be dragged into oblivion.

Individual profiles and some more info/ramblings under the cut <3

The whole point of Spina Venatores is to be a parallel to Vertin's own independent group of Arcanists - the same way St. Pavlov's Foundation has her, Manus Vindictae has Venison and Spina. They're the mouth and teeth of Manus.

But whereas Vertin aims to create a safe, neutral space for Arcanists to thrive without human influence despite being tied to the Foundation, Venison is aiming to create a paradise for those they care about and no one else due to the heavy influence Arcana and Manus have on them.

Spinas Venatores is, at its core, a cult that was allowed to grow thanks to Venison's codependent and obsessive mindset - with them as the leader, all the troublesome and rebellious members of Manus Vindictae (that are much too powerful to get rid of or who are still clinging on to their former lives) will simply be assimilated into Spina or pressured to comply with Manus Vindictae as a whole. The third secret option is dying <3.

They also serve as a narrative device to remind everyone of the fact that, no matter how hard one may try, there's no way EVERYONE can be saved from the "Storm" - all five main members are related in some way or another to Arcanists that Vertin has met, they're people that weren't lucky enough to be taken in, who found themselves in the right time and place for Manus Vindictae to take advantage of their vulnerable state.

R1999 also portrays a LOT of oppression from various minorities that overlap with each other in very interesting ways, so I also wanted them to tackle similar things that mean so much to me - they're problematic queers is what I'm trying to say lmfao

The thing they share is that all of them are delusional to a degree, and that they're constantly haunted and defined by their relationships to others. The loss and discovery of the self through another, Ship of Theseus, cannibalism, body horror, being transgender as a really visceral and intimate experience, an obsession for love in all of its forms etc etc.

I don't have the FULL scope of their backstories, but I do know who they're tied to!

Venison was Pavia's coworker in a constant, obsessive loop of wanting to kill and save each other. Mutton was part of Schneider's mafia and romantically involved with one of her oldest sisters. Chevon was a regular visitor in Necrologist's museum and a friend of hers, she later went on to exhibit his many, many tombstones. Poultry is the "Lilian" mentioned in Darley Clatter's Stories. And Veal is a mystery even to me </3

Their uniforms are meant to look outrageous and outlandish, entirely out of place with the setting and their respective eras/times, inspired by fantasy - just BARELY reminiscent of Manus Vindictae by virtue of using a similar palette, as a way to drive that feeling of not belonging and delusion even harder.

Whereas everyone else is dealing with very real issues, all members of Spina Venatores live pretty much in their own heads (similar to Forget Me Not and how Manus Vindictae causes their recruits to become... YEAH.....THOSE MONSTERS....)

Venison gets the BIG COAT and the biggest silhouette because they're responsible for pretty much 80% of what happens within Spina Venatores! Veal gets the more simple design to allude to their whole unassuming, shapeshifter/Doppelganger thing.

They all have ribcage/bone motifs in one way or another, most of their jewels are meant to look like rosaries, they wear the Manus Vindictae silver cross and Arcana's blue color more often than regular members of Manus. Also! Hands!! Love the fuckin hands!! DID YOU GUYS SEE DIGGERS' MANUS VINDICTAE SKIN???? YEAH.

The naming convention being. types of different meats. is entirely because of Venison, you can ALSO blame that entirely on them <3

#reverse 1999 #reverse: 1999 #reverse 1999 oc #manus vindictae #spina venatores #purinsu art #my beloved r1999 OCs #also i love drawing stained glass GRRR ITS SO GOOD #i have so much info about these motherfuckers idk where to put it

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electronicwitchcollection · 8 months

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Aizen smut

crikey (never used the word crikey in my life, but hey, maybe it was all part of Aizens plan) Aizen is a difficult man to write for! This is my first, and probably my last Aizen one shot 😂 it took me WEEKS to write this and I still hate it

Aizen

Prompt : "sorry... I didn't mean to call you that"

"don't come until I tell you too"

You had stayed behind after office hours to help your Captain catch up on his paperwork. You had overheard the conversation between Captain Aizen and Lieutenant Hinamori as he sent her home early, clearly struggling with what appeared to be a particularly bad flu. Lieutenant Hinamori's sniffly protests were quickly silenced by Captain Aizens deep and sultry tone, promising that he could manage one late night without her help.

"I can help you Captain". Your voice unexpectedly joined the room, as your own eyes widened in surprise

you hadn't ment to say that out loud

Captain Aizens eyes fell on you, seemingly searching into your very soul, for what, you couldn't place. Slowly they caressed your body, starting at your legs, travelling slowly up every curve until they stopped to stare into your eyes

"L/N-chan". He had smiled sweetly at you, soft brown eyes enhanced by square glasses freezing you to the spot as a chill ran through you "are you sure you have nothing better to do with your evening?"

You watched captivated as his tongue swept out, barely noticeable, to run across his bottom lip. His smile was small, kind. His eyes however, were intense and focused, watching you intently as you tried to grasp hold of yourself

"I don't mind, sir. I've not got anything planned for tonight"

That was a lie. You had planned to go to the shopping district to find yourself a new book, having finished your last one. Suddenly the prospect of a new book seemed unimportant now that you had the chance to spend some one on one time with the Captain that had captivated your most secret of fantasies.

You could feel your cheeks begin to warm and silently prayed that you weren't glowing a brilliant red. Captain Aizen watched you for a moment more before turning to his Lieutenant, unassuming smile back on his handsome face

"now head home, Hinamori-chan. Get yourself better" he laid a large hand on her shoulder, squeezing it momentarily as she gazed up at him adoringly, a familiar look that you often catch on your own face when seeing your Captain

That's how you ended up seated at a large, dark wooden desk opposite your Captain in the otherwise empty work barracks. The sun had long since set, it was a cloudy night and without the shine of the moon, Captain Aizen had lit some candles to illuminate the space.

The scratching of quills on paper, the distant wind and the small crackle of the flames were all that could be heard in the office. Your heart beat heavily in your chest as your eyes left the paperwork for the numerous time that evening to catch a glimpse of the Captain bathed in candle light.

One large hand laid flat on his desk as he easily wrote his report. His strong jaw was cast in shadow as his head tilted down. You watched transfixed as his hand left the desk to push his glasses back up his nose to a more comfortable position and your mouth went dry

From the first time you had seen Captain Aizen, guest lecturing at the academy you had been infatuated with him. Tall, powerful frame. His kind, deep chocolate eyes framed by dark rimmed glasses. His dark, devil may care hair, falling softly on his face. There wasn't much you didn't find attractive about him.

When he had began his lecture, a shiver went down your spine at the deep sultry tone. You began to fantasise about him, touching you, whispering dirtily into your ear. The fantasies only grew more intense when you joined his division and got to see him every day

You had wondered how he would be in bed. If he would be sweet and loving, taking care of your every need as he held you close. You had even wondered if he had any other.. more interesting kinks

I wonder if he likes being called daddy?

You almost snorted at the thought, thinking such things in work.

"YN chan?" Captain Aizens voice pulled you from your day dreaming, only to realise you had been staring at him the entire time. He had a small smile playing on his lips as he raised an amused eyebrow. "Do you feel well?"

"yes! Sorry, I got lost in thought" you babbled quickly, embarrassed at being caught staring

"thank goodness. I had worried you had caught what Hinamori is suffering through." His smile widened as he put down his quill to clasps his hands together on the desk"your cheeks are becoming awfully red"

You screamed internally. Cursing how easily you became embarrassed and how obvious it showed on your pale skin

"No sir" you said quietly, averting your eyes "just got distracted"

"understandable, it's become quite late." His voice sounded lower, gruffer. "It's nearly midnight"

Your head snapped up at that. Midnight?! How long have I been staring?! You thought mortified

"thank you for your help, YN chan, but perhaps it's time for you to head home to bed"

"I don't mind finishing" you offered weakly, glancing at the still unfinished paperwork sat between you. Aizen shook his head gently, picking his quill back up

"Im afraid I must insist. I cannot be responsible for keeping you up all night" he said distracted, concentrating on his work once more

I actually wouldn't mind you keeping me up all night. The intrusive thought brought a flush to your face. Standing abruptly, you bowed low to your Captain. "Thank you, daddy"

Your eyes widened significantly as the word tumbled out of your mouth. Staring at the wooden floor below you, you prayed frantically

Please say that didn't happen. Please don't let him have heard me

The sound of the quill hitting the desk was deafening. As you straightened up you saw Captain Aizen staring at you, a mixture of amusement and shock over his handsome features. There was something else, deep in his eyes that you couldn't make out

"im sorry" you stutter out quickly, barely above a whisper "I didn't mean to call you that"

Bowing again quickly, you turned on your heel and made your way to the office door as quick as you could without running. You felt humiliated, angrily cursing yourself for not thinking before you spoke

"YN" your Captains gravely voice stopped you as your trembling fingers brushed the brass door handle. You stopped, closing your eyes dreading what would happen next "take a seat"

Unable to refuse the command of a Captain, you turned to walk slowly back to your previous seat, eyes firmly fixed to the floor. Just as your hand began to pull your chair back, he spoke again

"not there" the sound of a chair being dragged against the floor "here"

Your eyes snapped up, wide and confused. He tapped his thigh twice, indicating where he wanted you to sit. "Now, YN" he spoke softly, but the command got you moving. Your legs started to shake as you walked around the desk, breathing heavily through your nose.

Aizen turned in his seat as you approached, watching you intently. You came to a stop in front of him, body trembling with nerves and a little excitement. Aizen swiped his hand above his lap, a welcoming gesture offering the space

"Captain Aizen.. I." You started, painfully awkward. Were you really expected to sit on his lap? Surly this was some kind of joke, the moment you sit down he would surly laugh at you.

"do not make me repeat myself for a third time" he said in a clipped manor, eyes flashing dangerously. You turned immediately, lowering yourself gently to perch on his lap, trying to keep most of your weight supported on your two feet tip toeing on the floor. Staring straight ahead, you waited with held breath as you gripped the cloth on your thighs tightly with both hands

"good girl" Aizen muttered near your ear as he push your hair to fall over one shoulder, his breath ghosted over your ear making you squirm expectantly. Large hands settled on your waist, gripping them firmly and halting your movements

"stay still" Aizen growled lowly into your ear. Your breath hitched as you fought the urge to push your thighs together,desperately wanting some friction. His grip on your hips pulled you further onto his lap as his lips began leaving teasing kisses down your neck. Gasping at the sensation your eyes closed automatically to savour the feeling.

"do you want me to take care of you?" You heard Aizen utter as he pulled the neckline of your top over, kissing the shoulder he created access too. Your lust filled brain wanted nothing more than that

"yes" you breath as you tilted your head to the side to expose more skin

"yes, what?" He asked you, pulling back and denying you his touch

"yes..please?" The whine in your voice evident to your own ears

"try again" Aizens cold voice sounded out demandingly

You turn to look at him over your shoulder, unsure of what he was wanting. His usual warm brown eyes were hardened, staring at you expectantly. Apology about to fall from your lips was silenced as his hand came up to cup your flushed cheek, his thumb ran across your bottom lip

"who are you addressing, YN?"

"yes..Daddy"

"good girl" he praised you, using his thumb to pull down your lower lip and watching it spring back into place. "Stand"

You raise to your feet quickly, heart beating rapidly in your chest. Not daring to turn around, You could feel Aizen stand behind you, hear the sound of his chair being pushed away to the side. You jumped at the feel of a large hand caress over the swell of your clothed ass, a small squeak leaving your lips. The hand traveled to your hip, following the contour down to your thigh. A burning trail left in the wake of the inquisitive palm.

The hand left you and you let out a shaky breath. The shuffling of papers had your head tilting to the side, you watched as the Captain cleared room on his desk before removing his glasses and placing them in the draw. The snap of the wooden draw closing had you jolting back round, staring ahead obediently. You heard Aizens soft footsteps before you saw him, slowly he stalked around you, eyes fixated on your body like a predator ready to pounce on their willing prey.

With the glasses removed, Aizens face seemed more defined. The sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones more pronounced, flickering candles casting sinister shadows over his face. The usual fall of his hair was slicked back, a rouge strand falling over his intense eyes. You swallowed thickly at the sight

He stood before you, intently studying your form, arms crossed over his chest, Aizen propped a thumb under his chin, finger ghosting over his own lips deep in thought. Your cheeks reddened Under his scrutiny.

"Remove your clothing" removing his glasses seemed to have changed his whole persona, not only does he now look angular and dominating, even his voice had taken on a darker tone. You're unable to tear away your gaze from his powerful eye contact, slowly your limbs move to do as commanded. Your arms felt heavy, uncoordinated as you fumble with your sash.

Fingers felt numb as you tried to loosen the knot. Aizen watched as you struggled, seemingly enjoying the effect he was having on you. Mercifully the knot loosened, allowing you to pull it free and loosening the wrap of your Black Kosode. You peeled it from your rapidly heating body, dropping it to the floor.

Aizens eyes raked over the exposed skin, studying the swell of your breasts sat perkily in your black lacy bra. You could feel as your nipples hardened under his hungry look, brushing against the course netting of your bra. You hooked your fingers into the waist band of your Hakama, shimmying it over your full hips to fall in a pool at your feet. Aizen offered you a large hand to step out from the fabric. Your hand trembled in his own, strong hand. Stepping free, you kicked off your tabi and waraji, Aizen dropped your hand to fall back at your side

You we're thankful you had decided to wear matching underwear this morning as his eyes fixated at the juncture between your thighs. The small Material became damp, sticking uncomfortably to your skin. Your thighs squeezed together in an attempt to ease the need you felt between your legs, earning for friction. Your skin prickled as goosebumps erupted at the slight chill in the room.

Aizen stalked forward, circling you slowly. You felt him stop behind you, his breath ghosted over your hair sending a shiver down your spine. You felt his fingers brush against your bra strap, running his finger along the edge. Your eyes closed as you felt him undo the clasp, felt the relief from your breasts escaping their prison. Slowly he pushed a strap down your arm, stroking the skin as he went before doing the same to the other side. Your bra followed the rest of your attire, left forgotten on the floor.

Stood only in your panties you felt a flush of embarrassment flow through you, every imperfection laid bare for your Captain to whiteness. Seconds stretched out painfully in silence though you couldn't find the strength to turn around. Something landing heavily at your side startled you. You peeked down to see your Captains white coat on the floor with your belongings.

The rest of his uniform quickly followed, excitement filled you when the last item hit the floor. The subject of your infatuation was stood behind you naked. Saliva increased in volume in your mouth, literally salivating at the idea.

"Turn" the single command broke the silence. You obey eagerly, turning to see the gloriously naked form of Sousuke Aizen, leaning on the side of his desk, hips jutted out invitingly. Your eyes dropped down to his arousal, thick and swollen with need. The phallic looked smooth and heavy, it twitched excitedly at your intensive look.

"kneel" your eyes snapped back up to meet his own, a perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised expectantly at your hesitation. "Now, YN"

You hurriedly took a step forward before dropping to your knees. Eye level with his hardened length, musky masculine smell reached your nose. Your tongue darted out to moisten your dry lips.

"open". You willing opened your mouth, forming the perfect O. Aizen inched closer to you, rubbing the bulbous head across your bottom lip teasingly. A drop of precum stained your lips, your tongue darted out to taste the moisture. Subtly salty, it made your mouth water. Aizen pushed into your willing mouth, cock gliding over your tongue. You felt the silky skin with your tongue, tentatively tasting his length.

Aizen sucked in a harsh breath above you, hips bucking his length further into your mouth. Taking it as a sign to continue you pull him further into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sucking gently. Aizen smoothed down your hair, pulling it away from your face to hold loosely behind your head in a make shift ponytail. You set the pace, sucking on his cock softly, massaging the length liberally with your tongue. Your head pulled back at a tortuous pace, swirling your wet appendage around the leaking head.

Aizen endured your pace, strong thighs spread in front of you, twitching deliciously during a slow drag of your mouth. Your hands reached out to hold the powerful muscles, raking your nails over his taut skin. Wet slurps mingled with quiet the grunts that managed to escape his control.

The grip on your hair tightened unexpectedly, Aizens feet spread, planting securely on the floor were the only warning you had before Aizen took control. Pushing your head onto his cock as he thrusted forward, Aizen fucked your mouth with the soul purpose of pleasing himself. Breathing heavily through your nose, you try to relax your jaw, giving him free reign to use your mouth.

A quick snap of his hips had you gagging loudly, his erection hitting the back of your throat harshly. Aizen groaned at the noise, eagerly pushing himself further into your throat. Your nails dug into his thighs, clawing at something to hold. "You can take it" his words pulled your eyes upwards, locking into his own. Nearly black with lust he watched you intently as he pushed himself into your mouth to the hilt and holding himself there.

The head of his cock squeezed its way to the back of your throat, making it difficult to breath. Fighting back a threatening gag, you fight the panic of the loss of air, willing yourself to relax. Aizen kept you in place with a firm grip on your hair, the strands tugging painfully at your scalp. The lack of oxygen was becoming to much, your eyes watered at the burn, a tear pulled from your lashes, trailing wetly down your cheek.

Struggling in his grasp, you tried pulling yourself from the intrusive length in your throat. Swallowing thickly around the mass, your throat contrasted in the effort to remove the invading rod. You clawed at Aizens thighs, desperately looking into his cold gaze, begging for release. Just when you thought Aizen wouldn't hear your pleas he pulled back, removing himself from your mouth entirely. You gasped harshly, air rushing back into your burning lungs. Aizen watched as you coughed and spluttered at his feet, hand loosening in your hair to resume petting you gently.

"Beautiful" he murmured, his other hand cupped your cheek, thumb wiping away the tears that had escaped. He allowed you a moment to collect yourself, soothingly stroking your hair. Breathing turning back to normal, you let out a shaky breath.

Aizens hand on your hair trailed down to your neck, caressed over your shoulder and down to your elbow. Guiding you to your feet, legs trembling, fighting to hold you up right. When you trusted your legs to hold your weight, you looked up into your Captains face. A slight up turn of his lips, too cold to be a real smile is what you saw

"You choking on my cock was a magnificent sight". He praised you, leaning down to kiss you chastely, pulling away too soon for your liking. You let Aizen guide you back to the desk, hand securely holding your elbow. He manoeuvred you to the desk where he was previously sitting, standing close behind you. You felt Aizen push your hair to one side, allowing him access to your neck. Firm hands planted themselves on your shoulders, slowly gliding down your arms to your hands, muttering into your neck "hold the edge of the desk, don't let go" as he bent you over, placing your hands on the opposite side with a squeeze.

You felt exposed, bent naked over his large desk, ass in the air. You felt his hands trails back up your arms as he straightened, caressing your back down to the swell of your ass that he squeezed liberally. Breasts were pressed into the smooth wood of the desk, head hung down to press your forehead to the cool surface. Your breath came out in short pants, heating the little space between your mouth and chest.

Aizen hooked his fingers into your panties, dragging them over your ass and down your thighs, letting them pool around your feet. His hands roamed over your ass, admiring the view. Your head snapped back with a guttural moan as Aizen slammed into you unexpectedly. Thick cock stretching you painfully as he filled you completely. He grabbed hold of your sharply hips, fingers digging into the supple flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The slow drag of his length had you feeling every exquisite inch of the velvety flesh as he pulled from you, to snap back in unforgivingly.

The loud slaps of skin on skin broke through the sill calmness of the empty Baracks, echoing sinfully around the room. Your eyes shut in agonising pleasure as he thrust into you lethally, setting a punishing pace. Your lower stomach rippled and contorted, rapidly building up the tension ready to snap into deleterious ecstasy.

Aizen pulled you onto him with every thrust, filling you to the brim. Your knuckles whitened on the desk you clung to desperately, fighting the pull of Aizen pulling you onto his cock. You moaned loudly, pleasure shooting through your abused core. A hand reached out to fist your hair, pulling your head back harshly. Your neck strained against the angle as you keened softly.

"don't cum until I tell you too" Aizens strained voice commanded you, keeping hold of the air of Authority he had been portraying. Your dripping pussy clenched at his words, aching to find release. A whine left your lips, hips slamming into the hard edge of the desk supporting your body. You felt ready to explode, tittering on the edge, an orgasm ready to rip through you.

You clenched your teeth in concentration, striving off your impending release. Aizens hips bounced off your ass with his rapid thrusting, slapping increasing in volume. Pleasure overwhelming, the need to let go was becoming unbearable . Tears pricked in your eyes "Please" you almost sobbed the word.

"not yet" He told you, releasing your hair to grab one of your legs, pulling it up to rest your knee on the desk before joining his other hand bruising your hip. "Wait until I tell you"

You cried out at his frenzied thrusting, abusing your gspot with practiced accuracy. The new angle had him reaching impossibility deeper. Lewd wet noises penetrated through your desperate haze had you cringing . The sloppy sounds of your sex,evidence of the pleasure you were feeling. Aizens thrusts became erratic, loosing the rhythm in his gear attempt to ascend into bliss.

"now, YN " he growled behind you, slamming into you with a final blow. Warmth filled you as he released, the thick substance coating your spasming walls, leaking out to drip down onto the polish desk. You screamed silently, mouth hanging open as euphoria washed over you. Endorphins rushed through your body, vision blurring momentarily as your spent pussy milked the last few drops from your captains softening cock.

Your body went limp, death grip on the desk loosening as you laid boneless, shallowly panting. You groaned as Aizen pulled himself from you entirely, cold empty feeling replacing the full warmth, his ejaculate cooling uncomfortably on your thighs. You heard the movement around you, mind too foggy to place the sounds.

The wooden roll of a desk draw opening had you blinking away the pull of sleep enticing you. Tenderly you tried to get your arms under you, peeling your sweat soaked skin off the polished wood. Aizen appeared in your vision, redressed in his uniform. He had his glasses back on his nose, hair messily about his face. The hardened look disappeared, replaced with the comforting kindness you had associated with the Captain

He tenderly stroked your hair, pushing the messed up strands over your ear "you did wonderfully, thank you for your assistance this evening, YN chan" He straightened to his full height, looming over you for a moment before walking to the door, calling softly over his shoulder "get yourself home, YN. "

You watch dumbfounded as he left the office without a backwards glance. The silence in the room was deafening, cool chill became bitingly cold as the feeling of being utterly used swallowed you. You pushed yourself to stand on trembling legs, numbly gathering your clothes and redressing automatically. The difference in the captain was startling. As though two different men inhabited the same body, you struggled to wrap your mind around the contrast between them

Just who was Sousuke Aizen?

#bleach #bleach tybw #bleach fanfiction #sosuke aizen #captain aizen #aizen x reader #aizen x y/n #aizen x you #aizen smut #bleach smut

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angelynmoon · 1 year

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More Eldritch Steve, (I really do need to name this Au) because I couldn't leave you hanging like that.

Thank you for all your guesses.

Part 7

Wayne knows that Steve is Other the moment he sees him, he's always had a sense for these things, ever since he was young.

He knew, long before Eddie's father stole his first candy bar, that the man was a bad egg, knew that he'd end up dead or in jail, the man was lucky that he got caught by the police before Wayne could get at him for what he'd done to Eddien he was lucky he was safe in jail and Wayne made sure the man knew it.

But Wayne doesn't say anything, never has, no one but the old bloods would believe him, if he had cared to, the Harrington name carried too much weight, not that it mattered, Emilia Harrington would protect her son until the day she died, Steve had chosen his family wisely.

But Wayne knew, and he could see Steve look at him and know that Wayne knew what he was.

Wayne saw his considering look, the way he nodded like it explained so much, and perhaps it did, at least for Steve.

But Steve said nothing, shook Wayne's hand with a small, close mouthed smile, nonthreatening, almost welcoming even.

And Wayne couldn't help smiling back, wide mouthed and threatening because he didn't care what Steve had done to protect Eddie, he was still the boy's father, more than his blood one had ever been, and he had to make sure Steve understood that.

Steve merely tilted his head in a nod and looked at the teenaged children playing that game Eddie was so fond on in the center of Steve's living room.

"We're the last." Steve told Wayne, softly, "I killed the rest for killing my spawn, I understand."

Wayne looked at Steve, really looked at him and saw what he'd been before Wayne had left the Down Below so long ago.

Small, unassuming creature, the one that liked demobats and demogorgans, easy meal, the thought ran through Wayne's mind, as it had so many times before.

But all things had a breaking point, all things had that one thing they would destroy worlds for.

Wayne nodded as Steve looked at Eddie with something akin to love in his eyes, it wasn't the same as a human's love, no theirs was deeper, more possessive, thier love was dangerous in ways only a human psycopath's love was, obsessive and eternal.

Eddie would never be permitted to have another, and Steve would never let him leave him, their kind may not need another to spawn but when they paired it was for life.

Oh, Wayne was going to have to have a talk with Eddie, one he had hoped never to have.

Eddie may not be Wayne's blood but Wayne had raised him, it made sense that Eddie would attract Steve.

Like calls to like afterall.

A/n; i need you all to know that i did not even consider Argyle because in my head they met when Jonathan and the rest of the Cali Crew arrived, but i can see it.

The other one was always Wayne to me, and part of me is pleased that he wasn't anyone's guess because yeah.

Also that throwaway comment he made about nothing human being able to do that to Chrissy made me think that maybe he knows things, thus Eldritch Wayne, I'm not tagging it so people can be shocked.

@addelyin @merricatty @lesbiabrobin @apuckishwit @0o-mushroom-o0 @starlight-archer @darkwitchoferie @just-a-tiny-void @swimmingbirdrunningrock @intergalactic-president-awesome @vampireinthesun @goodolefashionedloverboi @adhdsummer @purpleanimeoverart @space-invading-pigeon @lilaclilyroses @nohomoyesbi @plantzzsandpencilzzs @korixae @subversivecynic @flusteredcas @persnicketysquares @freddykicksasses @little-trash-ghost @cupcakesnwhiskey @cats-ate-all-of-my-pasta

#eldritch monster steve #upside down creature steve #steddie undertones #Wayne Munson #protective Wayne Munson #of sorts #i will eventually put this on ao3 #maybe #part 7 #From the Rot

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hrodvitnon · 2 months

Text

Working on my first Falke-centric fic, featuring the LSTR unit that S-23 Sierpinski definitely had before she vanished into the ether.

---

Falke rests her chin atop the knuckles of her joined fingers, focusing on LSTR-S2301 as she works. There is a vague familiarity to her mien; efficient, no-nonsense, decisive, determined. Falke digs through her knowledge of the model before her; LSTR units are stoic loners whose neural template is based off of a Vinetan soldier. In just one brief description she already feels more kinship with this seemingly unassuming engineer than she does the models she's meant to be complemented by.

Falke's mouth curves. "I have a wonder."

"Hm?"

"How do your fellow LSTRs refer to each other? By names or numbers?"

LSTR-S2301 considers the question for all of two seconds before shrugging. "Numbers. We don't interact with each other like most Replikas of other rates do. We generally don't interact at all unless necessary."

An idea begins forming in Falke's mind. A delicious idea.

"Neither do FLKR units," she admits, causing LSTR-S2301 to look up at her. So exhilarating to maintain eye contact with someone who isn't cowed by her through reputation alone! Such a small, simple, insignificant thing, one that might be considered blasphemous among the more devoted, like Adler. But Falke likes that about her.

"We are all sisters, as we are made in the image of the Great Revolutionary and Her Daughter, but you almost never see two of us in the same place for logistical reasons. Only one FLKR per AEON facility and so on. However, we have our own war names assigned, and might even give each other secret names, should such an occasion arise that two of us might join forces."

"I presume you have both your war name and secret name."

"I do. I'm tempted to share them with you."

LSTR-S2301's eyes widen noticeably and Falke's mouth forms a smile. The two watch each other for a moment.

"Commander, permission to pose a question?"

"Granted."

"Is it possible for the divine apparent to blaspheme against itself?"

"I'm about to try."

LSTER-S2301 has no response for that. Falke stands from her desk and strides over to one of the paintings, pleased with this minor demonstration of... rebellion? How delicious. She looks over one shoulder to meet eyes with the LSTR; still standing at her own full height even as she's towered over, as if in defiance. Yes, Falke likes this Replika very much.

The movement of LSTR-S2301's eyes indicate a question that she isn't sure ought to be voiced.

"You already have permission to speak," Falke reminds her.

"Am I permitted to ask the etymological origin of a FLKR's name?"

Ahh, good and careful wording. Not asking what exactly a secret name is, but what the basis for it is. Falke walks around her desk, trailing her fingers along its wooden surface as if in thought of how she might answer. She simply must, since the LSTR asked so shrewdly.

"FLKR war names can be grandiose, even ostentatious, as one would expect of our rate. 'Falke Who Is Called Divine,' as an example. It only serves to inspire troops in battle, but in cycle-by-cycle business like our facility it's nothing but a mouthful. Hence, the secret names. These are much simpler. We name ourselves after weapons of old legends."

"A similar practice as the STAR units," LSTR-S2301 surmises.

"Quite so. But while Hunter is so named for her marksmanship or Tank for her durability, our secret names are chosen because frankly, they just sound impressive. The Great Revolutionary once said that all the many implements of war are in some way feminine. The People's Navy informally refer to their ships with female descriptors, some Gestalt soldiers may name their blade or rifle after a woman they fancy. We FLKRs specifically use mythical weapons for our secret names because we are gods among Replikas, and gods must be strong."

Falke stops, standing a few scant feet away from LSTR-S2301. As ever, the shorter Replika fearlessly gazes up at her. So unyielding, this magpie, nigh unbreakable in her composure. The idea in Falke's head bears fruit.

"In fact, if you were a fellow FLKR..."

LSTR-S2301 stiffens.

Falke continues, undeterred, a broad smile on her lovely face. "Then I've already thought of the perfect secret name for you."

"Respectfully, Commander... I am the only LSTR unit in S-23. Assigning me a secret name is unnecessary. Simply calling me Elster will suffice."

Falke's eyes narrow imperceptibly; inwardly, her hackles are raised. But that is the name Alina Seo calls you. The name anyone can call you, Replika or Gestalt. Why should I share the name I give you with anyone else? You are my LSTR. MY magpie. Her jealousy is well hidden, fortunately. Wouldn't want it getting out that Commander Falke feels threatened by a mere Gestalt worker.

Falke responds calmly. "Even so, you surely aren't immune to curiosity. It's a fine name, if I may say so myself. What's more, saying 'LSTR-Ess-Two-Three-Zero-One' is too long for our conversations."

LSTR concedes the point with a nearly silent sigh. "Very well. What is my name?"

"Durandal."

It feels good saying it out loud. Durandal. The newly christened LSTR unit glances down at the carpet, mouth and tongue forming the syllables in practice as she tests it for herself. Durandal. Du-ran-dal. Falke certainly talks enough for both of them, but she quite likes watching how her magpie's mouth works when speaking.

"Are you aware of the origins of your name?" Falke asks.

"No, and I trust you will absolve me of my negligence."

She grins. "It was a sword wielded by a paladin. A vast number of soldiers fell to that blade, as you might imagine. Its master once tried to break it upon a mountain to prevent its capture by enemy hands, but the sword endured while the mountain was cleaved in half. 'Ah, Durandal, fair, hallowed, and devote, What store of relics lies in thy hilt of gold!'"

"So dramatic."

"As is the nature of old epics, and FLKRs for that matter."

#signalis #preview #falke #fellas is it gay to name a replika you're obsessed with after an unbreakable sword #a naming that will immediately become the most prophetic moment of your life

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adrift-in-thyme · 8 months

Text

Whumptober Day 18: Tortured for Information

Continuation of Day 14

Read it on Ao3

- Time & the Chain

- Summary: Time is captured by people craving the power of Majora's mask

CW for captivity, blood and injury, torture, and poisoning

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

“Idiots!”

The shout breaks through the haze Time drifts in, sending his panicked, feverish thoughts skittering away. He still trembles like a leaf upon the wind, still gasps for breath that will not come.

Everything hurts, but he can’t remember when the pain started. All he knows is that he wants it to end.

“Idiots! You’ve nearly killed him! I asked for him to be incapacitated, not dead! Give me the antidote, now!”

Jumbled voices trip over one another in their race to be heard. They’re arguing, Time thinks, though he can't understand what about. Not that it matters. Nothing seems to matter at the moment, except for the mad struggle to remain alert and alive.

He tries to inhale the air his lungs are screaming for and chokes. A horrid gurgling sound fills his ears. It takes him far longer than it should to realize he is making it.

The realization reignites a distant fear, a sense that danger is surrounding him, dragging him down to the depths. But before he can truly make sense of it, something cold and sharp enters his neck. An odd sensation of pressure follows as cool liquid slithers through his veins.

And in the next moment he can breathe again.

Time inhales great gulps of air as his airways begin to expand once more. His body welcomes it, allowing it to return some of the strength he lost, drive away the dizziness and fog.

With the return of consciousness, however, come the memories. Memories of collapsing on the cold, hard cobblestone, of struggling desperately against the assault of an invisible attacker, only to be dragged away by physical enemies.

…of someone calling him the Hero of Termina.

He drags his eye open. A warm swath of lantern light greets him. It sends shadows across the walls of the building, dancing and glinting against the many bottles and canisters shelved there. Concoctions of all colors bubble or rest in powder form. In the far corner, a pot threatens to boil over.

A man and woman stand beside it, looking slightly pensive. Despite their surroundings, however, they appear unassuming enough that had he passed them on the street, Time wouldn’t have thought twice about them. Certainly at first glance, he would not have taken them for kidnappers…or potion makers (if that is what these people even are.) But he supposes that is the way of things. Darkness does not always come in the form of demonic masks and men with evil eyes.

Another person is here too, though her back is turned as she busies herself with something on a nearby table. She is far closer than the other two, however, and Time makes sure to keep his gaze trained on her as he turns his attention to his bonds.

The ropes he remembers restraining him earlier are gone now. Instead, shackles encircle his wrists and ankles. He shifts, testing their integrity. Their metal is thick and unyielding. As he pulls at them, something prickles at his skin in warning. It is strange, but he understands it well enough.

Magic.

These people, whoever they may be, possess power. Dark power.

At the slight jingle of chains, the woman turns. A grin stretches across her face.

“Wonderful, you’re awake at last! I thought those two had done you in permanently.” She jerks a thumb back to where the others stand. “Fortunately, it appears that I gave you the antidote in the nick of time.”

Time skewers her with a glare. “I suppose you are the one who poisoned me, then?”

His voice is hardly more than a croak that sends shards of pain down his throat.

The woman chuckles. “Well, I didn’t administer it — otherwise you would be far better off right now. But yes, I’ll admit I concocted it.” She lifts a small bottle, shaking it slightly so that it’s greenish contents jiggle. “Creating substances like that – you could say it’s my specialty.”

Time’s eye narrows. So they are potion makers. What could they possibly want with him?

“But that is hardly why you are here.”

She reaches behind her and grasps something from the table. When she turns back to him her smile has grown impossibly more sinister. In her hands she cradles a sizable object with glowing gold eyes and stripes of crimson across its cheeks.

“I’m sure you recognize this.”

A strangled gasp breaks free before he can restrain it. He would recognize that thing anywhere. After all, he has seen it enough times in his nightmares.

“Ah, you do. I thought so.” She cocks her head, shifting so the light illuminates the mask’s bulging eyes further. Time can’t shake the feeling that they are staring through him to his very soul. “It seemed unlikely that the Hero of Termina would forget his enemy so easily.”

He swallows, hard, fighting against the panic rising within him.

“There is no soul in that mask anymore,” he says with a calm that belies everything he is feeling. “Whatever plans you have for it are for nought. It is useless now. Nothing more than a trinket.”

“Precisely.”

The woman leans forward. There is a sadistic hunger in her eyes now that sends shivers down Time’s spine. But he meets her gaze without hesitation. Anything that this potion maker has in store for him is nothing compared to what he has already endured at the hands of the monster she now holds.

…or the monster that slumbers in his pouch.

“Therein lies our problem,” she continues, with a sigh. “We located the mask without difficulty (really, that salesman should be more careful with his wares) but finding it soulless was quite the disheartening discovery. After all, we had so wanted to acquaint ourselves with him. With Majora.”

The nausea that had subsided now rears its head again. Time forces himself to swallow, to breathe past the way the room tilts. He can’t truly tell how much is from fear and exhaustion, and how much from the remnant poison still coursing through his veins. But one thing is for certain. Hearing that cursed name makes this all feel more real. Too real, in fact.

“Our disappointment has proven to be short-lived, however. Soon after finding the mask we discovered a very intriguing tidbit of information.”

She casts a glance over her shoulder, sharing a grin with her companions, before turning back to Time. In the dim light her eyes seem to gleam.

“There is a man who holds a deep, dark secret, thought to be known only to the gods. A man who as a child traversed the entirety of Termina and faced the demons of the land. A man who knew how to kill them…and knows how to bring them back.”

Breathing has grown difficult again and this time Time knows it has nothing to do with a deadly substance. It takes no small amount of effort to keep his expression a mask of anger.

The woman pauses for a long moment, no doubt waiting for him to take the bait. When he remains silent, a bit of aggravation flits across her face. She steps closer, blocking the light.

“You know how to resurrect Majora, Hero of Termina. And you are going to perform the spell right here in front of us.”

“No.” The word falls heavy on the thick silence of the room. “I will not be performing any spell for you. Because I cannot.” He smiles, grim and bitter. “Your assumptions are mistaken, unfortunately. I have no knowledge of a way to resurrect long-deceased demons. Perhaps, you should have kidnapped a necromancer instead.”

He expects anger to contort her expression. Instead, she smirks.

“You live up to your title, hero. We hoped that you would.”

The woman places Majora carefully back on the table. One of her companions grabs one of the many bottles from the shelves and with it firmly in his grasp, steps forward.

“The poison we slipped into your food…its effects were excruciating, were they not?” The woman asks. There is something almost gleeful in her tone. “They certainly sounded painful. When these two dragged you in here you were barely living. A few moments more and you would have suffocated.”

She motions toward the bottle now, filled to the brim with a deep purple liquid. Its sinister glint is almost mesmerizing.

“What you just endured is nothing compared to what you will suffer once this runs through your veins.”

Time drags his gaze away from the bottle. The pound of his own heart is deafening.

“If it is as horrible an experience as you say, how do you expect me to perform anything at all?”

She smiles. “Oh, not to worry. All you will need to do is agree to do as we wish. Then, I will provide the antidote and your body will return to normal functioning. So” – She tilts her head in question – “what is your answer, hero? Will you help us resurrect the great Majora? Or will you maintain this flimsy facade of ignorance?”

Time takes a deep breath, trying his best to prepare for whatever is about to come.

“I swear to you,” he says, firmly. “I know nothing. As far as my knowledge goes, Majora is dead and will remain that way.”

“Ah, so flimsy facade it is.” The woman turns to her companion. “Go on, then, make him drink it.”

Time glares at him as the man starts toward him. But he hardly seems affected. With a dark chuckle, he leans down and grabs Time’s chin, forcing his head up. Instinctively, Time’s hands fly upward to shove him off. The chains burn his wrists, magic screaming at him to remain still and compliant. He ignores it and digs his nails into the man’s hand. Blood bubbles up beneath his fingernails, turning them red.

With a cry of pain, the man jerks back. Time doesn’t wait for him to recover. Quick as a flash, he brings his knee up.

“Oh, you little – ”

Bloodshot eyes meet his own, fury boiling within them. Time smirks.

“I suppose you thought I was going to go down easily.”

Seconds later his head snaps back, pain exploding across his nose as a fist collides with his face.

He kicks out again, blindly. Another cry pierces the air. This time the retaliation takes his breath away. He is almost certain the hit has broken a rib or two.

“Hey!” Comes a breathless voice past the ringing in his ears. “Get over here and help me hold him!”

“Stay still, you!”

Hands try to restrain him but he lashes out once more. His fist connects with something decidedly human and he feels a grim sort of satisfaction at the sensation of bones breaking.

“Oh, please. Are you both physically incapable of holding down someone who is not near death? Allow me to show you how it’s done.”

There is a telltale zip of something sharp piercing the air. And then, Time chokes on a cry as a dagger embeds itself in his shoulder. For a moment, he can focus on nothing more than trying to breathe, trying to push away the dots that have exploded before his eye. But when they grab his hair and wrench his head back, pressing cool glass to his lips, he forces himself to ignore the pain.

He can’t fall. Not now. Not yet.

In one swift motion he reaches up, grasps the hilt of the dagger, and yanks it out. Magic is at his fingertips even as his vision goes white, a scream pushing past tightly closed lips. He funnels it into the weapon and slices outward.

Instantly, the restraining hands are gone. Screams erupt as his captors leap out of the way of the ravenous flames. They lunge forward, spreading as they go, breaking bottles and catching on the wooden floor and walls.

“Go!” The man yells. “Get out!”

Time barely registers the two of them racing for the door. He has turned his attention to his bonds. One swipe of the flaming dagger and the chains restraining his legs fall uselessly to the ground. In the next instant, those hooked to the shackles about his wrists follow suit.

The magic they are imbued with is strong. But he has found few spells as intimidating as Din’s Fire. And he is lucky for it.

Gritting his teeth, he rises on shaky feet. Now, to get the mask and escape before the building’s inevitable collapse.

“I knew it.”

Time stops, arm outstretched toward the mask. The potion maker grins at him from the opposite side of the room, her eyes reflecting the glow of the flames. There is blood dribbling down her forehead, soot splotched across her skin. But she doesn’t seem to notice any of it. Her gaze is locked firmly on him, that hunger even more prevalent than before.

“I knew it! You can do magic! You can perform the spell!”

She starts toward him, limping slightly on an ankle that must be twisted.

“Your lies were pathetic enough that only a child would have believed them. But now, oh now I know for certain.”

“You know nothing.” Time grasps the mask in his free hand, the dagger still held tightly in the other. “Majora is gone. He will never use anyone again.”

He starts toward the door, backing up so as to keep her in his line of sight. A quick glance around proves that his armor and pouch are not here. They must have stowed them somewhere else. Near the inn, perhaps.

She laughs, a strangled, unhinged sound.

“Oh, Hero of Termina, you are every bit as courageous as they say.” Something is in her hand now. It glints in the light of the flames. “But you are a fool.”

Before he can even begin to react, a second dagger embeds itself in his thigh. With a strangled cry, Time crumples. The mask and dagger slip from his grasp. The woman scoops them up effortlessly.

“That is no ordinary weapon,” she says, voice drifting past the sounds of crackling wood and popping glass and his own labored breathing. “The potion you thought you had destroyed? Its blade is dripping with it.”

As if on cue, pure agony erupts from the spot. It feels as though the flames that surround them have found their way inside and begun eating away at muscles and organs and bones. A scream begs to be let loose. Time refuses to release it. Gritting his teeth, he curls his hands into fists.

But the pain only spreads, curling upward like tongues of fire, eating away at him as it goes. He chokes on a mouthful of blood.

Somewhere nearby the ceiling begins to cave in.

“Ah, well that won’t do.” Fingers dig into his wounded shoulder, dragging him across the hard floor. Time gasps. “I want you begging for death, not receiving it.”

The heat of the burning building gives way to the coolness of night. The woman drops him onto a bed of damp grass. Time catches a brief glimpse of a star-speckled sky before he shuts his eye once more, still fighting against the urge to scream.

“Wonderful. Now that we’re a safe distance from the disaster of your escape attempt, we have plenty of time.” Dimly, he is aware of a presence settling down beside him. “In fact, we have all the time in the world. This potion isn’t deadly, you see. So, either you agree to resurrect Majora – or at the very least tell us how – or you surrender to an eternity of pain. The choice is yours.”

The unending agony surges again. Time spits more blood into the grass. A shudder runs through him. But he isn’t cold, not in the least. Every part of him is drenched in molten heat. Every part of him is burning.

The woman sighs. “I do wish I could make the experience even worse for you, though. I’ll admit I’m very displeased with what you did to my house. And my employees ran off too. Shameful. But I suppose once you do the deed that will all be forgotten.”

Time digs his nails into the ground, curling in on himself as wave after wave of pain buffets him.

“Why?” He chokes. “What…what do you want with Majora?”

“What do I want with him? What does anyone want with a monster in a mask?” Time opens his eye just in time to see her lean over him. “Power.”

She grins, a shadow against a backdrop of billowing smoke. And she drives the dagger in deeper.

This time he can’t restrain it. He screams, sharp and hoarse and strangled, as the fire within him grows one thousand times hotter. He is going to explode, he is certain of it. Either that or simply turn to ash.

But neither occurs. It merely continues, an eternity of pain, surging and waning with every passing moment.

“Give up,” she purrs, when he stops screaming long enough to catch his breath. “You have nothing to prove. Tell me how I can bring him back.”

He spits in her face.

She wipes the blood away with a strained smile. “Well, you are certainly a stubborn one. Perhaps, I need to make this a bit more excruciating.”

She reaches into a pouch at her waist. But before she can pull out her next torture device, an arrow soars through the air and pierces her arm.

With a screech, she stumbles upward and back. Grasping the dagger Time had used, she looks wildly around.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” The blade comes to rest on Time’s neck, inches from his jugular. “Come out or I’ll kill him!”

“No, you won’t,” someone says. “You need him.”

Time blinks, trying to grasp his hazy thoughts. That…that’s Four, isn’t it? It certainly sounds like him. But how…

Wolfie lunges from the bushes, lips pulled back in a snarl. Upon his back, sits the smithy, sword held at the ready. They streak forward, heading straight for the potion maker.

She brings the dagger up just as they reach her. But another arrow appears out of nowhere and knocks the weapon right out of her hands. Wolfie leaps at her and she hits the ground with a shriek.

Four slides off of his back and levels his sword at the woman.

“Stay down,” he says, and there is an edge to his voice Time has never heard before. “You don’t want to know what happens if you fight that wolf, trust me.”

The rest of the heroes rush forward now, some headed for the downed villain, others for Time.

Warriors reaches him first, skidding to his knees beside him.

“What did she do to you, Sprite?” he breathes as he maneuvers Time’s head onto his lap.

Time drags in a strangled breath. He opens his mouth, fully meaning to tell him what they need to make this all stop. But all that comes out is a series of thick, wet coughs. Then, the pain increases again and his back arches as he screams.

Words filter through the sounds of his own agony, disjointed and befuddling.

“...sorry.”

“Alright…going to be…”

“Give…now!”

The screams taper off into gasping breaths. Time sags, boneless against Warriors. The captain’s face floats in and out of view, wavering between clarity and a nauseating blur.

“Here, Sky, take…Quick…drink.”

The hands that tip his chin upward are gentle. He trusts them. Time lets his mouth fall open, obediently swallowing the liquid that slides down his burning throat.

He feels the effect almost instantly. The fire within him dims and lessens, as a strange chill drifts through him. It carries away the pain so he can breathe again, think again, hazy and directionless though his thoughts are.

Slowly, he blinks as the world comes back into focus. His brothers look down at him, worry and hope battling across their faces.

“Is…is he…” Wind starts, tears welling in his eyes.

“He’s okay,” Warriors assures him, even as his grip on Time’s hand tightens. “The antidote worked.”

Time manages the slightest smile. “Don…don’t worry, sa-sailor. Takes…a lot to kill me.”

Wild grins, though it’s far shakier than his usual. “Obviously. You burned an entire house down, Time! See if I listen next time you get onto us about committing arson.”

“You never listen anyway,” Warriors points out, drily. Wild scowls at him.

“But you shouldn’t have had to burn down a house in the first place,” Twilight says, bitterness in his tone and regret in his eyes. “We took too long to find you. I’m sorry.”

“What did she want with you anyway?” Legend asks. He looks down at the mask he must have scooped up from the ground. “And what did it have to do with this thing?”

“Okay, questions and apologies later,” Warriors pipes up. “We need to get him back to the inn.”

Time sends him a look of gratitude. The pain might have diminished greatly, but he feels worn and wrung out. And his shoulder and leg still throb to the pulse of his heartbeat.

Twilight’s expression is still a raging swirl of barely-restrained emotions. But he nods.

“I’ll carry him.”

“What’re we gonna do with her?” Hyrule asks, jerking a thumb back to where the potion maker must still be.

They must have knocked her unconscious, Time thinks, otherwise she wouldn’t be so silent. People like her don’t stop talking, even when every word only serves to drive them further into the ground.

“Bring her back to town,” Warriors replies. “Maybe we can get her to tell us what her goal was here. After that, I’m sure we can get her set up in a nice, cozy jail cell.”

“The faster we can get her there the better,” Legend growls. “Sadistic creep.”

Twilight gently lifts Time off of the ground, murmuring an apology when he hisses in pain.

“Let’s go, then,” he says, once Time is securely in his grip. (How he carries him so effortlessly, Time hasn’t a single idea. He must’ve inherited Malon’s strength.)

“We need to hurry up for Time’s sake too.”

Warriors nods. “He’s not completely out of the woods yet. But once we’re back Hyrule and I can fix him up.”

With the traveler's agreement, the group begins to move. Time can see the still-burning house over Twilight's shoulder, blurry and wavering. Plumes of smoke climb toward the heavens, born up from tongues of crimson flame.

“We’ll be there soon, old man,” Twilight says somewhere above him. “Just hang in there.”

Time lets his eye slide shut. The image of destruction fades. An abyss of cool darkness greets him in its place and with a wave of relief, he welcomes it.

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inconspicious-random-thoughts · 4 months

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The Overlords Alastor Brought Down

We know Alastor raise to power quickly and took out overlords that been dominate for centuries.

I strongly believe they are still alive. Never once when the youtube pilot or Amazon series, has said he killed them. Just they 'disappeared', 'gone missing' and Alastor was the cause and broadcasted their screams.

-Side note, it looked he only used his shadows to take them out. As in the Amazon series lore his shadow was heavy emphasized.

'So if they are alive, where are they?' you may be asking. Well, I think Alastor trapped their souls in a pocket dimension in one of his antique radios. The one centered with Alastor in this picture in the pilot. That radio was made sure to be part of that lore when the production team was considerably less to work with.

Then in the amazon series, That damn radio showed up in Alastor lore again. Dressed up more, adore with branches that look like antlers and leaves. That very radio was also hanging out on the coffee table in the beginning of episode 2. The show has peppered the existence of this same radio in the background. Looking unassuming despite it's more dressier style to be just any regular radio. I wonder if the radio will have a focus at one point if there is enough time.

Those screams Alastor broadcast, its not a recording but play live. The souls trap in a pocket dimension inside his tabletop radio. I also, think he can manipulate their voices to do the laugh track and such.

On another note but somewhat related...

He possibly try to make a deal with them. He couldn't convince the other overlords to sign their lives over in a deal to obtained their power. So in the classic, 'If you are not with me, your against me' He took their souls still in another way to gain their power. Possibly offer the deal again to own their souls to let them out of his radio when he actually need them. Who knows, this is all B/S im spitting out. I don't personally head canon this part as Alastor seem to offer deals, but he never forces it or pressure people into it. He appears to offer it and drop the matter when its declined.

What keeps me puzzled is how Zestial managed to escape the fate. It been pointed out hes been in power longer than the other overlords. Was he just that much more powerful than Alastor that Alastor was wise enough to not make an attempt? Alastor appear slightly on edge when Zestial met up with Alastor right before their overlord meeting.

Carmilla seem to be around before Alastor too and she seem to gotten a pass too. Alastor knew he couldn't go against angelic weapons?

Did Alastor met Rosie before his carnage in Hell and became friends so she got a pass?

I have a small headcanon why Alastor seem to 'spare' a few overlords. I mention in another post, I believe Alastor already sold his soul while alive in exchange for voodoo. Not fully realizing 'Hell is forever' would really entailed. That his body count from his murders also somehow benefit his master in Hell. (Roo? Signs point to Roo for me) So then he dropped, Alastor was still too useful and did a good job while alive so he was granted powers nearly immediately when he died which is unheard of. Which explains why he was so powerful so quickly.

He also was probably commanded to kill a bunch of overlords. His master wanted the chaos of the power vacuum while strategically place Alastor in power position while his master can pull the strings in the background unnoticed.

Just like in life, Alastor carefully selected his targets. He went for the overlords who seem to treat their contracted souls like shit. Carmilla, Zestail, and Rosie seem to treat their soul underlings with some level of respect. Alastor, being a contracted soul, appreciated that so he purposely did not sought after them.

He fulfilled his mission. Created a power vacuum temporarily, getting rid of old overlords that reign for centuries for new faces, while giving himself a reputation and a power position. It benefit him greatly. He left mostly to his own devices. Occasionally his chain his tugged but it was surprisingly far inbetween. But when it is tugged, its in a choking hold.

I really rambled off in the end. I been suffering from this terrible cold for about two weeks and my mind cant focus. I only really wanted to post about the souls trapped in Alastor radio but then I just kept going. Oh well. Hopefully all my thoughts and rambles was interesting.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin hotel theory #hazbin theory #hazbin thoughts #hazbin headcanons #hazbin overlords #hazbin hotel overlord

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lizardlicks · 7 months

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in all honesty I think Mai plays the politics game better than Azula (who is something of a blunt instrument in a way similar to Zuko), biding her time and waiting VERY patiently. I remember in a lot of my hypothetical scenarios for stuff between ATLA and LOK I imagined Mai being instrumental towards salvaging the Fire Nation and purifying it of its imperial attitudes, generally by diplomacy and sometimes by assassination. WAIT this gives me the idea of Mai becoming a sort of Vetinari figure, i love that

Oh my god YES VENTENARI MAI I'm in love with this

Azula is a blunt instrument because she's never had to be anything but. She's never been forced to make herself small. In fact just the opposite, I think to survive she had to puff herself up and be as big and loud as possible. she had to always look like the biggest threat in the room (or second biggest, if she was in the same room as Ozai) and that got her where she needed to be all her life.

Pulling back, being small and unassuming is only for followers and she's a LEADER she's going to be FIRE LORD and better no one else question or forget that!!!

#asked and answered #azula #mai

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paimonial-rage · 2 years

Text

a sight to behold - yae miko

synopsis: in which you return after a very long time for something very precious

ship: yae miko x reader

notes: in which the author doesn’t exactly hide that they want yae miko to bully them

You did your best to ignore the drop of sweat that trailed down your back as you made your way through Inazuma City. It had been at least sixty years since you last stepped foot inside. Such a length of time may have been long for mere mortals, but for you, it wasn’t long enough. After all, if you had it your way, you never would have come back even if held at swordpoint. But these were desperate times that required resorting to desperate measures.

Had you had enough nerve, you would have marveled at the surroundings a bit more. It seemed the only thing that had changed since your last visit were the faces. The buildings and stores were all the same, but perhaps that was to be expected of the land of eternity. That wasn’t your goal for today though.

While you were off away on Watatsumi Island, a particular treasure from Inazuma City found its way into your lap. It was a small unassuming book, but the contents… oh, the contents.

They captured you whole.

Like a tsunami, the story caught you within its wave and wouldn’t let you go. It was exciting. It was exhilarating. It was a world you’ve never experienced before. At a point, you were glad it was a simple book, for at the end, you would be freed. But matters were never that simple, were they?

“To be continued…”

Those words stopped you cold. Never in your life had you experienced such a thing before. How could the author do something so cruel!? They set you on an emotional high and then slammed you into a brick wall. You had to wait to see the end? What if lightning came from the sky and stole your life at this very moment? Could the author live with the guilt?

Could you?

And that’s what brought you back to Inazuma City after so long. You had to lay it to rest. You would purchase the rest of the series and then leave never to return. Sure, you may have heard Yae Publishing House had many other interesting stories, but you wouldn’t pay them any heed. You had a goal. You would be in and out before that woman could find you.

Your eyes shut as a horrified shiver ran down your spine. No no no, you would not think about such an unlucky thing. Speak of the devil and she shall appear, as they say, and you did not want her to come anywhere near. At the very least, you were in disguise. You looked like any normal human being, so you shouldn’t raise any flags… you hoped.

So when Yae Publishing House finally came into view, you couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. It only took a quick scan from afar to find the series you were looking for. The pink covers practically glowed in their profound beauty. It barely took even a second before you were finally standing before them. Archons, how long you waited for this moment. It was finally time. You would steal away your spoils and leave this accursed city never to return. All you had to do was pick them up, so you di–

“Pretty Please, Kitsune Guuji? I must say, out of all the books we have on display, I never imagined that would take your fancy.”

Oh no.

Her silky voice wrapped itself around you like a pool of tar. Every inch of your body screamed at you to move, run, hide, anything other than what you were doing right now, but memory froze you still. Despite not seeing her for a hundred years, it was amazing how she had a hold on you still. So when you found it within yourself to finally unstick your feet from the ground, you turned timidly and gave her a smile.

“H-Hello, Lady Guuji.”

And as she watched you trembling before her, her eyes narrowed in a hazy glow. And when she smiled, you felt your heart rate speed.

“It has been a long while, dear one. How have you been?”

—

Your tail twitched from side to side as you took a seat next to the pink-haired Guuji. You had expected many things, but dinner at a ramen stand wasn’t one of them.

“Really, it has been so long since we’ve last spoke, yet you chose to visit my humble bookstand in disguise. Were you even planning on visiting? I must say I am rather hurt, dear one,” she lamented in a tone that implied anything but.

You fiddled with the hem of your top as your knee bounced at the speed of your heart.

“W-Well I assumed you were busy, being the Guuji and all. You have better ways to spend your time than with a nobody tanuki like me…” You mumbled, your eyes glued anywhere but on her.

She sighed.

“All those years and you still speak so lowly of yourself. I thought that long journey without me would have taught you some confidence, but I guess not. You are my dear friend, you know. Of course I would want to see you.”

She really had to pile on the guilt, didn’t she? And yet somehow, it managed to calm your heart ever so slightly. It was strange how such a beautiful voice could build you up one moment and throw you to the wolves the next. She really hadn’t changed at all.

“You just want to see me because you enjoy bullying me, Lady Guuji,” you grumbled under her breath.

She laughed, and rested her chin against her delicate fingers.

“While I cannot deny that, I truly am happy to see you. I’ve missed you, dear one, though your way of addressing me is quite cold. Why don’t you call me the way you had when we were younger. What was it again?” She glanced to the side in mock thought, then once the memory came to mind, broke out into a beautiful and sly smile. “Miko-onee–”

“Absolutely not!” You stuttered, your face aflame. “I was a child! There’s no need to bring up embarrassing stories from back then!”

Yes, there came the bullying you knew and loved. You knew your reactions only spurred her on, but it wasn’t your fault! You grew up with her! She knew you inside and out. She knew which buttons to press that brought tears to your eyes and cries from your lips!

“Aw, they may be embarrassing to you, but they’re such warm memories for me. You used to follow me around all day and night, crying if I went too far. My, thinking about it now, you cried a lot back then. I remember one time I upset you so much you said you’d only forgive me if I married y–”

Your body reacted before your mind could. When you came to, you were nearly seated in her lap with a hand pressed against her lips. However, not only were you surprised, her wide eyes reflected the same. Well, you were rather close, weren’t you?

…

You hurriedly pulled back to your seat and smoothed your clothes. Though red painted your cheeks, you did your best to pretend it wasn’t there.

“If I stop calling you ‘Lady Guuji,’ will you stop bringing up those stories in public?”

She sighed.

“Fine, if you insist. But really, you can’t–”

You took a deep breath.

“Thank you… Miko-onee-sama…”

She didn’t respond after, but when you finally built the bravery to look her way, your breath was stolen. As the orange and red hues reflected stunningly upon her light hair, you felt you could almost see a hint of pink upon her cheeks. And the smile that captured her delicate lips was not tainted by mischief or deceit, but simple heartfelt contentment.

“You’re welcome, dear one.”

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #yae miko #yae miko x reader #this is short but legit nothing I’ve been writing I e been satisfied with so at least posting this #give me strength #my writing #genshin x reader

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