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fragilefable · 4 months

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nobody's son, nobody's daughter.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader Rating: Mature (18+ minors DNI) Summary: When you and Joel get separated the night of the outbreak, you spend the next decade searching for him. Just when you've given up— a miracle occurs. Warnings: heavy angst, canon typical violence, character death (sarah), discussions of grief, very brief mention of suicidal ideation, alcohol used to cope, depression, suggestive language, lovers reunited, hurt/comfort, happy ending.

Word Count: 6.6k Currently Playing: Chemtrails Over the Country Club by Lana Del Rey ♪

A/N: This piece has been months in the making, hours of rereading and rewriting. This is my love child. I'm possibly (definitely) planning a part 2 with smut... ;) I am a full-time college student who unfortunately has other responsibilities, so please be patient with me. My first lengthy piece in a while, so please be kind & enjoy my doves!

Sleep was the most convenient temporary escape available in the post-cordyceps world. Oftentimes, if you were lucky enough, with sleep came dreams—glimpses of a divine, utopian life. One without spores or fungi of any kind. There was, however, always the chance that with it came nightmares—Polaroids of the past, the uprising of the infection. Mothers clutching bloodied children, decaying men ripping open flesh with their savage teeth, and, worst of all— losing Joel Miller.

Joel was... everything—neighbor, friend, lover. Joel hated that word— laughed every time it managed to escape your lips in a hushed whisper, but that was what you were to each other. It transcended explanation. You'd moved to Austin after college in hopes of starting over, a clean slate. Instead, you'd stumbled upon a single father and his then 11-year-old daughter. You fit into their life like the missing puzzle piece— you completed them. Sarah needed a motherly presence in her life. There was only so much Joel could do for the blossoming young woman.

And Joel— Joel never knew what he was missing until you came along. Someone to be able to rely on, to love unconditionally, a fixed constant. To say he fell head over heels was an understatement, but it became so much more than physical attraction. It became something far more profound and terrifying— love. The kind of love only poets write about. It was fierce, at times agonizing. That's what made losing him all the more heartbreaking.

You were with Sarah the night of the outbreak— Joel's birthday. Lounging around in plaid pajamas, waiting for Joel to get home from work. Despite being exhausted, Sarah was beaming with pride over her birthday present for her dad— his broken wristwatch now repaired and refurbished. You smiled mischievously, "And just where did you get the money to fix this, young lady?" Sarah grinned slyly, "Just lyin' around, it's not like he noticed it was missin'!" Hours passed, you and Sarah slumped against the couch: Fast asleep, soft snores escaping mouths, drool dribbling down chins.

The sight made Joel's heart quaver in his chest. Kicking off his muddied work boots, he carefully plopped down in between the two sleeping figures, planting a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. "Hmm. You're home," you stirred awake, drowsy eyes met with a welcome sight: Weathered tan skin and dark chocolate curls. "Hey, Darlin'. You outta head up to bed. I'll be up soon." You nodded faintly, planting a chaste kiss on Sarah's forehead: "Goodnight, sweet girl."

You fell fast asleep as soon as your body hit Joel's mattress, his scent engulfing you like a blanket of safety— a shield of sorts. The vague smell of sawdust and pine soap conquered your senses, a heavenly combination. An hour later, you felt the bed dip down, strong arms circling your waist.

Frantic hands shook you awake, calling your name weakly: "I can't find Dad. N' somethin' weird is goin' on outside." You sat up, Sarah's urgency pulling you from your hazy half-asleep state. "Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll call him. Go back to bed." Sarah ignored your suggestion and sat beside you as you reached for the landline. The call went to voicemail without hesitation: "Huh... That's weird."

Sarah grew more anxious by the second, "I'm gonna go check the driveway for his truck." Sarah shot up from the bed, feet pattering down the stairs. "Sarah! Wait, I'll come with-" Throwing on your Converse, you hastily ran out after her. Your tired eyes scanned the pavement but found no signs of Sarah or Joel's truck. The Adler's door was wide open; you huffed: "Sarah?"

The Adler's house was pitch black and eerily quiet, the family's dog nowhere to be seen: "Sarah? This is trespassing!" Tiptoeing through the living room, you halted at the sight of a ruby trail— blood. Grotesque, wet noises filled the previously silent house: "Sarah?" The teen bolted out of the kitchen, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the front door: "Run!" Mrs. Adler scrambled after Sarah, mouth dribbling crimson liquid, no longer bound to her wheelchair.

"What the fuck–" Sarah's grip on your hand tightened as you passed through the door and stumbled onto the pavement. A pair of familiar brown eyes scanned Sarah's figure and then yours: "Sarah? Darlin'? Are ya'll ok-" Joel's words were cut off when Mrs. Adler dashed through the front door, her figure lunging for you.

Joel struck the side of her head with a wrench as you made a feeble attempt to crawl away. His strikes were lethal, and yet the elder kept thrashing against the ground. "Joel, stop!" Only then did you notice Tommy, Joel's younger brother, behind you, coaxing Sarah into the truck.

Joel exhausted Mrs. Adler with one final swing, dropping the bloodied wrench beside him and wiping his shaky hands on his jeans. His gaze softened when he saw your timid frame— shaking and unmoving. "Darlin'... Baby, are you okay?" His hands found your shoulders, rubbing soothing circles on a patch of exposed skin. You hesitated; Joel had just killed Mrs. Adler in cold blood— but she tried to kill you and Sarah first.

Joel hurriedly hoisted you to your feet, "We gotta go, okay baby? It's not safe here." You clambered into the backseat beside Sarah, the girl's arms thrown around you tightly. Kissing the crown of her head, you reassured her: "It's okay, sweetheart, everything's okay."

Neighbors began to exit their homes, baffled and disturbed by the sight of Mrs. Adler's bloody, lifeless body lying in the yard. Someone called out for Joel. He immediately instructed her to go back inside and lock the doors. Tommy beckoned Joel into the car, exiting the culdesac and taking off towards the highway. After a fleeting moment, you mustered up the courage to ask, "Joel, what's going on?" Tommy replied, "They're sayin' it's a virus- some kinda parasite." Sarah spoke up, tears forming, "Are we sick?" Joel shot the idea down immediately.

Tommy and Joel continued bickering, your eyes glued to the road ahead: "Joel! Look- It's Jimmy's place." The two-story farmhouse was completely engulfed in flames, unrecognizable. Your hands clung to Sarah, burrowing her head into your neck: "It's okay, sweet girl." Police sirens rang out through the darkness, interrupted by soft pleas for help. A family was stranded on the side of the road, begging for aid. Tommy began to slow the car. "What're you doin'?" Joel firmly questioned. Tommy shot back, "Got a kid, Joel."

"So do we. Keep drivin'," Joel spat. Tommy sped back up, eyes searching Joel's for an explanation: "Somebody else will come along." As Tommy approached the interstate, the sounds of disgruntled drivers grew louder: "Fuck! Everybody had the same fuckin' idea. I can't get through this." Joel gripped the dashboard, "All right, all right. Let's think it through," he paused for a moment, "All right, take the field! We cut across, and we pick up on the west side." Tommy steered right, the truck jerking on the uneven terrain. As he drove over the hill, helicopters and tanks came into view, "Shit. Fuckin' army."

Sarah peered out from behind the seat, "Isn't that good?" Your voice was filled with hesitation, "That's the highway we need to get to." Joel and Tommy argued, eventually continuing toward a town just east of the highway. Sarah stilled, "Maybe it's everywhere. Maybe there's nowhere to go." A booming roar erupted, Tommy twisting his body to get a better look at the night sky: "What the fuck?!" Commercial airplanes flew overhead, merely hundreds of feet above the ground. You instinctively covered Sarah's ears with your hands, eyes wrenching shut at the deafening rumble of their engines. Tommy swerved to avoid a police blockade ahead, turning into a nearby alleyway.

The streets were flooded with screaming civilians, running in every direction— no one sure who exactly they were running from. A hoard of people fled from inside a movie theater, causing Tommy to shift the truck's gear into reverse. "Dad?" Sarah called out, "Dad!" Joel turned; an airplane was rapidly descending— heading straight towards town, "Shit. Move!" As the plane made contact with the ground, a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke bloomed, causing Tommy to lose control of the truck.

A strong hand shook your leg, "Darlin'? Stay right there, don't move." Your side ached, cool liquid flowing from your head. Beside you, Sarah quickly came to, her eyes shifting to the figure hunched outside of the flipped car, clawing at the corpse of an older man. "Sarah, baby, don't look. C'mere, put your arms around me." As Joel carefully unearthed Sarah from the mangled truck, you climbed out of the shattered window: Hissing as you shifted against your arm. Sarah tried to put weight on her leg, provoking muffled whimpers and cries at the attempt. Tommy, equipped with his shotgun, called out, "We gotta get off the street!"

As you approached Joel and Sarah, a flaming police car crashed into the capsized truck, separating the three of you from Tommy. Tommy roared from the other side of the wreck: "Meet at the river! I'll find a way." Joel turned to Sarah, "Can you run?" She shook her head wearily. He scooped her into his arms, "Keep your eyes on me." Joel shifted towards you, "No matter what, you keep runnin'. Alright, darlin'? Promise me." You hesitated, desperate eyes meeting his, "I promise."

The three of you stumbled through the alley until you came across a cluster of bodies scattered across the pavement, crouched figures grunting over the lifeless figures. The end of the passage was clear. The only problem was getting past the rotted creatures without being noticed. There was no way Joel could outrun them in his condition. One of the creatures shot up at the sound of a remote blast, eyes landing on Joel. His voice was firm, "Go." You grabbed his arm, "Joel!" He repeated his command, louder— frantic: "You can't carry Sarah w'that arm. Go find Tommy. We'll meet you there."

You pressed a hurried kiss to Sarah's head, the deranged man scrambling to his feet before you could embrace Joel. You took off towards the other end of the alley, Joel and Sarah barricading themselves inside the vacant diner across from the pile of carcasses. Your body throbbed with every step, head burning with the fire of a thousand suns. Your feet carried you across town, weaving in and out of injured civilians and infected until you reached the river. The stream was pitch black, sounds of gunfire and cries rang out in the distance.

Suddenly, a bright light blinded you: "Put your hands where I can see 'em!" You obeyed, raising them as high as your injured arm would allow. Your voice raw with distress, "M'not sick! Just trying to find my family!" The man stepped closer, seemingly inspecting your physical state. He was clad in military gear, "You hurt?" You shook your head eagerly: "Just a sprained arm." He nodded his head, "Alright. We've got buses that can take you to a decontamination zone."

Your head scanned the vast field, eyes scouring for any sign of Joel or Tommy: "I- I can't. I'm supposed to meet someone here. At the river." The soldier looked dissatisfied and slowly lifted his gun, "The river goes on for miles. S'not safe out here." Your eyebrows threaded together in confusion, "What- are you- are you gonna shoot me?" The soldier's grasp on his automatic rifle tightened, "I'm sayin' you have two choices. You can either come with me or you can-"

A guttural scream sounded from behind him. But before he could turn around, a pair of arms seized his neck and began ripping into his military garb. The soldier flailed wildly at his attacker. While he was busy fighting off the deranged beast, you took off into the darkness, wandering aimlessly and calling out for your family. That night was the last time you saw Joel Miller.

16 Years Later

The bitter winter air overwhelmed your senses until you were gasping for air, limbs numb and cold to the touch. You wouldn't make it much longer without shelter, without warmth. You'd spent the better part of the last 16 years searching for him— for Joel. Ever since that night, you'd scoured every independent civilization, every QZ, within mobs of infected. Each night, you silently prayed never to find him like that— skin pallid and overcome with fungus, head split wide open, cordyceps blooming from within.

You'd trekked across the country with the sole intent of finding him alive and healthy. The journey was brutal— raiders and infected desperate for blood. But by far, the hardest battle was pushing away the nagging thought that, even if Joel and Sarah were somehow alive, you'd never find them. Now, after nearly two decades of searching, you were reaching the end of your journey. You'd officially trekked across the entire nation. If your estimations were correct, you were nearing Wyoming— hence the formidable cold front.

You'd heard rumors about a small civilization located somewhere on the skirts of Jackson County— your last stop. You knew the chances were slim; that feeling only fortified with each city, each civilian who hadn't heard of or seen anyone by the name of "Joel Miller." But you kept searching— because the day that you stopped would be the day you lost everything, lost yourself. It was as though he held onto you with a leash. If you tugged hard enough, could you finally break free? What else did you have to live for? Maybe one day you'd have some sort of epiphany, something to make sense of all the death and suffering. For now, Joel kept your hope alive— the hope that there was happiness and safety beyond all of the pain. The very thought of him kept you alive.

You stood in front of thick and rusted iron gates, your posture crooked due to exhaustion— Just one more stop. The sounds of cocking guns drew your attention to the top of the gates. A young man and woman stand there, rifles pointed at you: "Drop your weapon! Let us see your hands!" You obey. This is standard practice amongst civilizations— you'd done it a thousand times by now. Unsheathing and kicking away your pistol, you then throw your backpack towards the gate. Hands raised next to your head. Your voice wavers as you half-shout, "I'm not infected! Just looking for someone!"

The woman searched your face for a bit, presumably looking for any signs of deceit. She nodded towards her companion, the corroded metal walls unfolding. Two men approached you and picked up your discarded belongings. The younger of the two roughly patted you down and checked for bite marks. When they were satisfied, they led you past the gates into the town square. The village was pleasant, a handful of people milling about in the slushy streets.

A familiar voice erupts from behind you: "Please excuse the initial hostility. We need to be careful about who we let in... I'm Maria." She extends her hand. You accept it gingerly and introduce yourself. "Welcome to Jackson. You must be freezing. Come on, we'll talk inside." — Maria leads you inside a small building, the exterior reminding you of the Lincoln Logs you used to play with as a child. The inside is... quaint. A lone desk sits near the lit fireplace. Maria leans against the desk and motions for you to take a seat: "So... You're lookin' for someone. And you have reason to believe they're here?"

You sigh, allowing your aching body to relax against the couch's plush cushions: "No... I am looking for someone, but... Well, this is my last stop." Maria nods sympathetically, tucking a lone braid behind her ear— "I get it. You've been looking for a long time. It's about time to stop. To rest." You can't help the tears that form on your waterline. Your gaze shifts to your lap. Maria continues, "Who are you lookin' for?"

You swallow the fist-sized lump in your throat, "Joel. Joel Miller." Your attention snaps towards her as a wistful sigh escapes her lips. A tight frown dawns on Maria's face, "I'm sorry. There's no Joel Miller here." You nod; you knew it was a long shot, but hearing it aloud was something different entirely. You rise from the couch, "Thank you. I apologize for takin' up your time." Maria speaks up before you can reach the door: "Now what? You got a place to stay?"

You honestly hadn't thought that far, about life beyond looking. For years, finding Joel was your only purpose— your rationale for remaining on this infested hellscape. You had no home, no roots. Maria's voice interrupts your thoughts, "There's room here. We've got food and water— shelter. Hell, we're even working on electricity." You turn to face her. Her words dripping with verity, "Jackson could be your home."

Despite having just met her, Maria's words touched something buried deep within you— hope. Hopeful of a new life, of new beginnings. You forged a small smile, "Okay." Maria smiled, but it was much different from yours: It was toothy, genuine— "Alright. I'll give you the grand tour then." For the next hour or so, Maria marched you around town. She showed you the vast dining hall laden with maple furniture. The stables filled with mare and their young.

Then she showed you the schoolhouse. It was a small brick building. The walls were filled with colorful crayon drawings. Tiny handprints were pressed onto the wall in various colors of acrylic paint. The dulcet sounds of innocent laughter erupted from every corner of the room. Children from the ages of 5-12 were scattered around: Some doing arts and crafts, some reading, and others playing with worn toys. A tear slipped down your cheek. You brushed it away quickly before Maria could notice.

You couldn't help but think of Sarah. About the first time she knocked on your door— she was selling chocolate bars for some fundraiser at school. Her bronze complexion dappled with freckles, and her wide smile revealed a missing tooth. She was eleven at the time, eyes bright and full of wonder. Blind to the atrocities that loomed at every turn. Sometimes, you'd think about what she looked like now— did her curls still rest atop her shoulders? Did she still laugh until she was panting for air? She's thirty now... Has she fallen in love? That was considering she is still...

You didn't entertain the thought. Sarah was fine, alive somewhere with her father to look after her. Maria's touch pulls you from your thoughts, "How about I show you where you'll be living? Get you settled in." As Maria exited the schoolhouse, you stole one last glance at the room. A little girl met your gaze. Her dark curls were pulled into two ponytails. Her burnt mahogany eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled, raising her tiny hand and waving it at you. You returned the sentiment, this time allowing the tear to fall down and onto the ground.

Maria escorted you just outside of town, to a street lined with country-style two-story houses in relatively good condition. "This one here, the green one. It's already furnished. I'll have one of my guys come by later with some essentials from the pantry. Otherwise, you should be all set 'til tomorrow." Your eyes bore into the house. It was nice, but also... "It's big," you retort, "Don't know what I could possibly need all those rooms for." Maria lays the silver key in your hand, "You never know."

You internally cringe at the connotation. Start over with some man? Have a big family and a white picket fence? You couldn't. It wouldn't be the same. You let out a shaky breath, "Thank you, Maria." She nods, "Come see me tomorrow, and we'll talk about where to go from here. Everyone in Jackson has a job, a role to play. Rest up... You deserve it." She departs, leaving just you and your great, big, empty house.

3 Years Later

Jackson developed rapidly under Maria's supervision. The population rose from 50 to roughly 300 in just under three years. Jackson now had electricity, thanks to the Jackson County Hydroelectric Dam that Maria's team was able to get up and running. You'd become the head of patrol— in charge of organizing the schedules and determining the routes. You and Maria had become very close, practically family. She's the person who understood you, what you've been through.

In an attempt to busy yourself and earn your keep, you'd thrown yourself into working alongside her. Not just with patrols but also with community relations and development. You'd completely reconstructed the greenhouse, built a jailhouse— that, luckily, wasn't used much— and helped fortify Jackson's defenses. Maria assigned you the title "community leader," but you much preferred what everyone else called you: "Maria's right hand."

Your house was still too big, but now it felt homier— lived in. The walls were plastered with botanical paintings you'd found while out on patrol, vases of fresh cut flowers from the community garden placed upon every surface. Cable knit blankets were draped over the shabby leather furniture, the brick fireplace emanating warmth and bringing solace during the cold winter months. You'd even taken up baking in your spare time, frequently bringing baked goods to the schoolhouse.

Nevertheless, when the sun set and the sounds of bustling downtown Jackson faded, your thoughts always returned to Joel. His bronze skin, tousled brown curls, and perfectly plump lips. Suddenly, it felt as though the house was mocking you, and the right side of the bed always grew colder. Perhaps it's why you worked yourself so hard; taking a day off was seldom. You couldn't escape the persistent feeling that Joel and Sarah weren't alive. That you'd failed to find them time and time again because somewhere, they were six feet under, buried in an unmarked grave. All it takes is one moment— one lapse between heartbeats— and suddenly, everything has changed.

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The spring air was crisp with morning dew. A gentle breeze slipped through the cracked bay window. Three heavy thuds woke you— the sharp knocks cutting through serene silence. Your voice was raspy with sleep, "Coming!" You quickly pulled on the worn terrycloth robe that hung from the bedpost and stumbled downstairs. You swung the door open to reveal Stanley, a young man who worked in construction: "I'm so sorry to wake you, but Maria sent me to get you. She said it's urgent."

You sighed deeply, rubbing the remaining exhaustion from your face: "Urgent like, 'don't get dressed' urgent?" Stanley's eyes roamed across the dark fabric of your robe before snapping back to your face. His cheeks bright pink, "Oh, um... no! Just meet her in her office ASAP." Sending him off with a nod, you traipsed upstairs and threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before making your way downtown. It was early morning, the streets empty save the early risers milling about, getting ready for work. As you passed a group of older women sipping hot beverages, you overheard whispers of "an outsider." As Maria's righthand, you were expected to greet all incoming arrivals. How on earth that could constitute a crisis, you did not know.

As you approached Maria's office, the woman in question exited swiftly, shutting the door behind her. You grew closer, taking note of her fidgeting hands. She was... nervous? "Good morning, Mar. What's the emergency?" Maria's face was sullen. You'd never seen her like this, not in the three years you'd known her. Your hands clenched at your sides, "Maria? What is it?"

She took a deep breath, "This may be a false alarm, but... This guy's last name is Miller. Says he's originally from Texas." Her words stole the air from your lungs, a pit forming in the bottom of your stomach. She said something else, but all you could hear was buzzing. Your vision blurred, the dark-skinned woman's features coming in and out of focus. Could it be him—had Joel finally found you?

Maria called your name, pulling you from your trance. As your vision focused, you pushed past her. Your grip on the doorknob was bone-crushing, your knuckles turning white from the tension. You inhaled— don't get your hopes up. It might not be him. You exhaled, pushing the door open with a startling amount of force. You analyzed the man's figure, you recognized him— only it wasn't Joel. It wasn't the Miller whose calloused hands once traveled the expanse of your body, making note of each hidden crevice as though it may hold treasure. Whose lips once seared white hot kisses in the places he knew were the most sensitive— "Tommy?"

He looked dumbstruck, his lips parted in shock. Before you could stop yourself, you threw your arms around his neck. It took him a moment to reciprocate your embrace, but once he did, his arms anchored you in place. He spoke your name quietly against the crown of your head: "I can't... I can't believe it." You pulled away, "I hardly can either." His hands rested atop your shoulders as his eyes searched your face in disbelief. His resemblance to his older brother felt like a gut punch. You were afraid to ask— fearful of the truth: "Joel? Is he..."

Tommy's hand squeezed your shoulder in reassurance, "He's alive. Last I checked, holed up somewhere in the Boston QZ." A warm tear slipped down your face, the salty liquid resting just below your chin. You'd checked Boston QZ, but recent "terrorist" attacks had made it impossible to stay longer than an hour without drawing the attention of every FEDRA soldier in that godforsaken city. Your hands trembled as you clutched your chest, "And Sarah? How's my sweet girl?"

Tommy's face went cold— No. No. She can't— "She's gone." The taste of bile rose in your throat, "Wh-when?" Tommy removed his hands from your shoulders, "That night. Shot by some military fucker. She..." He hesitated, "Joel held her. It happened s'fast." Your kneels buckled, threatening to send you towards the ground. You fucked up— you let yourself get accustomed to the idea of her being alive. Repeated it over and over again until you believed it to be true. This was all your fault.

Your shoulders shook silently, as if you were crying— but no tears emerged, "I have to… I have to find Joel." Turning toward the door, Tommy caught you by your wrist: "I can't let you do that, hon. It's a damn death sentence." You tugged at your arm, desperate to break free from the restraint: "Let go of me, Tommy. I'm doin' this." Maria stepped forward, her hand resting at the base of your neck— "No, you're not. Jackson needs you here. I need you here."

Your breathing became labored. Deep down, you knew they were right— you were in no shape to travel across the country again. You'd barely survived it the first time. Chest heaving, your free hand found purchase on your throat, tightly grasping and constricting the airway. Tommy wearily let go of your wrist, his eyes wide and filled with fear. You ran for the door; you could hear Tommy call out for you as you fled homeward. Sarah was gone. Joel was alone.

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Days passed, and despite everything, the sun rose in the morning and the moon at night. You weren't quite sure how long it had been. You'd stopped counting daybreak after the first five came and went. Maria checked in after the first couple of days, worried that you hadn't been seen around town— or leaving your house, for that matter. Your grief was debilitating, all-consuming. You couldn't eat, could barely sleep, only finding relief at the bottom of a liquor bottle. You were tired… The kind of tired that sleep didn't fix.

Tommy came once. Sat and talked while you stared straight ahead at the empty wall. He could sense your anger, your resentment. How could he not? You silently judged him for leaving Joel, leaving his brother after his only daughter died in his arms. Tommy told you that Joel had changed. He wasn't the Joel you fell in love with; he'd done terrible things— But so had you. You'd killed innocent people, people who were just trying to protect themselves. And you did it in the name of finding Joel and Sarah, of surviving for them. You'd convinced yourself it was kill or be killed, and you had to live with that. Come judgment day, you'd pay greatly for your sins. You accepted that, too.

You only dared to look at Tommy's face once. You saw Joel in his eyes— you saw Sarah. Maybe if you hadn't left Joel in that alleyway, she'd still be alive. You could've protected her, taken the bullet for her. You would have, without hesitation. You'd cross the fiery pits of hell for her, reside in Caina, and be tortured for eternity. You may not have given birth to her, but Sarah was your daughter.

If you closed your eyes hard enough, you could faintly picture her smile. The dimples that formed just below her bottom lip. You could smell the faint aroma of her strawberry shampoo. Hear the broken remnants of her grandiose laughter. You swore to keep those memories someplace safe. Take them out and remember when you needed to, as if they were photographs.

A part of you wanted to be happy that she didn't suffer. She was too innocent for this new, heartless world. She was everything good in life. She was sunshine, sugary syrup, and pure, unadulterated love. But you could not accept this bright side. Not when it meant a life without her in it. Innocence is beautiful, but life is for living.

Tommy stood up, slipping a piece of paper on the nightstand. You cautiously turned it over to reveal a creased photo: You, Joel, and Sarah posing after winning one of her soccer games. You stole one last glance at Tommy. This time, he did not see blinding hatred in your gaze. Instead, he saw gratitude. As your glassy eyes bore into him, he nodded knowingly and left.

Maria came a couple of hours later with leftovers from the dining hall. Setting them on the counter next to the empty whiskey bottles displayed like pathetic trophies. You were in the same position as when Tommy left. You held the photo in your hands, thumbs stroking its frayed edges. Maria quietly dragged a chair closer to the bed, sitting just within arm's reach: "I went to a really dark place after I lost Kevin."

Tearing your gaze from the picture, one of her hands finds yours: "He made life worth living… It took me a long time to start to feel human again. To feel something other than pain and sorrow. The grief never goes away. But slowly, it starts to feel less like loss, and more like love." She inhaled shakily, "I know what you're feeling right now. I know why you're drowning your sorrows in that shit, trying to drink yourself to death." A tear slips down your face, her hand squeezing yours gently: "But you have to understand… What you're feeling right now, that's love. You're not a bad person for how you try to kill your sadness. But it's not gonna work."

You're unable to contain the choked sob that escapes your throat. The tears come harshly, scorching saline against your skin. Maria shifts her weight from the chair onto the bed, holding your shaking frame: "It's okay… Let it out." Her hands cradle your head, smoothing over your disheveled hair. "It's all my fault," you gasp between sobs, "I never should've left them. It's all my fault." Maria shushes you, "No, honey. You don't really believe that. You want someone to blame, but you're not that person."

Eventually, the tears cease. Your breathing evened out as Maria held you, "I miss Joel, so fucking much." You could feel Maria nod tenderly, "I know Honey." A lone tear slipped down your cheek, "Do you think— do you think he'll find me?" Maria pulled away, her chestnut eyes meeting yours, "Truthfully, I don't know." With a deep sigh, she squeezed your hand— "But I know he wouldn't want you to live like this. Isolating yourself from everyone else. You're allowed to grieve, but please don't shut me out. You're my person." You clutch her hands, squeezing firmly: "Even at my worst?" Her arms curled around your torso once again, "Even at your worst."

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The warmer seasons passed with haste. A wintertide blanket of white gradually covered Jackson. Day by day, Maria and Tommy were able to pull you out of your depressive stupor. You had to admit, they made quite the team. Maria was ultimately right, Joel wouldn't want you to spend the rest of your life a bedridden drunkard. But still, life without him was arduous. There wasn't a day that passed that you didn't think of Joel Miller. About where he was, what he was doing, who he was with, and whether he missed you as terribly as you did him.

As much as you wished to focus on these melancholic thoughts, new developments began to bloom in Jackson. Tommy and Maria's blossoming love was hard to ignore and impossible to disapprove of. Watching two people whom you adored fall in love, it felt as though nothing had changed: No cordyceps, no raiders, just Jackson and all of its inhabitants. Perhaps you could find peace in that. When Maria told you that they were expecting, you were over the moon. Maria and Tommy deserved it, Jackson deserved it. Proof that the world is not over— that no matter the circumstances, mankind will prevail.

You threw together a small wedding ceremony with the help of the florist and local bakery, the couple wanting to tie the knot before the baby's arrival. Joking about how "shotgun weddings" withstood the test of time. Something arose in you, a pang of jealousy— Envious that you and Joel never got the perfect white wedding. It disgusted you, so you buried it deep within the recesses of your heart.

The winter was hard, the Wyoming chill threatening every crop that dared to sprout from the Earth. This resulted in you spending extra time in the greenhouse. You found gardening to be a rather soothing task, being able to nurture new life in a world marked by death and decay. It also provided plenty of time to think: Something that you did not relish. No matter how many times you pushed the thought of Joel away, it always returned. Whether it was at dawn or late at night plaguing your dreams.

When you weren't at Tommy and Maria's house or at the Tipsy Bison, you were in the greenhouse. The small shack sat right on the outskirts of town, situated with the perfect view of downtown Jackson. The glass panes shut out the cold, trapping any warmth inside. You bathed in the basking glow of the sun, gravitating towards it as a Sunflower would. You weren't sure when thoughts of Sarah became joyous, memories no longer met with choked cries but instead with soft chuckles. Nonetheless, you welcomed the growth. It's how she would want you to remember her.

You watched the clock that hung just above the door, a mere estimation of the time: 12:15 p.m. You carefully removed your dirt-caked gloves, setting them on the wooden bench beside you. Your stomach growled impatiently as you began the journey downtown. The air was frigid despite the sun's rays, the cold slowly numbing your fingers. As you ambled towards town, Stanley came jogging towards you: "Hey! Just got word from the gates that Maria's back. Brought some stragglers, two, I think."

You nodded in his direction, "Alright. Thanks, Stan." The soft crunch of snow beneath your feet accompanied you as you approached downtown Jackson, an air of excitement and uncertainty radiating off of the townsfolk. It wasn't every day that Jackson came across people who weren't just blood-thirsty raiders looking for valuables. As you rounded a corner, you overheard a commotion, the sound of yelling. Strangely, it didn't sound angry or fearful. It sounded... happy.

Midtown came into view; the construction that was being worked on was now abandoned. Immediately, your gaze fixed on two figures in the middle of the street embracing. That was... not typical. You could make one man out to be Tommy; his black curls contrasted starkly against his warm taupe skin. The other was taller and broader, his hair disheveled and graying. Behind them you could make out Maria on horseback, next to her was a young girl, who couldn't be older than thirteen.

Maria's expression was borderline unreadable, a mixture of trepidation and relief. Until her eyes met yours, then her face softened. A look of tenderness emerged. Everything about this situation puzzled you— Until the two figures broke apart. The man stood inches from Tommy, his hands gripping Tommy's shoulders firmly. His face was sunken with exhaustion and hunger; a vast smile overtook his face. A smile you would recognize anywhere.

He looked just as he had twenty years ago, only now his hair was significantly longer and his beard gray. His face was now littered with wrinkles, just as yours was. A telltale sign that time had, in fact, passed, that the world fell apart right in front of your eyes. Your fingers dug into your thigh. You surely would've drawn blood if not for the layer of denim protecting your skin. You knew you were grieving, but hallucinations seemed extreme. You took a hesitant step forward, still on the opposite end of the street.

Maria beckoned for you. Your name seemingly catching Tommy's attention as he turned towards you. As the men stood side-by-side, it was impossible to deny. Their likeness evoked something in you— realization. You weren't dreaming, you weren't hallucinating. He was there, just a yard away: Joel Miller. His gaze found yours, eyes searching your face in disbelief. Your name left his mouth like a question, but it sounded like a prayer.

He stepped forward as if he was testing the waters. You repeated his action, "Joel?" A smile broke across his face once again, causing you to break into a sprint. He jogged forward, careful not to slip on the icy gravel. Tears began streaming down your face, their warmth countering the icy chill. Before you could slow down, your body collided with his. His arms were tense, his hold fastening around you. You'd only dreamt of this moment for two decades.

You weren't sure how long you stood like that. Head nestled firmly against his chest, tears staining his leather coat. His gloved fingers gently grasped your chin, pulling your face from its sanctuary: "Baby... Fuck, I can't believe it." His eyes searched your face for any sign of unease. He could find nothing but pure joy: "You found me. I searched for you, Joel Miller, for 16 years. And you found me."

Joel let out a breathy chuckle, cut off as you captured his lips in a velvety kiss. At first, it was chaste.— A silent admission of consolation, twenty years in the making. You ran your tongue across his bottom lip, prompting him to groan as he opened his mouth to deepen the kiss. After a moment, a loud cough erupted from behind you. You reluctantly pull away, your forehead resting against his. Your hands cupped his cheeks, eyes glassy with relief and adoration: "After all this time?" Joel leans forward to place a gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth, "Would wait forever f'you, Darlin'."

divider by @saradika

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #the last of us fanfiction #fragilefable #ೃ༄ wren writes

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lottie150209 · 1 month

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John Price fingering you in front of the mirror, x afab fem reader, MDNI !!!

tags: John price smut, Price cod, John price, Captain john price x reader, Captain price, Price x reader, call of duty smut, cod smut, cod price, john price x reader, captain john price

cw: Mirror kink, “Good girl”, reader gets fingered

A/N: Hey everyone! I’m sorry I haven’t really uploaded much life’s been a bit busy!! I’m working on some things rn but the motivation to keep writing is really low but i’ll power through no doubt 👍👍 enjoy!!!! ps: I barley proof read it 😭

John Price was a mad man; a fucking machine. Built like a superhero, covered in dirt with that sexy beard of his but god damn you’d let him do the unspeakable to you.

He could fuck for hours, for nights- you swore if he had enough energy he could go on for days. But one thing he struggled to do was finger you.

You felt a bit embarrassed to ask why as you always assured him it felt good but the disgruntled expression and sigh he makes when he pulls out of you made you worry. You began to wonder if it was something wrong with you and that’s the reason why.

In your head it made sense, him making it plainly obvious he didn’t want to do it every-time it was over but your mind always made something up to contradict your theory.

If he hated it so much why did he enjoy eating you out? Why would he throw you in the bed, staring at your pussy hungry before attacking your clit fast and hard like the military captain he is? And if he hated fingering you so much why did he offer?

Why did he do that?

You stretched your legs out under your office chair before packing your bag and leaving work, on your way home. Tonight was the night you were going to ask him, embarrassing or not. You couldn’t let your dwelling and overthinking cluster up your head any longer, it was time.

You opened the gate to your rustic home and headed for the big door. The house you two had bought was quiet old and elegant and you’d loved it so much, decorating the decaying walls and overgrown garden and making it your own. You loved the style and it made you feel cozy, this was your dream house.

The door shut behind you and the farmilliar scent of vanilla candles and firewood cascaded through the walls as the fire cracked beside you. You hung up your coat and dumped your bag on the floor.

“Baby? Where are you?” You called and after hearing a couple strained grunts you heard Price yell back a ‘Here’ from upstairs. Curiosity flooded your mind and you jogged up the stairs and pushed open your bedroom door to see him crouched on the floor, tool kit sprawled behind him and a screw driver in his hand.

“What the fuck is that?” The laughter of your voice falling through as you store at the mirror nailed to the wall, it was huge. Something out of a ballet studio and you turned back to him, heavy breathing and whipping the sweat off of his pink face.

“Thought you’d like it, pretty big though.” Yeah, just a little. Head to toe taking all the room and right in-front of the bed, how amazing. Cant wait to wake up to my own reflection.

“Doesn’t exactly go with the rustic design of the house does it?” But all he did was laugh and pull you closer, giving you a sloppy but loving kiss on the lips as you tried to wriggle away. His hands clasped around you waist and you remembered what you were going to ask him. Your mouth fell ajar but before you could speak he was dragging along the wide wooden chair to sit on before placing it infront of the mirror and take a seat.

“Want to know what it’s for?” He asked, words laced with something you couldn’t put your tongue on but you hesitantly nodded, wondering why he bought this. It must’ve costed a lot, and it was rather beautiful, it was as clear as glass. Why did he get this.

Price smirked letting a deep chuckle through his tight lips before patting his laps for you to sit. You sat down hesitantly and glacéd in the mirror at you two, his hands around your waist, just above your black skirt and eyes locked onto you. His left hand trailed up towards your neck sending tingles down your body and dampening your panties again. His other creeping closer down and rubbed your thigh soothingly.

“When I finger you love, I struggle a lot. I know you notice and I want to let you know why I struggle.” His hand reached your neck just below your chin and he tilted your neck back so your head laid on his strong shoulder, still looking at yourself in the mirror, with him in control.

"I love to see my fingers inside you, your cum gushing out after i finger you, but i also love to see your little face. Your cute little scrunched eyes, mouth wide open out of pleasure.” You couldn’t fight back the small whimper you let out as his hands on your thigh slowly rose higher, slipping comfortably under your skirt.

“But darling i’m getting old now, aren’t I? It’s too hard to look up then down then up- I miss a few things and I don’t like missing.” His seductive grin send pools of lava to your stomach and your thighs tensed under his hands as his thick fingers grazed the soft fabric of your panties. Teasing you and loving every fucking second.

“But fuck, from this angle? I can see all of you, all of you at once. Your breathing, face, pussy, everything and I love it.” You shut your eyes in embarrassment and you felt your face burn while he slid your underwear down slowly and gently tapped against your precious sensitive skin.

Tracing slowly down your wet slit coating himself in your taste. He groaned at the feeling kissing your temple while his finger prodded into your entrance greedily. Next time he will take his time, next time he will have you begging for his fingers. Next time because god he couldn’t wait now.

The thickness of his finger stretched you out slightly as he thrusted it in and out of you, burning your hole slightly as he added another and another. Your moans and cries send sparks to his dick below you and you felt him harden more and more beneath you- he didn’t stop to fuck you though.

“Oh yeah darling look at you, fucking look at yourself.” His other hand stretched to your chin, tilting your face up and through tears you watched yourself be finger fucked by John. Tightening around his hand more and moaning louder as tears rolled down your cheek.

“Baby I’m going to-” You started but he shut you up shushing you quiet with a small kiss and rapid movements. His husky voice demanding you just to let yourself go.

“Come on, that’s it. Just let it all go, cum on my fingers. Good girl, oh my god you’re such a good girl.” As you came, cum squirting out of your abused hole and dripping down his sticky fingers. Your back arched and your legs started to shake and tremble against him and he just smiled. Pulling out of you and holding you for a moment, licking his fingers clean.

“Was that good darling? I loved it. So much better than usually fingering you.” You breathing calmed down slowly as you shakily nodded. John leant over giving you another loving kiss before chuckling.

“I’ll give you a few minutes to calm down and then we’ll go again, yeah?”

#john price smut #price cod #john price #captain john price x reader #captain price #price x reader #call of duty smut #cod smut #cod price #john price x reader #captain john price

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 months

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A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [2.6K]

THE TIMELINE

“Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature. Each of us, then, is a ‘matching half’ of a human whole…and each of us is always seeking the half that matches him.”

- Aristophanes, Plato’s Symposium.

I. ATHENS, GREECE: 8TH CENTURY BC

The gods were angry.

Or so you’d heard. It started with whispers. Murmurs from the town and its people. Rumours spread across Athens the same way the breeze did at the start of summer. They said the gods were angry, furious.

How could the mortals be so silly? How could they possibly rile their gods like this? Again?

Stupid humans, foolish humans.

You didn’t understand.

But then one morning before the sun rose, you awoke to a reddened sky and a heavy wind, a storm brewing over the horizon, a dark mass you could see above the sea from your bedroom window. Preachers took to the streets then, standing on the cobbles with bells ringing above their heads, warning every person listening about the end of times. It had happened before, they said, their faces masks of horror. It was happening again.

The gardens all died, grass turning black, crops to dust, life fleeing from the ocean as Poseidon uprooted the seafloor, waves crashing against the cliff's edge. Athens turned to decay, colour slipping from the world as the gods ruled over it from the skies and sea. A punishment fit for the crime, the elders said, telling stories at the marketplace, of how their own grandparents had once been born together, joined at the heart, four arms and four legs.

One soul.

They said Zeus came from Olympus, that he’d crashed down to earth riding a bolt of lightning and he ripped the mortals apart. They said it was a bloodshed, rivers of red running through the plazas, wells turning thick like tar.

Zeus cursed everyone, you heard. Your kind had been getting too prideful, too full of ego and greed and want for more. The gods feared an uprising, they sat on their thrones and they resented to power you all craved.

So they did something about it.

With their wounds left to heal on their own over months and years, each half of a mortal was thrown to different corners of the earth, destined to spend the rest of their lives searching for the other half of their soul.

It seemed nothing more than a fable, a horror story for children, something you would never have believed. Soulmates? Someone made just for you? An impossible notion, you were sure you would have once thought, if you hadn’t already met yours.

He was at the forge when the first bolt of lightning hit the ground.

The concrete split and temples on the cliff sides shook, the tiles on each home shattering as they fell. You heard people yelling from your garden as the ground shuddered and an eerie quiet followed. A hollow silence, a calm before a storm and then something else hit the ground too.

Bigger, heavier, more powerful.

You dropped your basket and ran.

Still barefoot, you left the sodden clothes on the grass and fled, passing the sanctuary of your home, the temples beyond the rivers, the forests that came before the sea. You ran to the plaza, through the marketplace that was buzzing with fear, shoulders burning with pain as you slammed your way past everyone who ran against you. You were battling a tidal wave of townsfolk, each one crying and yelling.

You heard shouts of Titans! Furies!

People yelled out names they once didn’t dare whisper, each word said like a curse. Cronus, Crius, Oceanus, Thea. Standing on the marble steps of the Parthenon, a preacher in guided robes had blood running down the side of his face, a cut on his head matting his greying hair. He was ashen, clutching at his scribes and shouting at the frenzied crowd below.

“Tartarus has risen!” He yelled, “the gates of Hades have opened and we, foolish mortals, shall pay for our sins! The father of gods shall come for us, he shall feast upon thy flesh and bone and—”

The preacher's harrowing words were cut off abruptly as another crack in the earth opened up. The shining marble split and the man fell through, the world itself swallowing him whole. You didn’t have time to react more than a strangled cry coming from somewhere deep in your chest. You clasped your hand to your mouth, fearing you’d lose your breakfast, that you’d become too dizzy to keep moving.

The ocean was growing closer, too tall waves and swirling, dark pools buried into its depths. Ships were being sucked under, their white sails the last thing you saw before they were swallowed by Poseidon’s fury. A golden chariot raced down from the sky, sparks flying in the air as it landed on the roof of the Acropolis. More marble shattered and Ares, the god of war, had landed on earth to do his duty.

By the time you reached the forge, the plaza was running red, just like the elders had said it would. The bronzed statue of Hephaestus that guarded the entrance to the blacksmiths had come to life, the god himself taking its form as he spewed fire across the village, molten heat and steel dripping from his large hands, coal crumbling at his feet. The air smelled like ash, like fire and death.

As you searched for him - your other half - eyes wide and frantic, your chest heaving, Hades stood in the shadows across the cobbled road. Inky black dripped from him, from his robes, his skin, his mouth. He looked ghoulish until he stepped into what was left of the daylight, a trick of the sun turning his gaunt face handsome. He grinned at you, each tooth pointed and sharp and he held out a hand. A pomegranate was placed in his palm, the fruit cracked open and the ruby seeds spilling out of it like tiny jewels. He beckoned you, a voice in your head whispering, silky, sultry, full of promises that couldn’t be real.

Surely eternal damnation was better than a fate like this?

You moved, your body not your own, one foot in front of the other, your hand outstretched. Images flashed through your head, dark swirls of three headed dogs, rivers made of souls and gates of bones. But when they opened, there was a garden, more beautiful than the ones in Athens, with their marble pillars and fountains that led into ponds. In this garden, temples stood gleaming and tall, with maidens dancing amongst rose bushes, naked and with hair to their waists. They waved to you, more scarlet coloured fruit held in their hands and they were laughing, singing, pulling you closer--

Another bolt of lightning - bigger and louder and brighter than before - hit the ground and the maidens disappeared. The god of the underworld grinned once more before he stepped back into the shadows and turned to smoke, melting into the bloodied ground.

Zeus had landed in Athens.

And you couldn’t find Steve.

Steve Harrington, son of the town’s head blacksmith, was tending to the forge when the first god came to earth. He’d left you in bed, the threadbare sheets around you still warm, your skin littered with his leftover kisses, marks from his greedy fingers the night before. The sky had been scarlet when he walked across the plaza and in the far distance, a plume of smoke rose from what seemed like the ocean. The Methana volcano was simmering, waiting, spewing fumes of gas and dust.

A warning.

The forge cracked when Zeus arrived, the bricks splitting along with the forge floor, cobbles and bricks turning to rubble under the men’s feet. Fire and coal tumbled from the cast iron cages, half made swords of burning steel falling at their feet. The sky above rumbled, the windows shattering as bolts of lightning hit the land and people screamed, torturous sounds that made Steve run blindly out into the plaza.

Some were kneeling, their heads bent and their palms open to the sky, to the gods. A sacrifice that was ignored. Others ran, diving into buildings that immediately fell on top of them and Steve watched in horror as people dropped before him, falling like sacks, crumpled to the ground as they clutched their chests in agony. They called out their lovers' names, their voices hoarse, pleading, desperate and all at once, a crowd surged behind Steve, carrying him with them, his shoulders burning at the momentum.

He had to find you.

The market was in ruins, once fresh vegetables and fruits now smashed into the concrete, the smell of baked bread hidden under burning embers. Panicked horses fled their owners and carts, almost knocking Steve to the ground as they tried to escape the carnage. The sea level was rising, the shadows of boat sails towering over marble buildings, the hulls of ships teetering closer to pillars that once held the statues of the gods now seeking revenge. Steve had been raised to honour them, to covet them, to fear them.

And he’d never felt as scared as he did when he spotted you across the square, eyes wide and not yet finding his, your gaze too trained on the statue of Aphrodite that was crashing down too close to you. The white marble hit the floor and shattered, sending clouds of dust and dirt into the already smoke filled air and you disappeared from Steve’s sight once more.

Panic flooded him, a fear like no other and suddenly the gods that reigned from the seas and skies didn’t seem as terrifying anymore.

He yelled your name, choking on the fumes from the fires that had started to rage all around, Hephaestus riding a cloud of black coals and burning embers as he let fire pour from his palms and open mouth, a gaping maw of molten lava that dripped from and melted everything and everyone it touched. Steve flung himself to the ground to avoid the flames, crawling desperately forward before he caught himself and began to run again, hissing as the gaps in his shoes filled with shards of broken stone. Red poured from the soles of his feet but he didn’t think anything could hurt as much as the thought of losing you.

Again, he screamed for you, the letters of your name hitching in his throat, scratching like glass and more people tore in front of his path, running from the destruction. Bodies fell before him, couples forever trapped in a lovers embrace, their faces hidden in each other's chests. They became one again, four arms, four legs, two faces.

Joined at a heart that was no longer beating.

Steve didn’t want to die without you.

He found you in the rubble as Zeus moved closer, a grey and white shadow of a man, a huge hulking figure that didn’t seem real. He didn’t look like his marble castings, the statues that were gilded with gold leaf. He wore no olive laurel on his head, he bore no kind smile nor gentle eyes. Instead he held bolts of lightning in his hands like swords, like spears, throwing them at his victims with cruel precision.

A storm followed him, bigger than anything Steve had ever seen before. It turned the red clouds above the god purple and black, an inky slurry of darkness and electricity crackled between spaces. The air buzzed and Steve’s skin prickled, the static making his ripped and bloodied shirt cling to his damp chest.

Poseidon had finally shown himself, emerging from the waves, his skin a sickly green, his eyes darker than the deepest depths of the sea he came from. He held a triton, seaweed hanging from its points, his body scarred and battered from the horrors he created in the oceans. He seemed too big, a giant, an almost titan and rain poured from Zeus’ purple clouds as he advanced onto Athens.

Steve saw your arm, a limp hand from beneath a pile of stone and he cried as he lifted each piece of what was once Aphrodite. The marble face of the goddess of love smiled warmly at him and it felt mocking, it felt like an arrow to the chest.

You were still alive, barely awake, nose dripping blood and a slice across your forehead that narrowly missed your eye. You cried when Steve pulled you free, his strong arms wrapped around your torso and you clung to him, barely daring to look at the horrors that surrounded you. He smelled like smoke and fire and the metal sting of blood, but under it all, there was something like home that still lay on his skin.

He seemed frantic, calling your name over and over until you nodded and said his back, like it was only upon hearing your voice that he believed you were alive. Steve sat amongst the debris of Aphrodite and held you, your weak frame pulled into his lap and he cradled you there, your head on his shoulder and your arms around his neck.

You weren’t sure what you coveted more fiercely, the young man or your last breath.

A shadow lingered nearby, listening to the soft murmurs you shared the pretty lies you both needed to hear as you told each other it would be okay. Hades stood close, statuesque and with black plumes at the bottom of his dark robes, a midnight blue cast over his skin. He looked like he’d never been close to looking human. He held a timepiece in one hand, a golden thing that ticked too loudly and he grinned at you and Steve, watching, waiting as two creatures by his feet held scrolls of names. They were made od nothing kind, created from bone and other people’s spines, their too long tails and forked tongues that flickered over the skin of the dead as they sent their souls below.

Steve knew he’d fight a god before he let them take you.

But he didn’t get such the luxury of battling for his lover. Zeus moved closer still, rain pouring harder, electricity making his hair stand on end. The father of gods himself stood tall before you both, his eyes as white as his long hair and beard. Nothing about him softened as he gazed down at you both intertwined, blood from each other staining your lover's skin.

Steve pulled you closer, his hand cupping the nape of your neck as he pushed your face to his throat, shielding you, protecting you. You clung to him tighter, hands fisting in the rags of his old shirt and you wondered if you’d ever get to see him again. If this life was it, if this was all you were allowed.

The two of you in the ruins of Athens, the goddess of love shattered at your feet. Four legs, four arms, two faces, one soul. Connected by a heart that seemed weaker than ever in the presence of something cruel.

Silence came before the crack, the world stilling, Athens at peace. You found solace in Steve, your nose pressed to his neck as you held onto him, praying for something painless. You pushed two kisses to his skin then, the side of his throat that seemed to make your lips fizz and Steve sucked in a breath, his lips at your temple, cherishing the last touch he got of you.

“I love you,” Steve whispered and his voice cracked on each word. Tears from his eyes stream the dirt on his face, running rivers down your cheek until they mixed with your own. “I’ll find you again. In the next life, and the next again. I prom—”

A bolt of lightning, so hot it felt frozen, struck the breath of space between your chests. Something inside of you cracked then, ribs splintering as the weapon found your heart and you couldn’t feel Steve’s arms around you anymore.

You couldn’t feel anything.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #Steve Harrington fanfiction #Steve Harrington fanfic #Steve Harrington oneshot

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sirenscriptures · 3 months

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⋆⭒˚.⋆ angel dust — s. ryomen ⋆｡˚

synopsis: he couldn’t believe the day you’d fallen down into his home. it was such a dark place, filled with such voids that most would consider horrifying. but you…you seemed to brighten up those areas just with your presence alone … 3k

before you read: fem-bodied reader, fallen angel ! reader, kind of counts as monsterfucking??, corruption, breeding, size difference, true form sukuna, soft to rough-ish sex, mainly soft sukuna, some asphyxiation, oral sex, cock worship.

author comments: if you’ve seen this before, don’t fret. this is a reupload from last year that came from my previous blog <3 also, i would greatly appreciate any feedback on this idea. it was very well received on ao3 and i’d love to know what you think of this idea!!

there was a biting cold air spilling throughout the dark, enormous malevolent shrine that evening. it was odd, since the deep marrows and walls of the domain usually seethed with a heat that seemed closest to what hell would feel like.

quiet as usual, his looming figure sat high within the mouth of the gaping shadows that swallowed the entire space. mountains of bones sat him as his throne; rotting and decaying ones piled at the root, whilst the more robust collection of ivory spines and jaws crowned the top.

even if his gaze read otherwise, he knew something strange was circulating. the domain no longer felt as though it could hold him, yet he didn’t know why. where it usually felt so hollow and barren, it now felt heavy, as if there were something weighing directly on its surface.

sukuna could feel the tension slithering up his arms. his usually harrowing eyes were now darting around, frantically checking each and every wall, crevice and shadow like a madman.

however, standing up was worse. immediately as his feet met the surface, a painful spasm rippled through his head, his hand smacking against his forehead in response. following the sudden pain, a high pitched ring bulleted through his ears.

he let out a yowl in reaction, his entire core tensing in near unbearable pain.his body heat felt like it was burning him alive, and the entirety of his muscles felt as though they would cave in on him at any given moment. it was as if his whole body were crumbling away, alike to the bones at the very bottom of his throne.

what in the hell is wrong with me…?

with no time for another thought or exclamation, a sudden, nearly blinding light glistered over his entire vision. it was like a lightning strike when it cracked down upon a tree. but upon the impact, the light expanded outward, casting a permanent coat of shining white over what used to be orifices of shadows.

the light only lasted a few moments before slipping away, the shadows eating at the remaining whiteness casted in the malevolent shrine. but for sukuna, it felt like ages before the piercing brightness faded away.

hiding away his face in the fabric of his robe sleeves, the pain in his body from before had completely vanished. he felt now that he was in one piece, and that everything was mostly back to normal again.

that was, until he looked in front of himself.

in front of him was what looked to be a pile of white sheets strewn about messily into a wrinkled pile.

with him still trying to adjust his eyes from before, it was still a bit of a blur. the flash from before had strongly impacted his vision for a good few moments before he could truly see properly again.

but when his vision did clear, he was certain he’d been hallucinating. his eyes widened as he realized.

in front of him lay an angel…one with battered, gently stained wings. they looked to be twisted, as if they’d been purposely bent and misshapen by cruel hands.

the little clothes that they wore were torn, stained with some sort of black, ash-like debris, as if they’d been caught in some sort of smoke or fire.

now fully adjusted to the sight, he saw the faint, aura-shaped glow that was cast around their body. the dim light shifted in and out of different hues; appearing like the breathing leaves of a tree at one moment, and like ocean waves the next, transcending on and on into different textures and colors in only a matter of minutes.

even for him, the very king of curses, this was a truly mesmerizing sight. in all his time, he couldn’t ever recall encountering a fallen one.

but that didn’t stop him from wondering just how in the world a creature like you had slipped into his domain.

sukuna’s barrier was stronger than any other domains in existence. only he had the power to call upon it when he wished to trap his victims inside of it. no one could get in or out without his calling to it, and that was always how it worked.

truly, it made no sense how you’d landed here. it shouldn’t have been anywhere near possible, but he’d have to face the facts that it was now.

breathing out deeply, whatever soft expression he previously had, he quickly wiped off. whilst admittedly fascinated, sukuna wanted no more unexpected visitors lurking here. it wasn’t worth any risk, even if he could deal with any type of intruder.

walking towards your body, he stared down at you for a moment, pondering. the idea of seeing a real angel so up close, enough to where he could touch it and see all of its features, felt somewhat dangerous to him.

standing so close created ripples of tension in the air, and he could feel it. it was nearly overbearing, to a point where he almost stepped back. but he stood his ground, not wanting to lose this moment.

gently, one of his hands grasped around your shoulder, rolling you onto your back. seeing your face now, it was hard for his eyes not to narrow.

sukuna had never seen something so beautiful. being asleep and trapped in bottomless darkness for years upon years with nothing but gruesome history and deeds, made him realize just how much he failed to see from the world around him.

he knew very well that there was a world outside of his domain where time was constantly working. where lives ended and began within every passing hour. where every single person, organism, ecosystem and cell worked to keep the cycle of living and evolving forever flowing onward, until there would be nothing left but dust floating about an empty space.

did he care for it much? of course not

out there, he was feared. the very syllables of his name invoked terror into any normal human that lived today. and that didn’t bother him in the slightest. it was a title that contributed to who he truly was: the king of curses.

but this moment that lay in front of him felt much different than just the outside world. just by looking at you, it was clear you falling down here carried much more volume than if a regular human were to fall into his domain.

it was when he began to pull you into his arms that your eyes flicked open. being cradled within four arms was a feeling he only half expected you to react to, but it was still surprising for both of you.

at first, sukuna expected you to flinch away from him. maybe even throw yourself away from his grasp. after all, it only seemed appropriate to him that an angel would fear the initial sight of a curse of his stature.

it was the stare you gave him that threw him off the most. your eyes were brilliant; the color in resemblance to the hazy aura that surrounded your body after the fall. but looking deeper, it seemed like you were...admiring him?

the softness in your gaze couldn’t be described in any other way. it was painted with innocence and light, something that was so foreign to sukuna.

despite the unfamiliar soft feeling blooming within his chest, his expression remained strong, revealing little emotion to you at first. with his eyes fully fixated on you, he smirked.

“i take it you’ve lost your way?” he asked in his low, sonorous voice. red eyes blinked down at you, the contact unbreaking.

when he was met with silence, it wasn’t a shock. angels weren’t so common with the earth language as many others thought they were.

instead, you blinked back at him, that same look in your eye as he remained holding you in his arms. even though he understood that you weren’t vocal, he could begin to feel that same tension lingering in the air once more.

“you really did a number on me when you fell down here.” he chuckled, assuming the pain from before was caused by the impact.

something within your gaze flickered as your hand reached up towards his face. his first instinct was to flinch away or tense up, yet…he didn’t.

your caress on his face was gentle, so loving, it was enough to make him feel like warmth was rushing through the tips of your fingers. sukuna hadn’t felt such a sensation in an eternity. in all of his long life, he couldn’t remember ever feeling a touch as gentle and as ethereal as this one.

it truly amazed him. he’d been so used to fighting, that he forgot what a real, physical loving touch had felt like against his skin. especially in his true form, he’d never felt so many sensations coursing through him at once.

the tension only stretched once he noticed you hadn’t broken eye contact. usually, others would shy their gaze away in fear. but, with the way you looked at him, it was almost as if you were trying to persuade him to look at you.

the way you smiled at him, and the way your body was so relaxed in his grasp…something was drawing him in so deep, that he completely ignored the fact that your faces were now drawn so close together, his breath warm on your skin.

you could feel sukuna start to tense up against your body. he wasn’t saying it directly, but he hated appearing as though his walls were tumbling down. the mere idea of being vulnerable was nauseating to him. but sure enough, it was gradually spreading through him like a slow-killing virus.

for a brief moment, something switched within him. it was a sudden feeling of his normal self coming back to him.

suddenly, he placed you back on the ground. he initially wanted to turn his body away from you, but you stopped him. your hand clasped gently around one of his wrists, a slight pleading look in your eyes. you stood close to his body, battered wings flecking about torn and tangled feathers.

sukuna turned to look at you, slightly amused. if anyone else had done that to him in his domain, he could have their arm sliced off in a matter of one glance.

“what now?” he asked gently.

he almost made a smart remark following his inquiry, until your hands gently started to roam over his body.

slowly, your gentle touch sent that same euphoric sensation through him, causing his breath to hitch. the tenseness in his muscles seemed to be washed away by the feeling as your touch traveled to his waist.

he could feel your breath growing heavier by each minute that passed. your head leaned into the deep crook of his neck, hands admiringly slipping over the bulges of muscles and scars on his skin.

looking back at you, he huffed, that devilish smirk spreading slightly over his lips once more. his large hands crept over your waist, scraping the loose clothing off of your body, leaving you more vulnerable than him.

before you could react, he’d pulled you into his grasp once more, his lips connecting with yours. his tongue aggressively slithers its way into your mouth, causing you to whine.

when pulling away, a string of saliva trailed between both of your mouths, eventually dripping down your breast.

seeing your bare figure so beautifully displayed in front of him, sukuna can’t help but feel like he needs more. that feeling from before was now a craving that he felt wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d had every part of you.

leaning back to sit, he placed you conveniently onto his lap, undoing his robes. you could feel the warm excitement pulsing through you, and you were certain he could feel the same.

those dark eyes fixated on you so strongly, you felt as though he could see through you. he pulled you close to him again, his hand trailing down in between your legs.

you latched onto him in surprise when the mouth on his palm began to lap and lick at you from below. you let out a trembling whimper, wrapping your arms tight around his neck.

sukuna chuckled darkly. “now i’ve found what you like, haven't i?”

it wasn’t long before you were wet enough for his fingers to slip in between your snug walls. you could feel your legs beginning to shake uncontrollably as the mouth continued to suck and slither its tongue inside you, whilst his two fingers pumped into your wetness.

he was fascinated by the feeling. even just a mere two fingers had some struggles fitting inside you. but the way you swallowed him in so well down there made him throb.

fuck…who would’ve thought i’d get to ruin a sweet angel like this? he thought to himself. just the feeling of the dripping warmth around his fingers could drive him mad.

promptly, sukuna removed the rest of his robes, his full body exposed to you now. looking at you, he watched your eyes widen at the sight of just how big he was.

he smiled amusingly, taking your face into one of his hands gently.

“there’s nothing to be afraid of, dear.” he murmured, pulling you into a deep, long kiss.

your little whimpers sent waves of arousal through him. you were so fascinating in all ways…he just couldn’t get enough of you.

before he could do anything else, you positioned yourself beneath him, kneeling right where his thighs were.

he looked at you, confused. he could see that you appeared nervous. compared to sukuna, you felt so small. he was a giant, and you both knew that. but there was an instinct for you to serve him, even if it was just for a little while.

suddenly, you’d begun to take in one of his members into your mouth slowly, your tongue snaking around the tip.

sukuna let out a rumbling groan, muscles back to tensing and pulsing with excitement. even the feeling of your mouth was amazing…so soft and welcoming to his cock.

his head tilted back, the feeling of you sucking at him sending his mind into a blur. it was unfathomable how good you could make him feel, all with simple gestures.

after a few moments, you’d stopped. sukuna looked down at you, panting slightly.

it was the sight of you kissing his cock that made him realize what you were doing. trails of kisses led all the way to his pre-cum coated tip. your hands gently massaged and caressed his skin, humming with pleasure as you did so.

pulling you up to his lap again, he pulled you extra close, breath now hot against your neck. sukuna couldn’t keep his mouth from yours. his large hands groped at your breasts, the mouths engulfing your skin.

he loved the sound of your moans flowing into his mouth as he prepared his cock at your entrance. you sounded so meek, and at the same time desperate. as if you’d wanted more of him, which is exactly what he wanted from you.

sliding in wasn’t easy for him. not even half had slipped into you, and you were already holding onto dear life, clawing at his shoulders and wincing, tears starting to stream down your cheeks.

he cupped your face in his hands, holding you gently. “shhhh, it’s alright.” he assured.

he placed one of his hands on your chest, the thump of your heartbeat racing wildly. staring into your eyes, he never broke his soft stare, his member still partially stuffed inside you.

“breathe for me.” he murmured, hand remaining on your chest as he breathed deeply with you.

slowly, it eased its way past your walls, the warmth now engulfing him. sukuna leaned his head back, groaning.

“fuuuck…” he hissed, feeling the fluttering of your walls around him.

he looked up at you, seeing how tense you’d become. his hands gently rubbed up and down your back, soothing you to where you would relax once more.

accidentally, his hands traveled to your wings. at the initial touch, you let out a cry, but not out of pain, out of pleasure.

once again, fascination overcame him. while he started to pump himself in and out of you, his fingers gently massaged the silky feathers of your back, watching as your head and eyes rolled back.

his pace grew faster eventually, balls slapping against your flesh, your moans sobbing out of you louder. meanwhile, sukuna’s hands roamed all over you, caressing every part of you that he could.

as he fucked you, the tongue on his stomach swirled in delicate circles over your protruding clit. he could feel every part of you begin to tremble. it felt like you were about to break at the seams.

he growled out huskily as his hand wrapped around your throat. slaps rang out as he fucked you, echoing throughout his domain.

he looked at you with hooded eyes, admiring the glassy-eyed look of exhaustion and arousal that you had.

“cum for me,” he stammered out. “let me hear those pretty moans of yours…”

you could feel the pleasure washing over you, head throwing back as you let out a final cry.

with a few thrusts, he could feel his seed sputtering deep inside you. his last thrusts made sure everything stayed inside of you, filling you up as much as he could. the feeling of your warmth and fluids mixing together nearly sent the both of you into a trance.

but for sukuna, he was more entranced by you and you alone. he had yet to understand how an angel like you had fallen down here, but he figured he didn’t have to understand everything right away.

all he truly cared about now was possibly keeping you down here with him. it didn’t fully make sense at first why he felt such a drawn protection over you, but now he saw just how special you were.

holding you in his arms, he couldn’t help but smile watching you doze off, head resting against his chest as you listened to the soothing sound of his heartbeat.

written by sirenscriptures. do not repost on any other website. do not translate, copy, or use.

#jujutsu kaisen smut #sukuna smut #sukuna ryoumen smut #⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚 — sea’s scriptures #true form sukuna smut #sukuna x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #true form sukuna x reader #☾ — nightly yearning

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arabellasleopardcoat · 4 months

Text

Bestiary (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Your husband and you do not speak the same language. During your wedding night, you find out that High Valyrian and the Common Tongue pale when compared to the way your bodies allow you to communicate.

Warnings: Heavy smut, not much dialogue. P in V sex. First time.

A/N: Who would have thought the most enthusiastic consent I have ever written with Daemon would be in a fic with nearly no dialogue?

Being coached through your wedding vows is not a good omen for your marriage. At least, that is what your husband must think, by the thunderous look on his face. You fight the urge to scream at him that you have practiced for this moment and that you do not need to be coached through the vows. It would be no use. The two of you do not understand each other.

Everything is strange to you in Westeros, from the language to the wedding ceremony. They make you cut your lips and hand, in a procedure you do not enjoy. Your husband does the same. Your blood flows into a goblet, from which you will have to drink later on.

It's barbaric. You suppose it must symbolize the joining of bloodlines in the crudest way.

At least Daemon kisses you at the end, a cold brush of his lips against yours that tells you he is still mad. He had probably felt betrayed, being forced into this arrangement you entered willingly.

If you had known he was that petty, you would have not shown your hand so fast. Your father had wanted dragons, which meant becoming part of House Targaryen. Daemon was the only one available for you to ensnare in your web.

As any good hunter, you had watched your prey first, taking notes of his behavior. Only an afternoon was needed to understand you started the race with a disadvantage. His eyes followed Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys and her little daughter, but never lingered on other women.

While you might have lacked the silver hair, you did not lack the wits and charms necessary to be taken in consideration.

You had needed a few days to ready your song, but you had approached him not even a week later. He had been sitting in the library, so you had knocked on the table twice to draw his attention.

Daemon had lifted his eyes from the scroll he was reading, annoyed. He had a handsome face, decorated with age lines that only served to make him look more regal. He looked more the part of the King than his brother, a decaying corpse that you had heard had also acquired his own nubile bride.

Such was the fate of the daughters of powerful men. Sold to other powerful men, old enough to be their fathers, birthing them their own litter of sons and daughters. Sons that would grow up to become powerful men in their own right, daughters that would become pawns to establish dynasties. On and on it went.

Daemon had spoken then. His words were much harsher than those of the language you were used to, lacking the airy song of the languages similar to the one from the Rhoynar. You had not understood. You did not speak a lick of the Common Tongue.

No silver hair, no words, but plenty of resources. You had placed the book you had brought with you on the table, and looked at him.

His eyes had lit up with curiosity. He recognized the title. He spoke again, intrigued.

Despite his tone sounding much more auspicious, you had no other option than to shake your head and speak, with a tremulous voice.

“Bodmagho.” It's the only word you know, one that you have prepared especially for this. But just in case your pronunciation is not perfect, you open the book and mimic the gesture of passing the pages.

Daemon looks stunned. He says something else, still in the Common Tongue. You were able to tell from the intonation he was asking a question, but you didn't know what it was about.

“Bodmagho.” You repeated, stubbornly. You placed your book down and pointed to it.

Daemon sighed. He pointed to the chair. You sat, happy as a clam.

“Prince Daemon.” He pointed at himself. Then, to you. “Lady…?”

You told him your name. He nodded.

“Daor.” He shook his head. “No.”

You stared. He shook his head again. You understood that no, daor and shaking head meant the same.

“Daor. No.” You shook your head. Daemon squeezed your shoulder, a proud smile on his face.

Your father told you that afternoon that you were to be married to him. Just as you had made efforts to catch Daemon, your father had been setting his trap.

Daemon did not oppose, nor encourage the match, but he was angry at you. Angry that you knew before him and tried to charm him into doing your bidding.

Men like him, you learn, like to be the ones pulling the strings. They hate being treated like hounds, even if that is what they are.

You get no further lessons.

This is how you manage to get to your wedding feast only knowing two words. Teach and no. It makes you the most riveting company, and so, it's no wonder you are soon ushered into a chamber with your new husband.

You had not noticed before, but it is the first time you are alone with him since the morning at the library. To you, it had been a matter of no consequence. You had to marry a powerful man, one day. Your father decided it should be him because he wanted dragons. It was as simple as that.

As a rich man, your father had known rich men only get richer at times of unrest. And unrest was coming for the Seven Kingdoms. He could smell it in the air, hear it in the whispers of the common folk. Princess Rhaenyra wasn’t going to inherit without issue.

Your family moved here for that reason. An opportunity to get richer could not be dismissed. Your father had taken one look at the dragons and decided that they were the key to turning his legacy into an empire.

Giant war machines that could level castles in one afternoon. Raze a city to the ground in mere hours. Fire so hot it could melt stone. They could not be bought, you had to be a Targaryen to have them. It was only natural to turn into one, then.

Your children would get dragons. You would provide funds and as many children as you could, and House Targaryen the magic in their veins. Simple business transaction. But apparently, Daemon disagreed.

His face is thunderous. You can tell he is about to berate you. He starts talking, brows pinched together and an accusing finger pointed towards you.

Has he forgotten you do not speak his language? You step closer and poke his arm, hard.

It was the wrong choice. Daemon's face turns even more murderous. His lips twist into a snarl, teeth bared. His posture turns aggressive. He puffs up his chest, he advances on you. The Prince tries to intimidate you through his body language alone.

You are not a small woman. But you are young, and you do not train as much as he does. His looming over you feels menacing, and it reminds you once again of the fate his late wife was rumored to have suffered.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Daemon is forcing you to walk backwards, pushing your forehead and nose with his. You either move, or get a broken nose and a concussion.

Daemon is terrifying. You will not cross him again, you think to yourself. Only a fool goes around poking dragons with a stick. You feel your palms starting to sweat, a knot forming in your throat. You fight the urge to cry.

The back of your knees hits the mattress, and you fall into the furs with a small noise of surprise. Your husband does not lose any time. He gets right into your face, trying to intimidate you even more.

But if you hope to survive this marriage, to make it work as your father has requested, you can't bend. Daemon will never respect you if you do. He will see you as no more than a frightened girl, who will not disagree with him and serve for little beyond warming his bed. You are not that. You will build an empire, a dynasty out of his dragons and your wealth. The only thing you can do is persevere or break trying.

Daemon scowls at you. He notices the change in your eyes, the fight coming back to you.

“Daor.” You say, staring him down with all your might. It doesn't matter if you are lying down, and he is hovering over you, pinning you under him. You will triumph.

Daemon doesn't heed the warning. He starts tugging at the buttons of your bodice, tiny pearls sent flying all over the room. The gesture is as brutal as it is calculated. It is meant to remind you of your place, always under him from now on. Daemon has a right to your body, and he intends to exercise it as he sees fit. You are no more than an object, and if you cry or scream, it is not relevant.

Despite knowing why he is doing it, you can't avoid grimacing. He looks more beast than a man, snarling over you, ripping your clothes. It's a sight that would scare any woman, no matter how cold.

You look up at him. You give him your own little snarl. Daemon pauses. It's not the reaction he was expecting. He wanted you to cry. You would never give him the satisfaction.

It's a balancing act. You will have to bring him to heel, but soothe his pride in the next act, less he turns on you. Push away a man too much, and he will think you are disrespecting him. He will call you names, thinking you are the problem. Daemon feels entitled to you. You need to show him he is not, but that you are giving yourself to him. He needs to value you. The treasure to his dragon.

“Daor!” You say, firmly. You push him away. Whatever he anticipated, you giving him a fight wasn't something he was prepared for. It shows in the way he folds, stunned by your behavior. You give him hard little slaps to the chest, until you manage to get him off you.

Daemon's scowl turns more confused than angry. He looks at you as if you are a particularly challenging riddle to crack. He rightens his clothes and starts to retreat.

“Daor.” You repeat, grabbing at his shirt to keep him in place. You do not want him to leave.

Daemon wretches free from your grip on his arm. He mutters something, angered.

“Daor.” You use his trick against him, stepping right into his path and forcing him to back off. You use your body to make him advance backwards, toward the bed.

He sits on the edge of it, still scowling. You giggle, making Daemon madder still. You look at him with what you hope is a seductive expression and pull your bodice down.

“Bodmagho?” You ask him, as your dress pools around your feet, leaving you in a sheer shift. Daemon's eyes darken. His expression changes into an amused smile, and he gestures for you to come to him.

You do. You step closer and get on his lap. His hands envelop your waist, warm and calloused.

Then, the unexpected. Daemon grabs your hair and pulls, forcing your head back. You moan, pain and arousal mixing into an unknown emotion that makes the place between your legs slick.

You can feel his breath against your neck, making you shiver. His face comes closer, and closer. Daemon stares into your eyes, lips slightly parted. You mirror his expression, feeling as if you are being consumed by your lust.

He arches an eyebrow. Never been one to shy away from a challenge, you brush his lower lip with his thumb. Daemon parts his lips and sucks it in his mouth.

The shock must have shown on your face because he laughs, giving your thumb a playful bite. You squirm, instinct overpowering modesty, and roll your hips against his.

The two of you stare at each other. Closer, and closer, until his features blur, until two purple eyes turn into one. A dragon turned cyclops by the mere force of lust. There is hunger and want, and confusion. Both of you are so close that you are sharing the same air, the same breath. And Daemon pulls, and you are kissing, and you shake in his arms, feeling like how you think the gods must have felt when the cyclopes formed the lighting.

His hands go to greedily knead at your thighs, slipping under your shift. His palms feel rough against your skin, impatient. The shift rides up, up, up. You mewl against his mouth, desperately reaching for something unknown to you but that you know Daemon will help you reach.

You are restless as he pets you, biting at your mouth, hands sinking in his hair. You tug him towards your neck, knowing his kisses, scorching hot, would burn even sweeter along your nape and ears.

Daemon, though, has other plans. He pulls away and pecks you on the lips. “Vūjigon ” He says. He touches his mouth. “Vūjigon”

You kiss him, softly. “Vūjigon”

He pets your hair.

“Vūjigon.” And he points to his collarbones. You frown in confusion, thinking perhaps the word doesn't mean what you think it does. He sighs and leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the space between your collarbones.

“Vūjigon.” You perk up, and start kissing his shoulders. Your hands pull his shirt more open, letting you bite and lick more of his flesh. The urge to consume and be consumed is overpowering, making you desperate to touch him.

Daemon laughs. He pulls you upwards. Can't he see you are starving?

“Daor.” He says, when you try to go back to it. You give him your fiercest pout. Daemon tuts at you.

He squeezes one of your breasts, making you moan, before cruelly twisting the bud. You gasp, your nails digging on his naked shoulders.

“Shhh.” Daemon soothes you, his hand going to squeeze your breast tenderly once more. “Daor?”

You don't know how to tell him what you want, so you grab his hand and make him pinch the tender bud again. Daemon smiles. He kisses you, muttering something fervently on your lips.

He lays you down on the bed, despite your attempts to sit up. Daemon pins you down with a growl, hand on your chest.

You can't help it. No matter the warning, you squirm as if you were in pain. It certainly feels like it. There is some sort of hunger in your belly, making you want to rub your core against him. You can feel your shift starting to become wet right above your tailbone. Daemon has you so bothered you are dripping into the shift and the bed.

Daemon gives you another growl and leans down to bite your breast over the fabric of your shift. It's meant to be punishment, but you arch into it, gasping.

He laughs. He takes as much of it as it can fit in his mouth, sucking greedily. The noises are obscene. The sight must be, too. Your mouth, open, moaning yourself into a frenzy. Daemon, nipping, biting, sucking, like a man starved. Your shift with two giant wet spots, one at the chest and the other by your arse.

You moan, surprised at the feeling. You had never thought bodies could be used in such a way before. Nor had you hoped for him to please you so eagerly.

His lips close around your bud. His tongue twirls around it, lavishing it with attention. You grab at his hair, his nape, desperately trying to hold onto something. Daemon just sucks harder on your breast. You moan, and moan, and moan some more. Desperate little sounds, gathering in the air around a desperate girl.

He switches to your other breast. Your shift feels sticky on your skin, so you start trying to take it off. The task distracts you enough for his hand to find its way to your core, and you squeak at the first sensation of his fingers against it.

Daemon smiles against your skin. He presses a finger inside you, and you squeal some more. He lets go of your breast to better gaze into your overwhelmed face, seemingly getting an enjoyment out of it.

Another finger joins the first. You cry out. It stings a bit. Daemon shushes you, kissing your cheek. He rubs at something above your opening that makes you squirm in delight.

His other hand comes into your sight. Daemon makes a gesture, two fingers together, separating. You stare. He nuzzles you, his cheek against yours, before repeating it.

You nod with a pout.

He starts prying you open slowly, this time. Despite enjoying causing pain, it appears your cooperation has granted you privileges with Daemon. He understood the distress on your face, and read you correctly enough to know it was not going to go well if he kept going as he was.

Daemon rubs at your shoulders, soothingly. You understand you need to relax, and force your body to do so. He kisses you in reward, slow and sweet, coaxing you to him.

You nod again. Daemon moves back, settling himself by your side. He takes your shift away, pressing soft little kisses to each new inch of skin revealed.

The sudden removal of your last layer makes you shiver a little. Your skin is wet from his previous ministrations and rapidly cooling. You plaster yourself to him, seeking warmth.

He chuckles, grabbing your arse to move you slightly out of the way. You scowl, not sure why Daemon is doing so, until you realize he is taking off his breeches.

“Daemon.” You whisper, softly. There is a part of you that is already cringing at the promise of pain the loss of your maidenhead will bring.

“Daor?” He asks you, one of his hands petting your cunt. It makes you shiver.

“Bodmagho.” You grasp at his shoulders, steadying yourself. Daemon lines the two of you. You feel his member at your entrance, holding you open and threatening to spear you apart. It feels scorching against your skin.

He helps you impale yourself on his member. It's not pleasant at first. Property dictates that you should not let him see your discomfort. You should just bear it like a good wife and allow him to chase his pleasure unbothered.

But you know Daemon enjoys causing pain. He thrives on it. So you let your eyes fill with tears, and your face goes slack and overwhelmed.

He smiles. He licks your tears away, and mumbles something. You squeal, and it only excites him more.

“Bodamagho.” Daemon pinches the flesh on your hip, clearly calling you to focus. His hands move your pelvis back and forth, back and forth, until you are hissing in pleasure, your hands on his chest, doing the movement yourself.

“Vūjigon.” You demand, moving your hips just like he taught you. Daemon is too focused on aiding you bounce by thrusting upwards to pay attention to you. When he doesn't obey, you give a tug to his hair.

He snarls at you. You snarl back. So he grabs your wrists and pushes sideways, and suddenly, you are under him and Daemon is still thrusting into you.

You are desperate for closeness. You scrunch up your face and wrap your legs around his back. Daemon looks down at you, and bites your shoulder. He is not pleased with your perceived attempt to take control.

Realizing your mistake, you shake your head.

“Daor.” You rub at his back with your foot, gently. You hold him close, and nuzzle his neck, delighting in his scent. Never you had thought before you would enjoy the smell of sweat and some sort of aromatic oil, yet here you are. “Vūjigon.”

Daemon's expressions softens. He leans in and gives you a kiss. You make pleased, chirping noises, trying to show him that was precisely what you wanted.

He complies, releasing your hands. You enthusiastically hug him. It helps you anchor yourself against the unrelenting waves of pleasure.

His hands, now freed from yours, are everywhere. Twisting your buds, rubbing at your pearl, squeezing your waist. Daemon whispers nonsense in your ears, takes the lobe between his teeth. He aids you, tilting your hips with his hands, reaching deeper.

You heard a story once, about Westeros. A white hart was said to come to the greatest Kings alive. A magnificent beast, tall as a man, with skin made of the purest snow and antlers as long and imposing as the branches of an ancient tree. If a King encountered it, it was a good omen for his rule. It would be just and prosperous, blessed by the Gods.

What did they do with the hart? Keep it in Kingswood, perhaps? You had made the mistake of asking, once. You had been told that they used the best spear they had. That men held the hart down, and they gutted it from head to belly.

The perfect, regal beast, fur as pale as snow. The pristine white sheets under you. Blood tainting the white. What a way to go.

You understood then why they called it a small death. You were sweating, squealing like a beast being gutted, thighs trembling under Daemon's hands. It was too much and too little, and you felt yourself reaching it, yearning for it.

You did not care if you burned, moth to a flame, maiden to a dragon. Daemon seemed to realize it because his hand went to rub at your pearl, and he leaned in.

“….” He was talking, but it was in that strange language of his, and your ears were ringing, you felt about to explode. Your body responded to his tone, though. Gentle, loving, coaxing you over the edge with a scream so fierce you might as well have been one of those weeping women that appeared far north.

Daemon grinned at you. A fierce, proud expression, eyes crinkling in the corners. You pulled him into a kiss, and raked your nails down his back, feeling the skin yield like butter under your fingers. It spurred him on, and with a gasp and a bite to your shoulder, Daemon was shattering inside you.

He collapsed on top of you with a laugh. You smiled. Daemon pulled you to rest, back flush against his chest, and you understood each other better than those who spoke the same, common tongue, did.

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rockpapertheodore · 4 months

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Imagine a character who is, like, 3 ghosts all trying to pilot one supernaturally preserved zombie. The zombie basically sweats ectoplasm from all the ghosts inside it, and that seems to keep it from decaying. Occasionally the zombie gets control (or they otherwise forget to "take the wheel") and they sometimes find themselves all sat comfortably in the scaffolding of a railroad bridge, watching the sunset or kicking their feet in a pond. As far as they can tell, there isn't a 4th ghost, so maybe it's? Just? The body doing that? Theyre not sure if this is something the previous... occupant?... just enjoyed doing, or if their presumed-undead vessel has started... un-undeading... from all the ghosts inside it...

#theo writes #character ideas

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weasleyreidstyles · 5 months

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Serendipity

chapter two

summary: it was only meant to be a purely transactional relationship. he would help her strengthen her abilities in return for her getting his friends out of his father's nasty path. he didn't mean to fall for her, but loving her was the easiest thing in his dark world.

no use of y/n, but your general nickname is Meadow. All characters are aged up to be over 18.

pairings: mattheo riddle x fem!ravenclaw reader; platonic!slytherins x fem!reader; platonic!golden trio x fem!reader

warning(s): slight mind manipulation?

series masterlist; previous part; next part

At some point during the feast, you managed to sneak your way onto the Gryffindor table, sliding into the seat beside Ginny, who was sat with Dean Thomas to her other side, who shifted uncomfortably everytime Ron glared at the hand that was grazing his sister's.

"Nice face, Harold." you say sarcastically. "Who healed the break? It looks rushed."

"Thanks Meadow." he snarks before deflating further in his seat as your eyes tracked him for more injuries. "Tonks walked me from the train."

You hummed in acknowledgment before you went over the unhealed scabs and dried patches of blood with wordless spells which always left your friends marvelling at your skill.

"There. Now your face is pretty as ever." you say smirking, patting Harry's cheek which he swats away. "Can't have the 'Chosen One' at his worst now, can we?"

"Piss off." he grumbled but it was only banter between two friends.

"How are you, really, Harry? Where'd you disappear to on the train." you wanted to hear him say it, even if you did trust Theo's word.

"I was right about Malfoy-" he starts before you interrupt him.

"So I've heard. You've taken up stalking as a hobby now, Potter? That's low." you chuckle, which turns into a full on laugh as he glares at you, annoyed.

"He's a Death Eater." he lowers his voice, but his admission sucks the happiness right out of the air. "He was talking about some task that Voldemort has for him."

He pauses as if his mind is trying to catch up with the words tumbling from his mouth, before he looks directly at you, as if he's staring through you.

"You've seen Nott today right? And Parkinson?" you nodded. "What did they talk about? Did Nott talk about his father being caught at the Ministry? Or did-"

You raised a singular brow at your friend as if to say 'are you finished?'.

"Yes I saw them today, in the Prefects' carriage. We just caught up with small talk and some gossip about some Hufflepuff couple. Nothing more." the lie was quickly thought out and also not too far fetched – Pansy had mentioned something about a new couple in passing before you'd parted ways on the train.

"Nothing about tasks or creepy shops?" Ron asked as he shoved a piece of chicken into his mouth. You watched him, discust painting your features.

"Nothing about tasks, and certainly nothing about creepy shops. Please chew with your mouth closed, Ronald. Seriously Harry? Stalking?"

He only shrugged at you before turning to his plate of food. He was clearly put out about something and you would bet all your galleons that it had to do with the couple next to you, who were being nauseating, to put it lightly.

You and Hermione giggled as Ron muttered about his sister and her boyfriend showing any ounce of affection in front of him, sharing a glance as Harry continued to glance at them before looking away, visibly annoyed.

When Dumbledore began to stand in front of the House tables, you slipped back into your seat beside Luna; in the corner of your eye you watched as Theo gave you the subtlest of nods.

"The very best of evenings to you!" Dumbledore announced, smiling broadly, his arms outstretched wide as if he were embracing the whole room. That's when you, and the rest of the Hogwarts student body, noticed that his right hand appeared to have started decaying at a rapid rate.

You made eye contact with Pansy who looked as horrified as everyone else.

What the fuck? She practically screamed into your mind as the sound of people whispering swept through the hall.

Dumbledore merely smiled before he shook the sleeve of his purple and gold cloak over his hand.

"Nothing to worry about," he said airily. "Now...to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you..."

You drowned out the rest of his speech, like you do every year, instead conversing with Pansy in your head.

It looks like his hand has physically died. You say to her. It's got to be dark magic of some sort.

But what business does Dumbledore have messing with that sort of evil? She sounded as nauseated as you felt just thinking about it.

"We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn-" Dumbledore said, prompting the man that you had yet to meet to stand up. "-is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master."

You swivelled in your seat to find Hermione in the crowds and mouthed 'potions?' to her with confusion written all over your face.

The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered whether they had heard right.

"But if he's the Potions Professor, then who will be teaching Defence?" Cho spoke from across the table.

"Professor Snape, meanwhile," said Dumbledore, raising voice so that it carried over all the muttering, "will be taking the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Well that answered that question.

"No!" you giggled quietly with Luna as everyone's heads swivelled back and forth between Harry, who had shouted so loudly but didn't seem to care, Snape and Dumbledore.

And suddenly Defence is my least favourite subject. Theo spoke, making you choke on your drink as you laugh.

As if oblivious to the uproar his announcement just caused, Dumbledore waited only a few moments before the hall descended into silence once more, before continuing his long winded speech.

"Now as everyone in this Hall is aware," he pointedly looked anywhere but in the direction of the Slytherin table, "Lord Voldemort and his followers once again walk among us and gain strength and numbers everyday."

Suddenly the heads that were staring in Harry's direction turned pointedly to where Mattheo Riddle and his friends were sitting. Instead of shying away from their gazes, like Pansy and Daphne Greengrass and few others did, he continued to stare ahead at Dumbledore, seemingly unbothered by the attention he was garnering.

The silence seemed to strain painfully as Dumbledore spoke. But you seemed to zone out of what he was saying. Something about the castle's protection wards being fortified and strengthened; extra security; stricter curfew at night, etc. You took in none of it, instead focusing on your friends at the Slytherin table, who grew paler by the second. You'd watch out for them this year, especially Theo. None of them deserved to be put into the position they no doubt would all be in, come Christmas time.

Dumbledore's blue twinkling eyes swept over the students once more. "But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Let us therefore say good night. Pip pip!"

Your lessons tomorrow.

You wished it was as simple as school work, but you knew it would be anything but.

~∞~

You woke up early the next morning, the anticipation for what the day may bring making your anxiety skyrocket as you got ready to leave for the Great Hall, in which the ceiling sported a brilliantly blue sky, only a few clouds dotting the illusion. You met the Golden trio there, who were busy discussing Harry's theory about Malfoy.

"Well obviously Riddle's already inducted." Ron muttered as you sat down, a speck of blue, in a sea of red. "He is his father's son, after all."

"Still going on your Malfoy-is-a-death eater spiel? The day has hardly begun." you said as you piled scrambled eggs onto a plate, ignoring the pointed look that Professor Mcgonagall gave you as she handed out her House's timetables.

Ron seemed to be getting more agitated by the second as another group of third years on the table beside your's pointed between the four of you and whispered, not so discreetly, about what happened in June.

"It's rude to point." he snapped, sending a glare their way, causing them to turn around, cheeks painted with embarrassment.

"So sixth year looks very bare in comparison to last year, doesn't it." you say, steering Ron's glare from the backs of their heads while you looked over his timetable.

"I love being a sixth year already." Ron said, his mood brightening visibly thanks to your interference. "And we're going to be getting free time this year. Whole periods when we can just sit up in the common room and relax."

"We're going to need that time for studying, Ron!" Hermione berated as you laughed.

"Yeah, but not today," said Ron, "today's going to be a real doss, I reckon."

"I wouldn't speak too soon, Ronald." you say with a smirk as Professor Mcgonagall makes her way over to the four of you. You'd already gotten your timetable the from Professor Flitwick that morning and found out that you were in the same classes as Hermione. You both finished off your plates and left Harry and Ron in favour of getting to Ancient Runes, where Theo and Riddle were waiting for you.

Reaching the classroom, you spotted Theo immediately and went to snag the seat beside him, but Pansy beat you to it with a playful smirk.

"Come and sit by me, Princess." you glared at your two friends as you turned around to find Riddle with his arm stretched over the back of the spare seat of his desk. "I don't bite."

"Somehow I highly doubt that." you mumbled as you searched for Hermione, who had chosen to sit near the front of the room, the seat beside her already taken. Traitor. She only looked at you apologetically before turning around.

You slumped into the seat, pointedly ignoring him as you took out your things. You could hear Theo and Pansy laughing at your expense so you sent a small stinging jinx wandlessly their way, smirking when they yelped in surprise.

"Smart girl." Riddle mumbled to himself, probably not intending for you to hear, but your cheeks flushed all the same.

"So was Theo lying about your disastrous ability to desipher runes, or was that just a way to get me to agree for your...help?" you ask, still choosing to igore him.

"Oh I assure you I'm quite terrible, Princess. Awful. In fact I'm not sure how I got back into this class, if I'm being entirely honest." he said it with a shrug before he smirked at you again. "I'm sure you can help me. You are top of the class, after all."

"Actually Mione was top of the class at the end of last year. Why not ask her?" you ask, glancing at him through the corner of your eye. He had turned to look directly at you, but his hand was still on the back of your chair.

You try, and fail, to push it off, sneering at the muscular appendage in offence. Damn him and his strong, quidditch arms.

"Theodore doesn't trust Granger, he trusts you. Therefore, I'm putting my trust into your...abilities to help me out."

Lovely. His words carried a double meaning. You were really considering hexing Theo and Pansy again for putting you in this situation.

His huff of laughter along with the burning pinch at the base of your skull were the only indications that he'd heard your thoughts.

After Defence, wait for me so that we can discuss the nature of your lessons and my apparent tutlage.

You ignored him for the rest of the lesson, but wordlessly agreed, nonetheless.

~∞~

You were complaining to Hermione the whole walk to the Defence classroom, and while she was amused, there was underlying worry in her responses.

"So he wants you to tutor him?" she asks curiously.

"Not a clue why." you say flipantly. "If I was him I'd much rather you taught me."

"Well I am a muggleborn, for starters." she says self-depricatingly and continues speaking, not allowing you to rebute her statement. "And you're still at the top of the class. Christ, you can do most spells non-verbally and wandlessly, far better than I can. I think I'd rather you than me, too. No offence."

You only smiled sarcastically at her. "I don't think anyone would willingly tutor him. Perhaps I should bargain a favour with him instead."

You left out the part where he was already fulfilling a kind of favour, for Theodore and Pansy, no less.

"One class in and my shoulders already ache." you whine as you rolled your shoulder to ease the pain that your heavy bag was causing. Harry and Ron met you outside the classroom a moment later, staring, horrified, at Hermione's armful of heavy books.

"We've gotten so much homework for Runes already." she said anxiously. "A fifteen-inch essay, two translations and we've got to read these by Wednesday!"

"Now I see why we have so many frees this year." you grumble.

"Shame," Ron said with a yawn, before smirking at the two of you.

"Just you wait," she said resentfully. "I bet Snape gives us loads."

The classroom door opened as she spoke and Snape stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell over the queue immediately.

"Inside," he said.

The Defence classroom was gloomier than ever, but thankfully it was no longer sickeningly pink and filled to the brim with plates of cat photos. The dark curtains were drawn across the windows and the only light came from the numerous candles that dotted the room, insighting a headache when you tried to read the blackboard. Snape's personality appeared to shine all over the room, from the odd portraits to the weird contraptions that littered the space.

"I have not asked you to take out your books," said Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Hermione hastily dropped her copy of Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. "I wish to speak to you and I require your fullest attention. You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe."

His dark, beady eyes scanned the room.

"Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be much more advanced." he set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a low voice that you desperately wanted to drown out. But the burning sensation at the back of your skill prohibited you from doing just that.

No. Pay attention. Riddle was becoming a thorn in your side, and its only the first day.

"The Dark Arts," said Snape, "are many, varied, ever-changing and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster. Each time a neck is severed, it sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."

Someone read up on their Greek mythology this summer. You say to Theo, who smirks behind his hand.

"Your defences," Snape continued, a little louder, "must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the Arts you seek to undo. These pictures," he indicated a few of them as he swept past, "give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse-" he waved a hand towards a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony; "-feel the Dementor's Kiss-" a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed slumped against a wall; "-or provoke the aggression of the Inferius." a bloody mass upon the ground.

"Has an Inferius been seen, then?" Parvati Patil asked in a high-pitched voice. "Is it definite, is he using them?"

"The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past," said Snape, "which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now..."

You really did drown him out this time. Thinking about his wording. To your knowledge, only his followed gave him the name 'the Dark Lord', so why was Snape using that name? You filed away the information as he paced across the classroom.

"....you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of a non-verbal spell?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, pointledly looking in your direction where your hands stayed glued to your sides, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, "Very well – Miss Granger?"

"Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform," she stated, "which gives you a split-second advantage."

"An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6," said Snape dismissively. "But correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress to using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some," his gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry, "lack."

The Professor's beady eyes landed on you once more, a challenge present in them.

"Miss Meadow, come up to the front." everyone's eyes were on you as he beckoned you forward, so you obeyed. "I want you to demonstrate this skill. On me." He motioned for you to stand on one side of the room, while he stayed at the other.

You shook off your limps and, using your wand rather than just doing it wandlessly, you shot out a disarming spell, which Snape blocked.

"Good. Now try again." he said as he shot his own disarming spell at you, which you wordlessly blocked with a flick of your wand.

This back and forth continued for five or so more minutes before Snape managed to catch you off guard and disarm you with a minute flick of his wrist.

"Very good. Now following that example, you will divide into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on."

People paired off, you choosing to partner with Mione who looked determined to perfect this new skill. Everyone who was part of the DA in the previous year were practically experts at casting spells, but none of them, bar you, could perform the Charms wordlessly. A reasonable amount of cheating ensued; many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud, including Ron, which only made you laugh as you watched as Harry blocked his every attack.

Of course, Hermione had gotten the hang of it within ten minutes of practice, as did Theo and Zabini and Riddle. Harry and Ron were still struggling, along with Pansy and Lorenzo.

To say you were bored was an understatement. Snape had already known that you were skilled with wordless and apparently wandless magic too, which meant that he could clearly see into your mind – yet another reason why Riddle needed to teach you control. The only other interesting thing to happen was Harry blatently sassing your Professor, which left you and Hermione gaping and Ron, Dean and Seamus grinning at him.

Once the lesson had ended, Snape in a more abysmal mood than usual after Harry made a fool out of him, you lingered in the corridor, waiting for Riddle to leave so that you could get the interaction over with.

"Hey Meadow! You coming?" Ron asked loudly from the end of the hallway. He looked at you with an odd expression on his face which morphed into unwilling understanding when you felt Theo's presence beside you.

"I'll be there in a bit. I'll meet you in the courtyard." you shout back as you turn towards Theo and his friends.

"Some lesson that was, right tesoro?" Theo asks you as he wraps a strong arm around your shoulder, steering you in the direction of the rest of his group, who were looking between you, Theo and Mattheo with matching expressions on their faces.

"What the hell is she doing here, Nott?" Malfoy asks, looking at you with distain. You glared back at him, about to respond when his familiar deep voice answers instead.

"She's here for me." Riddle says. "Go on ahead. I won't be a moment."

Its Zabini who steers Malfoy away from his glaring contest with you, and Theo who wordlessly wishes you luck with a pat to the top of your head.

"So you're going to teach me control?" you ask as you lean against the nearest wall. He rolls his eyes and wraps a giant hand around your wrist.

"Yes." he hissed. "But not here. How stupid are you? Talking about it out in the open, by a classroom, nonetheless."

Your eyes only widened in mild surprise as he began dragging you down the corridor in the direction that his friends went, but he turned into an empty broom cupboard instead.

"Salazar, if you wanted to get me alone like this there were far better ways of asking Riddle." you say sarcastically, but your eyes show a teasing challenge as you stare up at him.

"Was that an offer, Princess?" he asks with that wicked smirk of his.

"Read the room, Riddle. I'd rather sleep with a troll." you snark.

"Suit yourself." he chuckles before his face sets into that serious look he seems to have mastered in his years at Hogwarts. "The first step to learning full control is learning how to ground yourself."

You look at him expectantly which made him roll is eyes.

"You have to find a happy medium in your head that allows you to keep control of what you don't want people to see, and who you let into your head." he explains motioning to his own head as he speaks.

"So that horrible burning feeling in the back of my skull whenever you get in my head-" you begin.

"Is only there because it lets you know that someone unwanted is using Occlimency on you. The fact that you can't block me out is what we need to work on. Does the same happen with Theodore and Pansy when you communicate with them?"

"No. They're presence is wanted. Yours," you trail your eyes up and down what you can see of his tall frame in the dark, "is not."

"Well until you do accept me in your subconscious, it'll continue to hurt and it'll hurt more when you're trying to block it out." he says and to demonstrate he begins rifling through your thoughts and feelings with little to no effort, that burning sensation appearing like a pinch once again. You cradle you head in your hands, a cry escaping your lips.

Walking to the Great Hall for breakfast that morning, anxiety knawing at your insides.

Harry's Malfoy-is-a-death-eater spiel.

Your mini-dual with Snape.

How you want Riddle to rip your clothes right off your body and have him take you-

That wasn't right. You managed to mentally push him right out of your mind with more effort than you reckon it would take for you to haul a quaffle into the goal. It made your head ache.

"What the fuck was that?!" you snap, hitting his arm.

"You're a fast learner. Well done. It takes most people multiple sessions to do what you just did." he looks...proud. It stirs something strange in your gut.

"What did I just do?" you asked, intrigued, scared, confused.

"You just succeeded in blocking me out of your head." he smirked lightly, almost showing a ghost of a smile.

We're going to have lots of fun, Princess.

He was still in your head. His deep voice filling every corner of your mind, but that burning sensation was no longer present. It no longer stung and he was no longer able to rifle through your thoughts. Only converse with you, like you could with Theo and Pansy.

"We'll do this twice a week, until you can block me out without thinking about it." he said as he walked towards the door, leaving you standing motionlessly in the dark.

~∞~

icl the whole plot of this is heavily inspired by my beloved xaden and violet's bond with all their mind talking and arguing🤭🤭 (minus the dragons, etc)

#mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x you #harry potter #hermione granger #ron weasley #professor snape #ravenclaw x slytherin #serendipity series

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spencerreidswhore187 · 9 months

Text

False Confidence

Don't take yourself so seriously / Look at you all dressed up for someone you never see.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Spencer and Y/N hate each other, they just don't realise they have been anonymously messaging for months.

Word Count: 2.8k

T/W: Mentions of murder and death

A/N: For @sackofpissandshit . I came up for the premise of this as a plate of prawns fell onto my head at work. Enjoy! ◡̈

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

SherlockHolmes1887: You were right.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face; you replied immediately, the half-drunk coffee in your hand forgotten.

NapoleonOfCrime: Feel free to say that again.

He did.

Briefly, you looked up from your phone to cross the road. You were on the way to work having just received a message from Hotch. It sounded urgent.

NapoleonOfCrime: So what made you realise that, as per usual, I was right?

You had spent the better part of the night trying to convince him that Sherlock Holmes was in love with Jim Moriarty. You had met him online several months ago, on an Arthur Conan Doyle forum and have been messaging ever since.

He, except for the one and only Penelope Garcia, was your best friend. You told him everything. Except for who you are.

Early on in talking you both had agreed not to exchange names, tell each other where you lived or what you did for a career. You knew what SherlockHolmes1887 favourite film was (Star Trek), that he liked wearing mismatched socks and his mum used to call him ‘Crash’ because he would crash into things when he was younger. You knew that, like you, he had four qualifications, liked Sherlock Holmes and had an unhealthy obsession with coffee. You just didn’t know his name.

Your phone vibrated.

SherlockHolmes1887: “The greatest schemer of all time, the organiser of every devilry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations—that's the man! But so aloof is he from general suspicion, so immune from criticism, so admirable in his management and self-effacement, that for those very words that you have uttered he could hale you to a court and emerge with your year's pension as a solatium for his wounded character. [...] Foulmouthed doctor and slandered professor—such would be your respective roles! That's genius, Watson.”

Your phone buzzed again. You silenced it as you walked into the BAU elevator.

SherlockHolmes1887: I reread ‘The Valley of Fear’ last night.

You were about to reply when a voice cried out.

“Hold the door!”

Instinctively, you stretched your arm out between the closing elevator doors.

The person entered beside you.

If you had known who had asked, you would have let the doors shut.

Dr Spencer Reid leant on his cane, drumming his fingers against its metal top as the elevator moved upwards. He had recently been shot in the leg on a case. You would never tell him but when that gun fired, you thought you were going to be sick. Your heart ached. It made you hate him even more.

“Reid,” you said, staring forward. You refused to look at him.

“L/N,” He replied.

That was the most words you’d exchanged in days.

When the doors finally opened again, you both headed towards the round table, where the rest of the team was waiting.

You and Spencer were the last to arrive.

It’s not like him to be late, you thought.

You took a seat between Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan - you were sat as far away from Spencer as possible.

“Now that you are all here,” Hotch began, pulling you from your thoughts, “let’s begin.”

Penelope connected her computer to the screen; there was a picture of a body. The flesh was rotten, decayed from what was evidently years hidden away. Your eyes are wide as you saw it: a long cut, rough and jagged, stretched from neck to naval. You recognised this signature.

“The Brooklyn Butcher,” you said, interrupting the silence.

Hotch nodded.

It was a case that had occurred six years ago and ended up going cold.

Spencer recalled, “Eleven women, all under the age of twenty-five, all with red hair, went missing and then their bodies always turned up three days later with a long knife wound across their torso.”

“The only body,” you continued, “that was never discovered was Sharon Lewis’. The first to go missing. The wife of Mitch Lewis, the prime suspect during the investigation.”

“Why wasn’t he arrested?” Derek asked.

Spencer answered before you could, tucking a strand of his brown hair behind his ear. Why did you want to run your hands through his hair?

“There was no evidence. The police’s only theory was his wife was his first kill and he killed all the other victims who resembled her in an attempt to relive the thrill of the kill.”

“He had an alibi for Sharon Lewis’ disappearance,” you added.

“Correct - they also never found her body. They couldn’t prove their theory without her body.”

“Well,” Hotch said, “they have now.”

“Sharon Lewis, aged twenty-four, was the first victim in the Brooklyn Butcher killings. Cause of death, blunt force trauma to the head.”

JJ leant back in her chair and pressed her pen to her lips, “So the cut was postmortem?”

“According to the coroners.”

“But that was not the case for the rest of the victims?”

“No,” Hotch replied.

“Our UNSUB gained confidence in his kills.”

Lewis was likely his first-ever kill. You wanted to message Sherlock and ask him what he thought. He was intelligent beyond belief, you were sure he would add valuable insight to this case but you couldn’t tell him. Then he would know you worked for the Behavioural Analysis Unit. You couldn’t let him know that. He couldn’t know who you were. What would he think then? When he knew you were more comfortable around dead bodies than real people.

“How was the body discovered?” Spencer asked.

Hotch had that dark look in his eyes, the one he got when an UNSUB scared him. You hadn’t seen that look in his eyes since Haley died.

“The body was left on an empty police vehicle parked outside a station in Brooklyn. There was a note attached to it.”

Penelope clicked a button on her laptop and the slide changed to a screwed-up piece of paper nailed to the shoulder of the body.

Hotch read it aloud, “You have three days before I kill another. Happy hunting, the Butcher.”

He stood up from his seat, “Selene Harker was reported missing twelve hours ago. We leave for New York now - wheels up in twenty. Penelope, you’re coming with us.”

She smiled nervously, you gave her a discreet thumbs up.

Everyone stood up from the round table and headed towards the door, you had grabbed the handle when Hotch stopped you.

“L/N, you need to stay here.”

You froze, confused.

He continued, “Reid has not been cleared to fly by his doctors yet and I need you to go through the old Mitch Lewis interrogation clips, find out whether he told any lies. Stay in touch.”

With that he left the room, leaving you there with Spencer before you had a second to protest.

You weren’t really sure how you did it, it’s an ability you’ve had since you were a kid. It’s how you were flagged by the FBI. You could tell when people lied. Everyone has a tell and, like the lie-detecter you are, you knew how to spot it.

When you and Reid had first met, three years ago, he had told you all the statistics about lies: “Did you know,” he had said, “10% of all lies can be defined as exaggerations, though 60% of all lies are considered to be deceptive.”

You remembered how you had nodded, anxious as it was your first day.

“Of all liars, 70% of them claim to be willing to do it again. Every week, Americans tell 11 lies. In a study of 11,366 lies told by 632 people over 91 days, 75% of them lied between 0 or 2 times per day.”

“You know a lot,” You had laughed.

Reid seemed kind. You liked kind people; you dealt with a lot of horrible people growing up.

“I have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187.”

That was the first time you and Spencer had ever spoken and it was the last time you ever spoke like friends.

You spun on your heels to face Spencer.

“You leave me alone and I’ll leave you be. Understood?”

“Understood,” Spencer said, rolling his eyes.

“God, you are so infuriating.”

“I hate you,” he retorted.

You noticed the way his jaw tensed.

You grinned, “Lie.”

Spencer groaned and left the room. Through the window, you saw him take a seat at his desk.

Laughing, you walked into Penelope’s office and pulled up the police footage.

You were three hours into the Mitch Lewis footage and he had told three lies.

The first was that he did not know what happened to the other victims. Although, this could mean he had read about the case online.

The second was more interesting. Lewis said he was at the pub when his wife disappeared. Even though there was security camera footage to confirm this, he was lying,

The third made your head spin. He said he didn’t kill her. True. He said he didn’t know where she was. Lie.

You paused the interrogation and contacted Hotch to tell him what you had found. He replied telling you to take a break as they searched for Mitch Lewis.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you reached for your phone and messaged Sherlock.

NapoleonOfCrime: Hi.

He replied almost immediately.

SherlockHolmes1887: Hey.

NapoleonOfCrime: So you read ‘The Valley of Fear’ in one night just to try and prove me wrong?

SherlockHolmes1887: If that’s how you want to interpret it :)

NapoleonOfCrime: And?

SherlockHolmes1887: And…they are very much in love. It’s almost blindingly obvious.

NapoleonOfCrime: “It has been an intellectual treat for me to see the manner in which you have grappled with this case.” The definition of enemies to lovers.

SherlockHolmes1887: Enemies to lovers?

You don’t think you ever smiled as much as when you did with him.

NapoleonOfCrime: It’s better you don’t ask, or else I’ll be sending you links to Moriaty x Sherlock fan fiction.

SherlockHolmes1887: What are you doing right now?

Your fingers danced along the tiny keyboard on the phone screen.

NapoleonOfCrime: Work. You?

SherlockHolmes1887: Work.

NapoleonOfCrime: How is it?

It made you nervous that he didn’t reply instantly.

NapoleonOfCrime: Don’t worry, this isn’t me trying to figure out what you do or who you are. I like the mystery.

SherlockHolmes1887: Horrible. But it’s not really work that’s the problem. There’s a girl.

It hurt a little to know there was a girl, of course it did, but you didn’t mind. What you cared about was how he seemed distressed.

NapoleonOfCrime: If you want to share, I’m a good listener.

He typed for what seemed like an eternity.

SherlockHolmes1887: We, her and I, have worked together for years. She’s smart and funny and beautiful. So beautiful. But she hates me. I messed up when we first met, I was so nervous around her that I just ignored her. Whenever she tried to speak to me, I would walk away or just act like she wasn’t there. And, now, I am finally more confident, she can’t even be near me without glaring in my direction at least once.

You yearned for someone to talk about you that way. No one had ever told you that you were beautiful. You didn’t need someone to tell you because you didn’t believe it, it’s just that sometimes, on the inevitable bad days, you want to feel wanted.

NapoleonOfCrime: I’m sure if you explain it to her, she will understand - you said she’s smart. I can see why you like her.

SherlockHolmes1887: Yeah, I fell hard.

I fell hard.

You recalled what Hotch had said, “Cause of death, blunt force trauma to the head.”

You recalled how the cut was messy and hesitant whilst the rest were neat.

You recalled how it was done postmortem whilst the rest were the cause of death.

You ran out of Penelope’s office, straight to Dr Spencer Reid.

“Spence,” you shouted.

You were both alone in the room.

Spencer looked up from his phone. It was strange, to see him on a phone. You had always thought he was the type of person to hate technology. Instead, he seemed thoroughly invested in whatever was on his screen.

“Who are you messaging?” You asked, acting causal.

“No one,” he said.

Lie.

“A girl?”

“No.”

Lie.

Spencer’s face had gone bright red. It was cute; it made you smile.

Why did it make you smile?

You decided to change the topic before your face went red.

“Do you have the coroner’s report?” You questioned.

He dug through the many files covering his desk and held it up for you to see.

Blunt force to the frontal lobe, that confirmed your suspicions.

You stared into Spencer’s brown eyes.

“I know what happened to Sharon Lewis.”

You explained how it must have happened. Sharon was reported missing by her friend at 19:37. She was supposed to be meeting her a 18:00. Mitch Lewis was at a bar from 17:30-20:01, this was confirmed by camera footage. This means that Lewis can’t have kidnapped his wife. Or, perhaps, she never went missing. She tripped getting ready to see her friend and fell down the staircase. She would have died upon impact.

Spencer nodded in agreement with your theory.

“When Lewis got home and saw his wife’s body sprawled out at the base of the stairs, he saw an opportunity…”

“He dragged her downstairs to the basement, explaining the deep scratches on her back noted in the coroner’s report.” You said, “Lewis worked in construction, he had a table and tools down there, he said so in one of his interrogations. He placed her on that table and cut her. He butchered her. And then did the same to others to try and recreate the high of killing his wife.”

“We need to call Hotch.”

Four hours later and Mitch Lewis had confessed and was in police custody.

Derek and Emily had found Selene Harker chained to the very same table Lewis had carved his wife like a cold slab of meat.

The team was on their way back from Quantico.

You found Spencer sitting on a bench outside the FBI building. Spinning the silver ring your grandmother gave you around your index finger, you sat down next to him.

You both stared forward, at the road.

You were glad that you weren’t the only one who was affected by cases like this. You were glad that you weren’t the only one overwhelmed by empathy. Your mother once told you that empathy without boundaries was self-destruction but you were just glad that after so much time in this field, you still felt something.

Spencer eventually broke the silence.

“It scares me, Y/N, how easy a life can end.”

Spencer clutched his cane so tightly that his knuckles went white.

Gently, you eased one of his hands off it and held it in yours.

You could hear your blood rushing in your ears. It was deafening.

“You know, when I was a kid, I was always tripping over things. I walked into doors, tables, you name it. My mum would call me ‘Crash.’”

He laughed dryly whilst your world began to crumble around you.

You dropped Spencer’s hand.

“Sh-she called you what?”

Spencer turned to look at you, confusion and worry were etched across his face, “Y/N? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

It’s not that you were upset, in fact, you felt almost the opposite of that.

Your voice was steadier than you expected when you spoke.

“He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson.”

“Y/N?”

“He is the organiser of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city.”

“It can’t be.”

Spencer held his face in his hands.

“Disappointed, Sherlock Holmes 1887?”

You said it mockingly but you were terrified of what Spencer would say.

“No, Napoleon of Crime. Not even a little bit.”

True.

“You told me to explain how I felt to that girl so here goes. The first thing I noticed about you was your smile. I saw it from the other side of the room. And, Y/N, it was contagious. Just looking at you made me smile. You are so beautiful and so intelligent and I have wanted to tell you how desperately I liked you since the day we met.”

He cradled your cheek with one hand.

“And now I know that this whole time, as well as being the person I can see myself falling in love with, you are my best friend, my favourite, my person.”

“I hate you, Spence,” you say just before you kiss him.

Smiling against your lips, you hear him whisper, “Lie.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #mathew gray gubler #mgg #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jennifer jereau #penelope garcia #light angst #enemies to lovers

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aemondsquill · 11 months

Text

Forgive Me, My Lady, For I Have Sinned

Aemond Targaryen × Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Aemond is mean to his wife. Groveling ensues.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, terrible smut, oral (f receiving), Aemond is a rascal, slight mean!aemond, unedited we die like men A/N: heyyyy pookies thank you for being so patient! This is mostly just me practicing how to write smut since im not super familiar with it so just lmk what yall think

It was rare for Aemond to be absent from your shared chambers. Ever since your betrothal, the two of you would sneak through the winding halls of the Red Keep in search of each other’s warmth. It was scandalous, of course, but the Prince simply could not quell his growing passion for you, his lovely little woman. At first, he dreaded the thought of marriage—seeing how his mother was often discarded in favor of a dead woman by his ever-decaying father. It wasn’t until his lone violet eye landed upon your sweet face at the feast celebrating the announcement of your impending nuptials did Aemond feel a surge of protectiveness over you. He couldn’t help the flush of shyness that reddened his cheeks when you shared a sweet smile with him.

The several moons into your marriage had been utterly blissful. Aemond was attentive, often finding himself bending to your every command. In private, he was affectionate; always finding some way to hold or touch your warm skin or sharing tender kisses that left you both breathless and yearning for more. He often threatened lords who would boldly stare at your figure from afar, but he shielded his cruelty from you, not wanting to frighten his little wife. Nearly every night Aemond found himself nestled between your supple thighs, showing you just how much he worshipped you—licking and nuzzling your clit with his aquiline nose, hardened from the sweet moans and whimpers that fell from your lips. The thought of you being only his to please and breed made him feel nearly rabid from arousal—like a dragon with the scent of blood.

Married life seemed to agree with Aemond.

With war looming on the horizon, Aemond felt the increasing pressure beginning to chip away at his sanity. Long, torturous hours were spent locked away in the Small Council chambers and away from your cunt. This particular evening, Aemond was battling a searing ache behind his scarred socket, allowing him to only hear bits and pieces of various war tactics they could deploy against the Blacks. If he had to hear Tyland Lannister bitch about the dwindling funds that come with the cost of war he was going to smash his head in until his pretty golden locks are stained red.

With delicate fingers, Aemond applies pressure to his brow, desperate for any amount of relief.

His savior came in the unlikely form of his brother, the rightful King Aegon II.

“This meeting is adjourned, for fuck’s sake my cups have run dry and I’m in need of a whore.” Aemond rolled his eye at his brother’s vulgarity, but was thankful none-the-less. The only thing he wanted was to crawl into his feather bed and feel his little wife’s warmth, but alas, only he could be so unlucky. The ending of this meeting only means that he has to return to his study and attend to more sensitive matters of the Crown, but he was one step closer to being with his wife.

The fire flickering in the hearth cast long shadows in his study, where he sat behind a large desk made of darkened wood. Countless letters adorned with ornate wax seals littered and ink stained his pale fingers as he continued a correspondence with whatever small house that needed placating, the throbbing in his temples only increasing tenfold.

Sleep seemed to evade you with the absence of your husband, the empty bed next to you growing cold from his desertion. The chill from the flagstones caused you to jolt as you stood up from your bed. You plucked your dark blue silken robe from the plush settee and pulled it onto your frame, tying it at the waist. Determined to catch at least a glimpse of your husband, you opened the heavy oaken door of your chamber and began your search.

The Small Council chamber and library were both empty. Your heart sank a little in disappointment when the thought of giving up crossed your mind.

That was until you spied a glowing light coming from beneath the door to his study. Giddiness tickled the inside of your chest as you entered through the portal and found your dearest Aemond seated behind his unkempt desk.

His eyepatch lay discarded amongst the piles of parchments and his long, elegant hair tussled from his growing frustration, yet he remained just as beautiful as ever. The site nearly steals the breath from your chest.

He did not look up, seemingly deep in thought.

“Husband? Are you nearly finished? I haven’t seen you since we broke our fast and I miss you dearly.” He looked up at the sound of his little wife and sighed heavily before shaking his head tiredly. “Perhaps you would benefit from a bit of rest?”

The inquiry was innocent enough, but Aemond could no longer bite his tongue as the last bit of his withering patience was fractured. He stood suddenly, looking down at you grasped your jaw in a firm grip, not enough to hurt, but enough to startle you.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” he sneered, “unlike you, I have more responsibilities than just being a broodmare, so I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from parading yourself around like a common whore and return to my chambers.”

The cruelty he tried so hard to protect you from spilled from his lips so easily. Your eyes watered as you gasped at his words.

“You do not mean that, my love” you whimpered, tears cascading down your cheeks. You gently wrapped your fingers around his wrist, urging him to release you.

He only pulled you closer so he could growl into your ear, “do you wish to tempt the entirety of the Keep, hm? Should I allow every knight to have their turn with you? Would that sate your desires, wife?” His words dripped with a venom he had never used with you before.

You felt your heart crack painfully as you looked up at him with wide doe-like eyes that shined with unshed tears.

The sight of your anguish seemed to pull him out of the rage that had blinded him so and he released you suddenly. Guilt swarmed his veins and he felt sick that he had been the cause of your pain.

You scrambled away from him, holding a hand over your lips to stifle your cries.

Aemond wished for Vhagar to devour him where he stood. Tears of frustration burned his eye.

You stumbled through the halls, blindly searching for your chambers.

Once in the safety of your room, you collapsed on the settee, sobs wracking your body.

Your chambers were cold and lonely when you were finally lulled into a dreamless sleep.

You sent your handmaids away after they dressed you in a scarlet gown the next morning. You didn’t have to stomach to break your fast as the words from last night seared themselves into your memory. The ache that bloomed behind your breast had yet to subside. Your eyes were red and tender to the touch.

The words from your favorite tome seemed to melt together and you sighed before placing it at your side, content with just watching the flames dance against the stone hearth.

The heavy door to your chamber creaked open. Annoyance ebbed inside you.

“I already told you I do not wish to break my fast,” turning around you were met Aemond looming in the doorway. His eye was wide and shimmered with emotion.

No words were said as he approached cautiously, as if afraid of your wrath.

You only looked down at your hands, which were nervously twisting in your lap.

The proud Dragon Prince of the Seven Kingdoms fell to his knees, resting his head against your thighs. You couldn’t help but tremble in his presence, whether from fear that he would lash out again or from the desire you still had for him.

His warm hands enveloped yours as he pressed delicate kisses to your fingers, the tenderness causing your chest throb in sadness.

After a moment, he lifted his head and met your watery gaze with his own. Slowly, his fingers slipped around your ankle before gently wandering up your calf, lifting the ornate hem of your dress in the process.

Your breath caught in your throat as he reached your knee. You placed your hand on his suddenly, intending to stop him from advancing, but you helplessly felt yourself guide him closer to where you needed him.

Once your thighs were adequately exposed, he pressed spongy kisses to the soft flesh. You could feel the heat of arousal weigh heavily in your lower belly, your breathing coming out as soft pants.

Aemond intently watched your face contort in need as his kisses and suckling traveled towards your slickened cunt.

His leather-clad arms circled around your hips and pulled you closer towards to edge.

He licked a fat stripe against your dripping cunt and you gasped, fingers weaving through his silver locks.

Aemond moaned at your sweet taste, the vibration nearly overwhelming your little pearl. His tongue was soft against you, almost gentle as he continued to devour you.

Your arousal leaked onto the cushions below you as your mouth fell open, his lips circled tightly over your pearl, suckling gently.

Two slender fingers prodded against your drenched hole before fulling sliding in. The feeling of being stuffed with Aemond’s fingers nearly sent you over the edge. His fingers stroked your walls in search of the rough patch that made you see stars.

You moaned and clenched around him as he massaged the spot in a come hither movement. You couldn’t help but grind your hips, hurdling towards your peak at an unrelenting pace. Sweat beaded at your hairline and your eyes nearly rolled back into your head at the intense pleasure only Aemond could give you.

His eye was still trained on you in awe, as if you were a goddess and he a devout follower. In a sense it was true. He would worship the ground you walked on had you commanded him to.

“Cum against my lips, little wife, let me taste you.” His voice was husky with lust and you whined as he sped up the thrusting of his fingers. Aemond’s chin shined from your arousal.

The sight of him desperately lapping against your cunt sent you over the edge, waves of pleasure rolling through you as you screamed his name.

Your vision returned as your peak began to subside, your panting slowing down. You sagged against the cushions, feeling boneless.

“Give me one more, my love,” Aemond pleaded before prodding at your pearly with the tip of his tongue.

You writhed against him, completely overstimulated.

“I-I can’t…” you whined, “ ‘s too much.”

His violet eye darkened, your pleas only spurring him on as dove back in to devour your cunt. Your moans only grew louder as you tried to push his head away, the overwhelming sensation bringing tears to your eyes.

For a moment he allowed to you catch your breath as he spoke.

“I’m going to lick your cunt until you forget the insults I cast against you in my anger. I need you to see how I wish to worship you”, he pressed a kiss against your fluttering cunt, causing you to jolt.

“My sweet wife, you did not deserve my wrath.”

He planted another kiss against your pearl.

“I kneel before you and beg your forgiveness.”

A harsh suck caused you to yelp.

His words touched you. Your gentle, sweet Aemond had returned.

He kitten-licked your pearl unit you felt the familiar coil tighten in your belly, your second peak rapidly approaching. You moaned and wept at the sensations of his lips against you, lust clouding your thoughts.

Your second peak nearly fractured your mind as white-hot bliss buzzed through your entire being, the only thing tethering you to reality was your grip on Aemond’s hair.

Aemond watched his beautiful little wife in fascination as your peak subsided.

Silence enveloped the room once more as you attempted to recover from your husband’s groveling.

Finally, clarity reached you and you were able to consider his words. While you were deep in thought, Aemond smoothed down your dress, but remained kneeling in front of you.

“I cannot find it within myself to forget the vile words you said to me. You hurt me greatly.”

Aemond’s eye widened, but he understood.

“I just need time. I love you deeply and I appreciate your apologies thus far,” you couldn’t help but smirk at your last words. Amusement sparkled in Aemond’s eye.

“Allow me to apologize once more, little wife,” his words were coated in lust. He stood and took your hand gently, before leading you to your shared bed.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd fanfic #aemond x fem!reader #hotd imagine #hotd #smut

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tobyislame · 7 months

Text

love like a dog : fucked up toby romance headcanons

puppy love but make it depraved

he gives you a love like rotten fruit. maybe it could've been good if he hadn't been touched by decay, if he hadn't allowed himself to spoil. unfortunately, the rot flows through his veins like a sludge, infecting the things that get too close. just like you did. his sick latched onto you and festered like an infected scar.

he knows the mold is inherent to him, that it's in his instincts; this incessant drive to be fed, satisfied, noticed. he takes warmth from whoever will give it, wherever he can get it. he roams like a mutt with his nose to the ground, a fugitive hunting for scraps. wagging his tail at even the suggestion of tenderness, uncaring of where it comes from, only that he's receiving it.

he sticks to your heels, stays so close that you trip over his unrelenting fervor for you. as a stray, he sat and waited for someone to accept the things he couldn't change, for someone to stop and look between the bars of his cage. he waited so long for you. when you leave he'll wait for your return. if you're late he'll wait until then. he'll wait and wait and wait.

he worships the hand that feeds him. that hand is yours. he leans into it, tries to force himself under your palm, thrusts himself beneath the divine light of your gaze. if you even cast a glance his way it's enough for his tail to wag. he pursues your attention and affection like a hound, with no regard as to whether or not he's hurting himself in the process. the only thing you do is reinforce it with every bit of praise you give him, and he accepts it graciously. you're his person.

he doesn't bark or bare his teeth for fear of getting hit again. he bares them at the world, but never at you. he had been taught to bite, but he is not a bad dog. everything he does is with the intent to please. he brings you gifts, kneels and lays them at your feet with his tail between his legs, hoping that he'll be rewarded with your touch. hoping that it makes him worthy.

he doesn't even care if you love him as much as he loves you. he'll sleep at the foot of your bed if it means he can be on it, follow you if it means he can be close, spend his days at your feet if it means there's a chance you'll scratch him behind the ears. he'll sit at your door until you want him. he'll pull out his canines and declaw himself just to prove he'd never hurt you.

he loves like a dog and he takes what he is given.

#she said whats with this dog motif #i said do you have something against dogs #he definitely has separation anxiety #canine poetry #ticci toby #toby rogers #ticci toby headcanons #ticci toby x reader #creepypasta #tobyhcs #tobyxreader #tobyworks

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wintrwinchestr · 6 months

Text

lather (joel miller x f!reader oneshot) 18+

moodboard by @iamasaddie

summary: you decide to try shaving your pussy for the first time on your first night settling into jackson with joel. he accidentally nicks you while helping you shave, but he makes sure to kiss it all better <3

warnings: 18+, smut, early jackson joel, established d/s relationship, porn with some plot (probably too much), oral (f receiving), innocence kink/roleplay, daddy kink (bordering on ddlg), shaving, a bit of insecure reader, blood (tried to keep it short & not very graphic), sprinkle of humiliation, pet names (darlin’, baby, babygirl, lil’ girl, honey, sweet girl, etc), joel refers to reader’s pussy as she/her, spitting, reader can be lifted by joel and has hair that can be tucked behind her ear, implied *legal* age gap (reader went to school in the qz)

word count: 2.9k

a/n: this fic is based on an nsfw audio by u/organ_donor86 on reddit!! i went to reddit and found it again so i could properly credit them for the inspiration, but i haven’t heard the full audio in probably 2 years so this fic is only based on what i could remember of the premise <3 this is my first time writing smut, nice comments and reblogs are appreciated if you enjoyed!!

You were sat on the end of the first clean, comfortable bed you had encountered in twenty years, taking in the surroundings of the charming bedroom you now found yourself in: The deer antler lamp emanating a warm glow from the bedside table, the framed paintings of various Wyoming-native wildlife hung up on the walls, the earth-toned woven rug beneath your bare feet. You took a deep breath, savoring the smell of a house that had never known decay. For the first time since outbreak day, you felt safe. Truly safe. Of course, Joel did his best to protect you as you traveled together over the last year or so since you met him, but you were never really without a looming threat of danger nearby.

His familiar, comforting voice startled you out of your daze.

“Y’ alright, babygirl? Settlin’ in okay?”

You looked over to where Joel was standing in the doorway, freshly showered and changed into a clean flannel and jeans.

You smiled with a relaxed sigh, flitting your eyes around the room again. “Yeah, I like it here, it’s cozy… Can’t wait to finally get a good night’s sleep in this bed tonight.”

“I’m with ya, baby, Maria ‘n Tommy gave us a real nice place, huh? Speakin’ of which, it’s about dinnertime, I think they just started servin’ it up down at the dinin’ hall. Why don’t we all go get somethin’ to eat together, hm? I know you must be hungry, sweet girl.”

Your eyes widened and your smile dropped a bit at the prospect of socializing with strangers, especially after the exhausting day you’d had getting to Jackson. Joel clocked your expression immediately, approaching where you were sat on the bed with slow strides. He gently pinched your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

“I know, my babygirl’s a shy one, huh? There’ll be a lotta people down there, I know…” He stroked a lock of hair behind your ear with his other hand. “Why don’t I go down there myself and see about bringin’ back some plates for us to eat together, just you and me? We’ll save the introductions for tomorrow, alright, darlin’?”

You nodded, your shoulders relaxing as your anxiety was soothed by his reassurances. He smiled down at you and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Alright, sit tight, honey, Daddy’ll be right back… We’ll have a nice lil’ night together.” Another soft kiss, to your lips this time, and he was gone from the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

You got up from the bed and padded over to the window. Peering out to the main road, you could see a crowd of people lined up outside the dining hall to get their evening meal. You figured you had at least fifteen minutes or so until Joel returned, deciding to take the opportunity to explore more of the house while you waited.

You wandered out of the bedroom and down the hallway, peeking your head around the doorframe of the first room you came upon. You reached out your arm and blindly felt around for the lightswitch, flicking it on once you found it. You were still standing in the doorway, knowing by now to wait a beat for the roaches to scatter before stepping fully inside. But to your surprise, there were none. The fluorescent ceiling light revealed the room to be a bathroom, a clean one at that.

You stepped over the threshold, immediately taking notice of the charming basket of homemade-looking toiletries perched on the sink’s granite countertop. It might as well have been Christmas morning, the overwhelming joy you felt at the idea of getting to take a bath in a clean tub with soap after all these years.

You picked up a white bar of soap from the basket and brought it to your nose, your eyelids fluttering closed as you inhaled its sweet vanilla scent. When you opened your eyes again, you noticed something even more enticing in the basket: a razor. The QZ school you attended had allowed the boys to have them in order to keep their facial hair under control, but deemed them a non-essential for the girls. Which, you supposed, was true, but you had still always fantasized about having a smooth, hairless body like the girls you had seen in wrinkled magazines and faded movie posters.

Your newly acquired shaving supplies planted an idea in your head: you were going to surprise Joel by shaving your pubic area for the first time. You imagined what it would be like to make a move on him after dinner, getting him hot and bothered, letting him carry you back up to the bedroom to have his way with you, and the wanton look on his face when he pulled down your cotton panties to find your pussy glistening and bare for him for the first time.

You practically tripped over your own feet in your rush to close the bathroom door. You quickly stripped off your worn jeans and underwear, tossing them into the corner of the bathroom to be dealt with later. You plugged up the sink and began to fill it with warm water, hoisting yourself up onto the countertop.

You swished the bar of soap around in the water, then rubbed it on a small patch of hair to create some suds. You placed the razor onto your soapy mound, then dragged it upward along your skin toward your belly button. Removing the hair proved to be more difficult than expected, and you were surprised to find that it hurt. It felt like you had just ripped out the hair instead of shaving it clean off. Just as you had touched the razor to the same thatch of hair to try again, you heard Joel’s heavy footsteps approaching, returning with your dinner much sooner than you had expected.

He was slowly turning the knob before you had a chance to get up and lock the door. “You in here, darlin? I was callin’ your name but you weren’t respondin’, and you weren't in the bedroom…”

“Sorry, Daddy… I’m just, um… doing something…” you responded, not very convincing in your flustered state.

“Can I come in, baby?”

You hummed your permission and he pushed the door open. The concerned look on his face dissolved when he saw you, worried at first that you might have been crying. His eyebrows raised and his lips parted in realization as he took in the sight of you before him.

“What’re you doin’ in here, darlin’, hm?”

“I… I wanted it to be a surprise. Wanted to shave it for you…” you admitted with a defeated pout.

“Oh babygirl… you know I’ve never cared about what you look like down there, don’t you?” You suddenly felt shy under his gaze, beginning to regret giving in to your girlish idea.

“I know, but… just wanted to look pretty for you, that’s all… like the girls in the magazines…”

“Oh, baby… you’re already the prettiest lil’ angel I ever laid eyes on… But if you really wanna shave her, Daddy’ll help you, sweet girl, don’t gotta keep struggling…”

He pulled up the worn little wooden stool from the corner of the bathroom and took a seat between your spread legs, gesturing for you to hand him the razor and bar of soap. You gave them up reluctantly, placing them delicately into his calloused hand. Your lips were still formed into a little pout, upset that your surprise had been ruined.

He dipped the vanilla-scented bar into the sink again, then rubbed it back and forth along the same vertical strip of skin above the hood of your clit that you had tried to start shaving first. He took note of the shoddily clipped hairs and how the skin beneath them was already looking a bit irritated from your misguided attempt.

“Gotta shave in the direction of the hair first, honey… like this…” He swished the razor in the water, then demonstrated the technique. The fingers of his left hand were splayed out across your lower tummy, his thumb pointed down, tugging the skin up towards your belly button as he shaved downward with his right. “See, baby? Just like this…” He did a few passes over the area, rinsing the razor in between each one.

You were mesmerized by his movements, watching his expert fingers work to remove coarse hair, revealing velvet smooth skin underneath. His hands looked so strong and competent as they moved from one patch of hair to the next, his brows furrowed and his tongue peeking out from between his plush lips in concentration.

You felt your core becoming wet as he exposed more bare skin to the bathroom’s cool air, his warm breath ghosting over your clit with each careful stroke of the razor. As he pulled away to admire how his work was coming along, the focused tension between his eyebrows released, noticing your hole beginning to drip.

“Oh…” he breathed, gathering some of your wetness on his thumb and bringing it closer to his face, inspecting it. “What’s all this honey, hm? This just from Daddy helpin’ you shave your lil’ pussy?” He sucked his thumb into his mouth, his eyelids fluttering as he savored the flavor. “Taste so sweet, babygirl… always so fuckin’ sweet f’ me…”

You nodded and whimpered at his words, heat rising to your cheeks at his slight mocking tone. “Can’t help it, Daddy…” Your hips started twitching of their own volition, rocking upward toward where his lips were now curled into a faux-sympathetic pout. You knew this was part of a little game he liked to play with you, the one where he made you feel a little embarrassed for being so easily turned on by him.

“I know, honey, I know… Lil’ girl can’t ever help herself, always gets wet f’ me so easily, doesn’t she? But you gotta hold still f’ me, let Daddy finish helpin’ you shave, okay?”

You gave another quick little nod and a hum of agreement that came out sounding more like a pathetic whine, and tried your best to control the movements of your pelvis as he got back to work.

But his big, warm hand was spread out over the delicate skin of your tummy again, and his lips were so close to being right where you wanted them, and what little self control you had been able to muster was quickly beginning to slip away. You were nearly able to contain yourself for the rest of his shaving, but your eager hips betrayed you on what would have been the final pass of the razor, giving a swift little buck toward Joel’s face despite your best efforts to keep still.

He wasn’t prepared for your sudden movement, and the sharp blades nicked the skin of one of your outer lips. You let out a startled cry as a little crimson pearl began to bloom on your sensitive skin. Joel gasped and was quick to apologize, even though your injury was really due to your own desperation. “Oh, Christ… I’m sorry, babygirl, I’m so sorry… here, gimme a tissue, baby.”

With a shaky hand, you reached over to the box of tissues sitting on the back of the toilet, plucking one out to hand to him. He dropped the razor in favor of the tissue, balling it up and gently pressing it to the little cut. His free hand quickly came up to the side of your face, smoothing his thumb across your cheekbone. “You okay, babygirl? I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean t’ hurt ya… told ya to keep still for me, baby…”

He wiped away a tear that had slipped from your lashes as you sniffled. “I’m okay, Daddy, jus’ scared me… stings a lil’ bit…”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it does… my poor girl. Daddy shoulda been more careful, knew you wouldn’t be able to control yourself, needy lil’ thing… But you know what, babygirl? Daddy knows somethin’ that’ll help, that’ll make it stop hurtin’...”

“What is it?” you asked, soft voice still wavering slightly.

“Well, I read somewhere a long time ago… that spit can help a lot with lil’ cuts and things…”

You could tell this was part of one of the other little games you liked to play together. The one where you pretended to be innocent and inexperienced, when in reality, Joel had made sure you were anything but. But you liked this game, it put butterflies in your tummy and made your weeping hole quiver when you played the part for him.

“It… it can?” you wondered with a naive-sounding lilt.

“Oh yeah, babygirl, you never heard o’ that before? Spit can help a whole lot, ‘specially Daddy’s spit, can make it feel all better, darlin’...” The stained tissue now discarded, his thumbs gently stroked the slick pink skin of your outer lips as he spoke, careful to avoid your little injury. “And your lil’ baby pussy is a real uncomfortable place to have a cut like this, too… Don’t want my girl hurtin’...”

Your eyebrows were knit together with need as you released a pathetic whimper, your breath hitching and heat rising from your fluttering tummy all the way up to your cheeks. He barely concealed a smirk as he noticed the change in your demeanor, knowing how this particular game had always affected you.

“Whaddya say, sweet girl, hm? You wanna give it a try? You want Daddy to kiss it all better?”

You nodded frantically, your mouth slightly agape as you began to pant out of desperation.

He was quick to deliver a small swat to your inner thigh at your unspoken answer.

“Words, baby, you know better…”

“Y-yes, Daddy, please, want you to kiss it better, make it stop hurting…”

“There you go, good girl. Spread your legs a lil’ more for me, honey, let me see her…”

You wiggled your thighs further apart on top of the counter, giving him full access to your now soaking cunt.

“There she is, baby, she’s cryin’ for me, ain’t she? Needs her Daddy to make her feel all better…”

He placed a few wet kisses to the afflicted area before looking up at you with apologetic eyes. “How’s that feel, babygirl? She still hurtin’?”

You nodded your head with a pathetic little cry, mindlessly chasing after his mouth with your hips. “Still hurts, Daddy…” you vocalized your answer this time.

“Yeah? Poor lil’ pussy… She need some more lovin’ from her Daddy? More of his spit to help make her feel good again?”

Another frantic nod, another eager mewl. “M-more… please, Daddy…”

“Alright, babygirl, don’t you worry, Daddy’ll give her some more…”

He latched his lips onto your swollen clit, alternating between sucking it into his mouth and giving it soft kitten licks. His large hands were firmly planted on the inside of each of your thighs, keeping you spread wide as he devoured you. You were already so sensitive from his teasing, it wasn’t going to take much more to push you over the edge. You were practically riding his face, your hips canting feverishly into his mouth with each expert drag of his tongue across your folds.

When he started fucking his tongue into your bitty hole, swirling it around and then licking back up to your clit to circle it, you knew you weren’t going to last much longer.

“Please, Daddy, please… feels so good, ‘s too much, gonna cum, Daddy…”

“Yeah? I dunno, babygirl, I don’t think she’s healed all the way just yet… might still need some more takin’ care of,” he murmured into your pussy before pulling his head away to spit directly onto your cunt. The lewd action was enough to launch you into your orgasm right then, his head still between your legs, slurping up the divine combination of his saliva and your sweet juices. As you rode it out, his tongue maintained a gentle, steady strum on your clit, eliciting breathy whines of please and yes and Daddy…

When you finally came down from your high, your breath catching up to you and your hips stilling, your pussy twitched one last time at the sight of Joel’s wrecked face. He was smirking up at you, his face soaked with your slick, thumbs rubbing soothing circles onto your thighs.

“Well, I reckon it worked, whaddya think, darlin’? She feelin’ better now?”

“Much better… thank you Daddy…” you sighed, still catching your breath.

“You’re welcome, babygirl, such pretty manners… Now, why don’t we get ourselves cleaned up and have some dinner, hm? I even brought back a slice o’ huckleberry pie for ya if you eat all your vegetables like a good girl…”

You lit up immediately at the promise, prompting Joel to reach into the basket and pull out a soft, cream-colored washcloth. He dunked it in the water, squeezing out the excess, and carefully cleaned up your now freshly bare pussy. When he was done, you took the washcloth from him, rinsing it in the sink before repeating his cleansing process on his own face. He helped you up off the counter before leaving the bathroom, returning promptly with a fresh set of clothes for you to change into. He helped you into a clean pair of panties, which you noted felt nice against your naked skin, then into a warm sweatshirt and comfortable leggings.

He carried you into the kitchen and sat you down at the little table set for two. You ate your dinners together by soft candlelight, relishing the feeling of having a sturdy roof over your heads and warm food in your stomachs.

You supposed tonight, and this little house in Jackson, represented a new beginning in more ways than one.

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @gracieispunk @iamasaddie @rebel-held

#my writing #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #daddy!joel miller #joel miller smut

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magicalgoblinz · 8 months

Text

One Thing

Summary: You did it. Cazador's dead and now... Astarion is finding himself working through some big emotions. Pairing: Astarion x gn!reader Word Count: 3.5 k Warnings: General angst, eluding to physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. Possibly ooc Astarion. Quickly edited. Song Recommendation: Never Let Me Go + Florence and the Machine Author's Note: First thing I've ever written for Astarion but I get the feeling it won't be the last. I really genuinely just wanted to get this idea out of my brain even if it's a bit strange and not all that amazing haha.

It had been a long day. Perhaps one of the longest you and your party had endured yet, or... at least it felt that way. It wasn't hard on your body like the goblin fight had been, nor had it been arcanely exhaustive like chasing that damned hag was. No, standing in the halls of Cazador's palace brought a different type of exhaustion. Passing through the spaces that your lover had once stalked attempting to go unseen by his master, seeing the sights of the spaces he was kept, smelling the decay, the putridness that no doubt lingered in the meals he was forced to partake in.

Every sight, smell, and sound you had come across weighed heavily on you. Even now as you sat in the plush comfort that was Elfsong Inn, freshly washed, the scents lingered in your nose and left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You pushed around the hastily prepared hash in your bowl, frown bared for everyone to see. Your thoughts were only for him. Every second of silence you could hear his sobs in that moment. The cries pulled from his very core, the kind of cries you could imagine he had dreamed of releasing for so long through every moment of torture he was subjected to. There was no way to imagine all of the atrocities he had suffered, yet somehow being left with nothing made every idea that flitted past your mind's eye so much worse.

You for so long had wished to weep for him. Weep for the time he had lost. Weep for the pain he must have felt in having to stand on the outside wondering if his family and friends ever thought of him again after he passed on. Weep for the crushed hopes for the future he had at one time had.

But what good would your tears do him now?

Cazador was dead.

And more importantly... Astarion was free.

So why did it all still feel so... excruciatingly heavy?

"Ts'ka --- eat and do not play. You need your strength for tomorrow." Lae'zel pushed from her lounging position on the floor.

"Have some heart, Lae'zel. It’s been a very difficult day." Wyll was quick to defend upon seeing the way your expression soured at the thought of eating. "Y/n, had to assist our resident vampire through some very hard things today. Including walking through where he had been kept prisoner. Imagine having to do the same with your lover." He said with a gesture towards Lae'zel.

"If I had a lover they would be able to care for themselves; it would be the first thing I looked for in a mate. A prowess to stay alive in battle like my own is the only thing that is truly attractive." Lae'zel said with a lifted chin.

Wyll's lips parted as if to say something more but began to shake his head, there was no fighting with La'zel. She didn't dig her heels in when it came to opinions, no her entire feet were buried. "Speaking of Astarion, where is he?" He eventually asked, changing the focus of the conversation.

"I believe he went for a bath." Shadowheart interjected, "He said something about not being able to stand having his beauty mired... you know how he is." She said, not lifting her eyes from her bowl with a small wave of her spoon that was held in delicate fingers.

Her saying this seemed to pull your eyes towards the door of the wash room. It had been a while since he left now that you thought about it. Your brows lowered a bit in thought; Astarion deserved his space right now, but you still couldn't help but want to hold his hand and not let it go after everything that had happened today. Maybe he wouldn't want that though, not with what you did today.

That look in his eyes...

Now that he had the time to actually think about what you did, what you talked him into doing; would he feel betrayed?

You had promised him you'd help him get that power he so desired, but when that chance came you changed your mind.

The idea of Astarion no longer trusting you hurt more than imagining him ending whatever it was the two of you had. The worries made your expression sullen even more, looking down at your bowl with a deeper pit growing in your stomach. Did you really want to find out?

Out of the blue, there is a light nudge to your arm. The little touch is enough to pull you back up from your descent into grieving something you hadn't even lost yet. With a glance to your right you find Karlach with a bottle outstretched to you. "I think we could all use a little drink tonight... but especially Astarion." She said warmly, "Perhaps you should see if he wants some?" She continued with a little jerk of her head towards the closed doors. Her tone made it all to clear that your inner turmoil was written out on your face for everyone to see.

A sigh escaped your throat as you debated on whether or not that was a good idea but the way Karlach began to lazily swing the bottle back and forth with her hand triggered something in your mind that made you reach out and take it in one smooth movement.

It couldn't hurt to check in on him?

Could it?

Astarion's head was rested back, hanging over the edge of the bath he sat in. The water had lost the majority of its warmth, and his hand had pruned but he made no movements to get out. Eyes transfixed on the dancing flames in the fireplace at the side of the room. Every twist of orange and lift of a spark made his mind lurch through another memory; they all seemed to be coming back to him now, one by one. His mind shuddered from the thought of a blade pressed into his skin, carving, etching, his skin becoming the canvas for a dastardly design that he wouldn't understand for years.

Funnily, the recollection of pain wasn't what bothered him. It was having to recall his own voice struggling not to escape his lips throughout the entire gut-wrenching experience that made his hand ball into a fist.

With a pop and crackle of the wood Astarion's memories would carry on to something else.

His ears ringing, echoing the silence of that tomb. Gods above that tomb. That year spent in silence. Those months spent starving. The way his hands bled from trying ever so desperately to escape. Over what...? A boy that he couldn't bear to steal the life away from.

Astarion took in a sharp breath as he tried to shake away the thought, as he sat up.

But still the memories continued to bleed through. The faces of all those people he had brought to Cazador, he could see them in his mind's eye. The memories of bedding some of them, cycling through his head in a complete sequence even though they were spread across centuries. A flash of a young human woman who excitedly spun in a brand new red dress that she was ever so excited to show off. The pale blue of a nervous elf man's eyes as they darted around the room the second Astarion approached. Seeing the tattoos and the scars spread across the back of a dwarven sailor who stretched after returning to the mainland after a long voyage. The shine of a coy tiefling woman's smile as she attempted to steal his coin purse from his pocket. So many lives, so many people. At what point did he begin to stop caring? Who was it that he pulled by the wrist back to a dreary room that made him start drifting away any time he had to become intimate? Or was it any of them at all?

His features twisted into an expression of disgust the second his mind started going down that path. There was no amount of Cazador being dead that made those memories better. In a snap his balled up hands lifted to rub his eyes in annoyance. If only Astarion could wash out his eyes and his mind and start anew. If only.

And to think... he had wanted this for so long.

He had dreamt about the day he'd be able to have the cathartic feeling of stabbing Cazador, again, and again, and again. And now that it had come and gone... he wished he could have kept going forever. Fuck, he wished he had. After everything Cazador had done to him, the bastard deserved so much worse than to bleed out on that cold floor. He deserved to suffer just as much as Astarion had, if not more.

Astarion couldn't help but wish that he had ignored everyone and continued the ritual as a perfect slap in the face to Cazador. Continued that ritual, so for the first time in all these years... he'd be safe. Entirely safe. And the loss of that made his chest ache, he was so close to crying all over again.

But then...

Tap, tap, tap

"Astarion," Your voice started from just beyond the doors. "I'm sorry to bother you. I just um... wanted to check in. Karlach thought you might need a drink."

There was you.

Astarion's head lifted from his hands as he took in a deep breath. He tried to shove all those emotions back down again, to put the cork back in the bottle before they could really bleed out into him properly. His gaze lingering on the door, lips unmoving.

"Didn't you hear him? If you complete the ritual, you'll be consumed, Astarion." You had said with a look of sincere terror in your eyes. The look wasn't foreign to him... but perhaps different? People had been scared of him before, oh people had been terrified once they realized what he was. But just how many people had been scared for him? That... he didn't know.

He couldn't remember his exact words in reply now, the tension and adrenaline leaving them in a silent part of his mind but what he did recall was the way you looked at him. It stung. It stung so much more than the little voice in the back of his mind screaming that you were breaking your promise.

You promised to help him ascend. You swore you would help him ascend. You said---

Gods that look. Astarion couldn’t shake it.

The way your eyes seemed to plead with him before you had even opened your mouth. Begging him to reconsider. "I know you think this will set you free, but it won't." Your voice was so gentle, but still so desperate. "This power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador. Is that really what you want?"

You were right, as much as he hated it. You were always right.

But more than that. As he thought about it now, he recognized something that he hadn't in that moment...

Just outside the door you stood listening, hoping to hear something, anything. Your thumb fumbled with the cork of the bottle nervously. This was a bad idea wasn't it? He needed more time. This was too soon to try and come see him. Gods... what if he really did hate you for what you did. You started to shake your head, "...I'm going to take that as a no. I'll um..." you started lightly, trying not to have your worry show through in your words. "I'm sorry again for interrupting. I'll see you when you're finished, my darling."

Once more. You wanted to call him that one more time before he had a chance to break things off.

"Come in."

Your eyes couldn't help but widen ever so slightly, hand moving to the handle before cautiously pushing the door open and poking your head in. From this angle you could see Astarion's side profile, the good majority of the grime and blood from the day having been washed away, though his clothes that sat off to the side on a bench, were stained a deep red that would take ages to remove, if it ever came out at all. His eyes soon looked your way tiredly. As an instinct you quickly held up the bottle you had brought him, no words coming to follow it, they all seemed to have gone into hiding the second his eyes landed on you.

"Are you planning on bringing the bottle here my sweet, or to just... swing it around like an idiot?" He asked in a long drawn out way, a tone that felt like he was trying to maintain a sense of normalcy for you, but at this point in your adventure together the look in his eyes was more than enough to tell you that he was working through something.

You were entirely taken aback by the gentle name used, a little bit of relief seeping into your chest. "Y-you want me to come in?"

"Was that not what I said?"

Your lips parted, deciding not to speak just yet and instead closing the door behind you. "I'm sorry... I just didn't want to overstep with you, you know… washing and all." You said slowly, acting as if you weren’t both adults – who had on more than occasion – slept together.

Even now, even after seeing him at his lowest today, you were still trying to respect whatever boundaries he had. The thought made Astarion close his eyes and let out a soft laugh, "Darling, you've seen me naked before, it's fine." He assured, "Now...please, for the love of gore and everything soaked in blood, can you bring me that bottle."

There was no reluctance now, carrying yourself to his side with ease. As you approached you couldn't help but notice that his hair was still matted thick with blood in places. All this time he clearly had just been lost in his thoughts as much as you expected really. His hand reached up the second you drew near, taking the bottle from your hands greedily, popping the cork and taking a decidedly long drink. Not minding you at all as you reluctantly found a seat on the bench his clothes were rested upon.

The sight of his nose scrunching a bit from the taste of the wine made an ever so small smile tug at the corner of your mouth. It was hard not to recall him making that same face at the tiefling party not so long ago. Vinegar for wine. Would there be a day when the wine you brought him didn't elicit that involuntary response?

Astarion glanced at you from the corner of his eye, "You'd have made an excellent vampire, you know." He said with an amused little grin, all happy to see the confusion cover your features.

"Why is that?"

"Asking to come in, obviously." He joked loosely,

A small laugh left your lips as your eyes drifted to the floor, "I didn't realize that respecting people's privacy was so vampiresque."

"It's not, we're atrociously nosey by nature and well... it's just another fun hindrance to go against that nature I suppose." Astarion spoke in his normal moseying draw.

"I see..."

There was a breadth of silence between the two of you. A silence that carried the heaviness of the day's events. You knew it needed to be said, but it didn't make it any easier to consider what the exact words were that needed saying. How to broach it? What if he didn’t want to talk about it at all and you misread the situation entirely? You kept glancing his way hoping to have it all come together in your mind like some sort of epiphany, yet he beat you to it.

"I'm not upset with you, darling. You don't have to keep looking at me like that." Astarion spoke suddenly with all the ease in the world.

"You're not?"

"Well, perhaps I was a little at first. You did go back on your word, after all." Astarion pointed out, eyes now fixed on the bottle in his hand. “I think anyone might be a bit… sour after something like that.”

There was the guilt again. "Astarion... I'm sorry, I---"

"I don't want your apologies." He cut in sharply, finally turning his gaze to look your way. Despite what his tone may have indicated, his eyes weren't as stern as they normally appeared when he was upset. No, they were instead ever so full of sadness. "...I-I'm not angry with you. I swear it. But what I don't understand is why I don't feel any fucking better." Astarion said as his voice suddenly sounded so much more fragile. "I... I killed him. I got the revenge I've dreamed about for two-hundred fucking years. The same revenge I begged for the whole year I was locked in that horrid tomb." He hissed, "I took back my life and yet I... I feel like I didn't do enough."

He was cracking. That much you could see.

"I can't help but wonder if I had completed the ceremony if that would have been enough. Enough to rub it in his Gods damned face that I did it." Astarion admitted sternly, lifting his chin as his eyes stayed focused on the bottle still, "Watch this worm take away everything from him like he took everything from me." He mumbled out, the heat leaving his voice for a brief second as all that he was left with was glassy eyes.

"...I-I would have never had to fear anyone or anything ever again..." Astarion uttered through clenched teeth, tears finally breaking free and running down his cheeks one at a time. "...and now it's gone."

Wordlessly you got to your feet, taking a few steps forward to close the gap between you both, leaning down to wrap your arms around his neck in the most comforting hug you could possibly muster. His hand immediately finds your arm, holding it tight as for the second time in your journey, he begins to cry.

Silence seems to be what Astarion needed from you, wailing into the open air as everything he has stuffed away into that bottle comes pouring back out. No apologies. No consoling words. Just for you to hold him, to give him time. His head rests against yours almost as if to ensure that even now, after everything you both had been through, you couldn't see him cry. Perhaps the idea of you seeing it happen twice in a day was too much for him. Or perhaps there was still a festering feeling of weakness that would bubble up if he let you see him cry.

"Oh my sweet, sweet, Astarion." You mumbled holding him tighter than before, listening as his sobs grew softer over the passing moments.

Waiting. Listening.

Once his frame had stopped shaking you finally raised your voice once more . "...if I could Astarion, I would take away all of the hurt in an instant... but I can't. And I wish you knew just how much it pains me to not be able to." You speak, parting your lips to continue on but pause as you feel a familiar shudder resonate through your mind. He was peering in, confirming the statement for himself it seemed. "The most I can do is promise you something..." you continued on, pretending like you weren't aware of poking around, you had nothing to hide for one key reason…

Gently you pulled back, running your hand from his neck to his chin to tilt his head up. Eyes looking over his tear stained cheeks and then to meet his own shimmering red eyes. "I promise you that, as long as I'm here you will never have to fear anything... or anyone again." You assured, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as you wipe away his remaining tears. “Because Astarion… I love you and… I will never let you go.”

The look that fills Astarion's eyes is something that you had only seen once before when you decided to hug him for the first time back in the Shadowlands. It was a look that spoke numbers towards just how frightening the unknown was for him. How terrifying it could be to have someone love you so truly and want nothing in return for the first time in his life.

You feel a rush of surprise followed by so overwhelming, your lips curl into the same smile you gave him then as you had reached out to wrap your arms around him to hold him tight…

You know the feeling even if he can’t say it yet.

Love.

Because that was the thing. Astarion had realized before this that you… well, you were the only good thing that he’s ever had. That he’d do just about anything to keep you safe and ensure that no one dare take you away from him. Yet, strangely he never once considered…

That he might mean just that much to you.

End Notes: Thank you so much for reading! I'd really love to start writing for Astarion more so if you have any ideas send them over <3

#astarion x reader #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion fic #astarion angst #astarion x you #astarion x tav

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tswhiisftteedr · 28 days

Note

Carmilla x reader NSFW? Specifically, eating out after a long day at work. The two going a few rounds from the pent-up stress?

I’m pissed, please take care of me ☆ One shot

☆ Employer!Carmilla Carmine x Employee!Fem!Reader:

After a shitty day at work, you and your boss who is simultaneously your girlfriend, decide to let the days stress go by ‘working out’ your frustrations.

Warnings: Mature Content, Explicit/Graphic Language, Praise kink, Oral Sex(Both Female Parties Receiving), Bad Spanish, NOT PROOFREAD.

Words: 2549

Note: So this a combination of 3 requests, sorry @hyenalover2630 if you don’t like this cuz that’s not what you asked for, I did a one shot instead of headcannon so sorry agin but I though rounding up similar requests would be a smart move. Also this one shot is a bit on the shorter side so that’s that.

Author Note: Soooo, I’m back from the dead, 38 request in my inbox, 15 of them being just Adam requests lol.

☆ more under the cut. ☆

Finding yourself in hell was more than just a lousy situation—it was a downright nightmare. Amidst the chaos, the moral decay, and the ridiculous housing prices, you were desperate for any job that could keep you afloat. You applied everywhere, except under Valentino; you wanted no part of that mess.

So, it wasn't surprising when you ended up as a grunt in the marketing department at Carmine Inc. But you were a hustler, always quick, efficient, and responsible. Your work ethic didn't go unnoticed, especially by the big boss herself.

You couldn't help but admire her in many ways. She was a badass, running a successful business with an iron fist, yet she had a sense of fairness. And let's not forget, she was easy on the eyes, which only fueled your crush.

After a meeting she personally set up, you scored a promotion to be her personal assistant. But even with the big leap, you didn't slack off. Your efficiency was still on point, and Carmilla appreciated it.

As your role in the company evolved, so did your connection with Carmilla. It all started with those little touches—a hand on your shoulder here, a pat on the head there—that seemed innocent enough at first.

But soon, those gestures became more frequent and intimate, like her guiding hand on your waist or the way she'd ask you to stick around after hours for a chat and a drink.

The formalities started to fade away, with Carmilla calling by your first name and encouraging you to do the same, replacing your usual ‘Mme. Carmine’ by the overlords name. It was like she was inviting you into her inner circle, blurring the lines between boss and friend.

As the months passed and you continued to excel in your role as her assistant, Carmilla couldn't help but notice a shift in her feelings toward you. Your hard work and dedication were undeniable, but it was more than that. She found herself drawn to you in a way she hadn't expected. Plus, the fact that you were a beautiful woman did help in growing her attraction for you.

It became increasingly obvious to Carmilla that you harbored feelings for her as well. Your nervousness whenever she was around spoke volumes, manifesting in stutters and how you would visibly warm up whenever her gaze met yours. It was a telltale sign of the attraction brewing beneath the surface.

Furthermore, she couldn't ignore your subtle cues for validation and compliments. You seemed to thrive on her words of affirmation, going above and beyond in your tasks just to earn a simple ‘great job’ or ‘I'm proud of you, Y/N’ from her lips. ‘And who could blame you? With Carmilla being the hot Hispanic woman she was, who wouldn't want her singing their praises?’

After two months of silently pining for each other, where Carmilla was keenly aware of your feelings while you remained oblivious to hers, she decided it was time to break the stalemate. She orchestrated a meeting after hours, summoning you to her office to address the unspoken tension between you.

As you sat down, she wasted no time in getting to the point. With a mix of nerves and determination, she confessed her own feelings, revealing that she had long known about yours as well. It was a moment of vulnerability for both of you, but also a turning point.

The conversation didn't end there. Carmilla proposed taking a chance on each other, suggesting that you go on a date that weekend to explore the potential of your connection further. You agreed, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension at what lay ahead.

The subsequent dates were nothing short of magical, filled with laughter, deep conversations, and shared moments of intimacy. With each passing day, your bond grew stronger, and it became increasingly evident that what you shared was more than just a fleeting attraction.

By the fifth date, it was abundantly clear to both of you that you wanted to take things to the next level. Over a candlelit dinner, you shared your hopes and dreams, expressing your desire to make things official. And as you toasted to your newfound love, you knew in your heart that you had found something special amidst the chaos of your workplace.

Despite the enchanting aura that surrounded your relationship with Carmilla that usual had you on cloud nine, today proved to be shitty day nevertheless.

First, there was the debacle with the rogue shipment. Some brainless thugs decided to mess with a Carmine truck, oblivious to the glaring logo emblazoned on its side. Needless to say, they met their demise, but not before causing a heap of trouble.

Then came the catastrophe with the catalog files—a rookie managed to obliterate an entire folder of vital content. The painstaking recovery process left you on edge, uncertain if the files would return unscathed or corrupted.

And if that wasn't enough, that blasted Vox bastard had the audacity to cancel yet another meeting with Carmilla, marking the third time in a row. The gall of him, treating her time as if it were disposable. You couldn't stand that attention-seeking-whore man-child with his oversized ego and incessant need for validation.

As the day dragged on, you finally collapsed onto your bed, still fully dressed save for your shoes. Frustration, exhaustion, and pent-up tension weighed heavily on your shoulders. It was a relief when Carmilla entered the room, her expression mirroring your own.

With a sigh of resignation, she joined you on the bed, her presence offering a sense of comfort amidst the chaos. In that moment, without a word exchanged, you found solace in each other's presence, united in your shared frustration and exhaustion.

Sighing heavily, Carmilla reached for the bottle of beezeljuice resting on the nightstand, taking a generous swig before passing it over to you. You accepted the bottle, mirroring her earlier gesture as you took a deep gulp, relishing in the familiar burn as the liquid slid down your throat. It was a small but comforting ritual, a shared moment of indulgence amidst the chaos of the day.

As the evening steadily slipped away, the weight of your troubles began to dissolve, replaced by a gentle warmth that spread through you like wildfire. You found yourselves leaning closer, your bodies pressed together as you sought solace in each other's embrace. Your lips met in a heated kiss, passion exploding between you like a bolt of lightning.

Your tongues danced a fiery tango, exploring every inch of each other's mouths with a fervor that belied your exhaustion. As your hands wandered, exploring the curves of each other's bodies, you couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of hope. Despite the challenges and tribulations that the afterlife threw at you, you were a force to be reckoned with.

"Acércate, mi amor," Carmilla murmured against my lips, her voice low and sultry as she pulled you closer. "Today has been a living nightmare, but your presence makes everything better. You're the wind beneath my wings, my sweet girl."

Her praise was music to your ears, making your heart flutter and your cheeks flush in delight. To hear her speak such kind words, to know that you brought light into her day was like floating on cloud.

Unable to contain your desire any longer, you broke your kiss, your breaths ragged and hearts pounding in sync. Carmilla's eyes smoldered with hunger as she reached for the buttons of my shirt, skillfully releasing each one until it pooled at my feet. Your undergarments followed suit, leaving you naked and vulnerable in her capable hands.

In turn, you mirrored her actions, slowly peeling away layers of her clothing until she stood before you in nothing but her ballet slippers and stockings. Her skin glowed under the dim light, her statuesque figure an ode to her grace and power. As you gazed upon her, you felt a raw, unbridled hunger stir within you, a primal urge to taste her.

"Mi alma," Carmilla whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation. "Can you be the good girl i know you are, take care me? Will you be a sweetheart and eat me out?."

Without hesitation, you knelt before her, her scent enveloping you as you parted her legs and settled between them. Your fingers traced delicate paths along her calves, sending shivers down her spine.

As you approached her core, Carmilla's fingers threaded through your hair, guiding your head between her legs with an air of completely control that sent shivers down your spine. You reveled in her power over you, knowing that she desired to be in charge, to assert her authority in this moment of vulnerability.

"That's it, mi vida," she purred, her voice a seductive symphony that resonated throughout the room. "Show me how much you love pleasing me."

Your tongue flicked out, teasing the sensitive skin at the apex of her thighs, drawing a gasp from her lips. Her hands tightened in your hair, urging you forward as you dove between her legs. The taste of her was divine, almost making your head spin.

Carmilla moaned softly, her thighs clenching as you explored her folds with reverence. Each stroke of your tongue was deliberate, each flick a testament to your devotion. Her groans of pleasure echoed around you, a symphony of lust that only heightened your desire to please her.

“Eso es todo, lo estás haciendo tan bien, fuck! Keep going, my beautiful girl.”

As you delved deeper, your tongue probing the depths of her pussy, Carmilla's moans grew louder, her body arching with each stroke. Her fingers twisted in your hair further, grinding you against her with a firm hand that you hungered for. This display of dominance was intoxicating, igniting a fire within you that mirrored her own passion.

"Just like that, mi corazón," she encouraged, her voice thick with lust. "You’re being such a good girl for me.”

Your actions became more fervent, your lips and tongue working in concert to bring her pleasure. Her hips bucked in response, her sighs and gasps filling the room with the soundtrack of our passion. You reviled in her reactions, feeding off her energy as you explored every inch of her tender flesh.

Carmilla's breath hitched, her grip on your hair stronger than ever before as she neared her climax. Her body trembled beneath you, her whispered praises— ‘That’s my girl’, ‘So proud of you, you’re doing such a great job’, ‘I love you so much my beautiful girl’— urging you onward.

As she reached her peak, Carmilla's back arched, her moans filling the room like a thunderous roar, “¡Ya me vengo!”. Her body convulsed, her climax washing over her in waves of ecstasy. You took pride in the role you had played in her release, revelling in her praises as she came down from her high.

Panting, she pulled you upward, her lips claiming yours in a searing kiss that left no doubt as to the power she held over you and the loved you share. "Great job, my love," she breathed against your lips. "Your tongue truly is a work of art."

Then, without warning, Carmilla reversed your roles. With a swift motion, she pushed you onto your back, her eyes gleaming with newfound determination. Your heart raced as she positioned herself between your legs, her gaze never leaving yours.

"Now, it's your turn," she growled, her voice deep and sensual. "Spread your legs for me, Y/N."

You obeyed without a moment of resistance, your nerves jangling with anticipation as she lowered her head. Her tongue darted out, tracing a path that sent shivers cascading through you.

Each touch was electric, her tongue exploring every inch of your body with a precision that left you breathless. Her absolute control and expertise was entrancing, and you craved more. Your hands gripped the sheets, seeking purchase as she continued her exploration.

With every lick and suck, you grew closer to the edge, your moans mingling with her satisfied hums. It wasn't long before you could bear it no longer, and with a “Go for it, sweet girl”, your body thrashed beneath hers as you climaxed. Waves of pleasure washed over you, leaving you weak and breathless.

When you finally came down from your high, Carmilla lifted her head, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Perfect," she purred, her voice a siren's song that enchanted you as if you were a sailor.

As soon as your senses were regained, Carmilla had wasted no time in resuming her ministrations. Her tongue dove back into the folds of my heat, her appetite for pleasure seemingly insatiable. You writhed beneath her, unable to contain the surge of pleasure that coursed through me.

Her fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady as she feasted on you with unwavering passion. Your moans filled the room once more, intertwining with her satisfied grunts. The intensity of her attack overwhelmed you, pushing you to the brink once more.

Overstimulated by her persistent attention, you cried out as you climaxed once more, your body shaking with the force of the experience. When you finally came down, panting heavily, Carmilla released you, her eyes shining with victory.

"Now, that's what I call some well spent frustration," she said, her voice still thick with desire yet quite comforting and sweet. "What do you say we take a moment to catch our breath?"

You nodded, your body still trembling from the intensity of the intercourse. As you lay there, your hearts pounding in sync, you couldn't help but marvel at the relationship you shared. Despite you differences, your love had brought you together in a way that felt both natural and exhilarating.

Carmilla's hand traced lazy circles on your stomach, her thumb brushing across your navel as she gazed into your eyes.

The quiet was a welcome relief, but there was something eating at you that you just had to vent about. "Okay, but seriously, that Vox dude is a major asshole, right? I mean, he's practically begging for a meeting and then bails three freaking times in a row. Am I the only one who thinks that TV demon is just a whiny little prick?”

"Mi amor, the beacon of my day and the guiding star of my night—" Carmilla responded emphatically. "I couldn't fucking agree more with you. That guy, and his associates, are just a bunch of overgrown kids with way too much damn power for anyone's good. If it weren't for you and my daughters, I swear to Santa Maria I'd probably have blown my fucking brains out by now dealing with their goddamn irresponsible behavior.”

After Carmilla's passionate outburst, silence descended once again, but it didn't last long. Before you knew it, both of you were erupting into fits of laughter, finding humor in the absurdity of it all.

You both instinctively drew closer, holding each other tighter than before. Despite the shitty day you had endured, there was comfort in each other's embrace.

As you nestled against each other, a thought crossed your mind: ‘maybe karma was real after all.’ If finding reassurance in Carmilla's arms was your reward after such a terrible day, perhaps the universe's scales were fairer than you had previously believed.

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