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skelly-words · 15 days

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sneaking into a witch’s garden to steal something and her vines fertilize you 😩😩 (this sentence is crazy bruh)

wait til she finds you in the morning and fucks you with her huge dick

NSFW, Minors DNI (18+ obv)

TAGS: non-con monsterfucking, vines/plants, aphrodisiac, ovi, all holes, futanari, this is so cursed lol, also a period piece ig

WC- 1.1k

You're hungry. The kind of starving that makes you ask the grocers at the market for vegetable scraps, lift bread loaves out of unattended baskets, and hop the ten-foot cobblestone wall into your neighbor's garden.

You feel like an idiot as soon as you make it into the witch's yard. Nobody ever got away with stealing from her, yet here you were, shivering in the frigid winter twilight, inching across her frosted lawn to the brightly lit greenhouse.

The heavy glass doors barely creak and you're almost sucked in by the humid air. The empty gurgle in your gut makes you press on through the rows of plants, looking for something edible or incredible to make off with.

You search the entire greenhouse before making the mistake of sniffing at her rose bushes. They smell sweet, much less harsh and organic than a normal rose. You sniff deeply into the blossom as it pushed against your nose.

Your mind is gone after that first inhale. The careful brambles shred your clothes, letting the rags fall to the dirt while they carefully wrap around your body. The rosebuds drip with a sweet syrup. It leaks into the seam of your mouth, making you lick out to taste it, to suckle the nectar from the buds until you're drowning in it.

You've been completely pulled into the rose bushes now, so tangled in the tenacious little plant that you couldn't get out if you wanted to. You drink down whatever the bud gives you, even as the sticky liquid makes you gasp and choke. More of the buds press to the corner of your mouth, smearing the substance across your jaw and neck, some drop lower, opening their petals to suckle on your swollen nipples. You haven't noticed how heavy your breasts have gotten. The tight binding of the vines had to adjust so the hungry rosebuds could suck on your fat tits.

Milk spurts out of you as the vines squish and squeeze at your heaving chest. You can hardly breathe. Something is in the syrup, making your mind numb and skin tingle as it smears on your sensitive body. Globs of sticky nectar drip onto your clit so it twitches and throbs as a greedy bud latches onto it. Your hips buck, bumping into a bundle of slender stamen that prod at your entrance. They move with your hips to work your pussy open. The tendrils twist their way into your tight hole and slowly expand. The sucker on your clit helps your muscles relax, but the demanding stretch is too much.

You groan loudly, parting your lips to pant as the fibers pry your cunt apart. The blossom at your lips forces its way deeper, sliding over your tongue, dripping down your throat, snaking its way so deep you can't taste the sweetness of the syrup its pumping into you.

Suddenly, the stretch isn't so bad anymore and you moan, sounding more like a gurgle around the obstruction. You can feel them exploring your insides. The stamen probe at your cervix, getting as deep as possible before turning you into a proper seed bed. It slowly starts to pump you full of spawn, feeding eggs into your cunt with thick spurts of the rose nectar. Your eyes roll back as the band in your belly tightens. It snaps as the effects of the drugged plant take over. Your pussy tingles, walls clenching, squishing the eggs and juice in as you cum. Pathetic dribbles leak down your thighs as the mess sprays out of you.

Streams of milk lead from your nipples, pooling beneath each breast. You're leaking too fast for the rosebuds to suckle up. Time seems to move slow, or fast. You don't really know, counting the eggs being shoved into you instead of the minutes. At least your tummy is full now. You've been well fed by the vine lodged in your throat.

The witch finds you in the morning when she comes to garden. You're so tucked away in the vines, she would've missed you if not for the sound. You're squishing and sloshing from being so stuffed full by her naughty flora.

"Looks like my rosehips like you, they've made you into a perfect seedbed. It's kinda kismet because I've been meaning to propagate them." She grabs your hips, wrenching you halfway out of the bush to look at what the plant has done to you. "The rosehips only care about breeding, so it's left your cute little ass all empty."

Her finger swirls through your drooling folds before dipping lower and sinking into your butt. You're so tight, already squirming around one little finger. She palms her cock with her other hand as she fucks you open on her fingers. Slick drips down from your cunt to help lube up your hole. You watch her black skirt start to lift as she gets harder. Her dripping tip starts to poke from the beneath the hem as she grows. Thick semen runs from the blunt head of her horsecock. She lets it land in your cunt, left gaping by the twenty six eggs the rose has planted in you.

The witch only puts two fingers in your ass before forcing her dick in. She grunts and huffs, grip on your hips only growing tighter with each stunted thrust. You're strung out on the aphrodisiac being fed down your throat. You've been drinking it all night long, more full than you've been in months. The fat cockhead catches on your rim each time she pulls back, you clench and twitch around her, squeezing the life out of her dick.

You take it all, sucking all thirteen inches into your puckering hole. She rolls her hips against yours, mesmerized by how your your cunt twitches and tightens as she fucks you. She's so big and pent up, so it doesn’t take long for her to release, cumming deep in your guts as her balls pump her sticky spunk into you.

You hardly control your body anymore, murmuring weakly as you squirt on the witch's dick. She keeps a punishing pace and you love it. The rough drag of her throbbing cock makes your muscles tense and squeeze. She tugs the bud away from your left tit, leaning down to suck on your abused nipple.

"Your milk's sweet. Taste it." She suckles from you again and spits it between your lips, already left open by the vine, but you can taste the milk as it hits your tongue. It's so good, you're almost jealous she gets to drink it. She mouths at your breast, giving kitten licks to the liquid beading on your cute brown nubs.

You’re making such a mess of cum on her stomach as she leans over you. The overstimulation is hard to register from how hazy your mind’s become. Your clit pulses from being sucked on all night, spasming again whenever she has you at the fullest. She has your ass so stuffed it makes your eyes cross and the stamen are trying to push another egg in you. Every orgasm wrecks you, cresting tears over your cheeks as she keeps her lips pressed around your chest to nurse from you.

Not many people are stupid enough to steal from the witch anymore, and her cock gets so painfully hard when she doesn’t have a slut like you to take care of it. She takes out all of her frustration on your poor virgin ass. You’re so ruined now, only able to cum and spread your legs more because that’s all the aphrodisiac allows you to think about.

you’ve lost count of how many eggs are in your sticky cunt, always being given more and more as you adjust. Your butt is stretched so much by her swollen length that she’s trained you to take her whenever she wants. Your rim easily swallows up her fingers, tongue, or dick, sometimes dildos, whatever she felt like watching you squirt on.

The witch’s cock keeps you plugged up every morning. It's the only routine you can seem to keep track of these days. Oh well, who knows why you came here in the first place anyway?

A/n- i wrote this in one sitting (it’s noticeable)

new tentacle au idea, thoughts?

#skel writes tentacles #nsft tentacles #monster fucker #tentacles #tentacle smut #what's the plant tentacle tag?#tentacular #ovipositor

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graveyardcuddles · 12 days

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Rhapsody - Astarion x GN!Reader one-shot

You and Astarion are ready to embark on a new journey together. You begin by shedding a painful piece of his past.

A/N: I'm brand new to hobby writing, and this is my first ever fic! This was based on something I actually did with my Tav and Astarion in-game.

tags/warnings: sfw, established relationship, gender neutral!reader, nondescript reader, tavstarion (reader is tav), kissing, in-game spoilers, angst, hurt/comfort, brief mentions of Cazador-related trauma, feelings, fluff.

Word count: ~2000

It's a quiet early evening in the Elfsong tavern. The private room you share with your lover is warm, windows shuttered and curtains drawn. As you entered the room, you froze, stopping to admire the sight before you. Astarion was resting in the comfort of your shared bed. Trancing, to be precise. He hadn't been trancing these past few days, and the sight of your silver-haired love resting peacefully filled you with relief. Slowly, you peel off your boots and make your way over to your resting vampire. Your hands and knees sank into the plush of the bed cautiously in an attempt to avoid disturbing his trance. He was roused from it easily. Eventually, you managed to settle your head on the pillow, simply observing him in a rare moment of peace. He lay unnaturally still, chest unmoving, eyelashes resting delicately where his lovely dark circles ran under his eyes. Hair tousled, collar bones just peaking out of where the top buttons of his shirt clasped together. His face was calm, with no trace of tension he usually had during his night terrors. You smiled. Eventually, your lids grew heavy.

It had been only a week since you and your companions had destroyed the world-ending threat of the mindflayer Grand Design. Your little group of unlikely friends were declared Heroes of the Gate. You should be feeling triumphant, but your victory had been bittersweet. Despite taking pride in the fact he had been one of its saviors, Baulder's Gate would always remain host to Astarion's worst memories. Just returning to the city alone was overwhelming for him: facing his old stalking grounds, his siblings, Cazador. Your relationship had only recently evolved into something more after his confession in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. You knew this would be difficult and messy for him, but you were already hopelessly devoted to this beautiful broken man who was finally trusting you with his heart, wholly and freely.

So you took his heart in your hands and held it gently through all his anxieties and fears. Through the sleepless nights, the sobbing, the flashbacks, and phantom pains. All of which only increased as his confrontation with Cazador drew closer, and the promise of power and security that came with ritual became more and more tempting to him. You feared dearly that you were losing him and that your love and pleas for him to see reason wouldn't be enough to stop him. The fear wound itself around you like a bramble, the heartache gnawing away at you daily.

In the end, your worst fears did not come to pass. He rejected the profane power of the ritual in return for freedom with you. In that bloody moment when Astarion finally ended Cazador, you were in awe of him. His glorious spirit and strength. You allowed him to let out over 200 years of grief and rage. Watched closely as he came back to himself. Helped him back to the Elfsong to clean him up and tend to his wounds. Later on that night, after things had settle and he was in the aftermath of his victory, you had asked him what he wanted now that he was free. "You," he had answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. It was you that he wanted.

He had taken you to the very soil where his two hundred years of torment had begun and made love to you in that very place as a declaration of his new life and freedom. He cleared away every painful thorn of doubt and fear covering your heart, much like he had cleared the vines growing over his tombstone with his own two hands. The beginning of a new life with you. Sadly, the two of you hardly had time to properly celebrate Cazador's death before returning immediately to securing new allies and calculating battle strategies against Orin, Gortash and finally the Netherbrain's forces themselves. It had all been a whirlwind in which neither you hardly had any time to truly relish in Astarion's new liberation.

You would never forget that horrifying moment the sun had turned on him. It's once gentle warmth that had given him so much comfort on your journey now becoming a burning, searing light. When you found him shortly after, hidden behind some crates, he was still scarred from the light. His face and hands were ashened, pieces of what were once his flesh practically flaking off in cinders. He was panicking, and you tried your best to stay calm for him. You offered him your wrist, reminding him he needed blood to heal. It only seemed to further distraught him. He was just as furious as you expected him to be and more so. Furious that after everything he went through, he was being forced back into the shadows again. Furious at you for pitying him. Furious at Cazador. But most of all, he was furious at himself for having dared to have hoped again. For thinking that just because he had been a very good boy and helped to save the world that the gods or fate or anyone would take pity on him and grant him this one thing. But no.

He sat there on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest. He had yelled so much about how foolish he had been to expect any outcome other than this, you half-expected his voice to give out. Eventually, he went quiet for a few long minutes before looking up at you, his beautiful red eyes full of sorrow. He tried to smile at you, but it broke off into a scoff.

"I'm never going to see you in the sunlight again."

He let out a long laugh full of bitterness before pressing his face back into his knees and breaking into a sob. It was then that you closed the gap between you two, holding him as wept. In that moment, you wanted nothing more than to take him by the shoulders and swear a paladin's oath to him personally that he WOULD walk in the sun again. That you were making it your life's mission. But you knew that wouldn't help him now. It wouldn't lessen the sting. It wouldn't soften the blow. Right now, he needed to mourn, and so mourn you let him.

You held him there and let him weep in your arms. When you offered him your blood again, he finally accepted, drinking in your healing essence and regenerating the scorched skin and flesh. You caressed the newly healed skin softly, kissing it with tenderness and reassuring him that he looked good as new. Later on that same evening, after you managed to make it back to Elfsong with him and were together in bed, he took your hand in his.

"I want to apologize, darling," You were confused, but he continued. "I acted abhorrent to you in a moment of weakness. I was so... angry about what I had lost. I was blind to what I still had in front of me."

He cupped your face, stroking the apple of your cheek with his thumb. Your sweet vampire. You took his hand and kissed his knuckles one by one. You reassured him that he had nothing to apologize for. The sun was one of the few pleasantries from his mortality that he could relish in again while tadpoled. The caress of its rays had become synonymous with freedom itself for him. And with the new love between you two. To have that ripped away would make anyone angry.

It was then that you told him that you WOULD help him find a way to walk in sunlight again. He had been surprised to hear you say so, as if he had expected you to write it off entirely as an impossibility, as he already had. But your words seemed to spark a new sense of hope in him. It was what he said next that took you off guard.

"That is...if this is what you want?" Your heart dropped. Surely he didn't still doubt how you felt about him? "I can understand if you would want to part ways..." Even as he says it, his eyes momentarily drop to the floor, and he sways a bit uneasily.

He is still always expecting the worst. Anticipating more grief. You took his hands gently into yours, telling him that if you thinks you're seriously going to break up with him now after everything you two have been through together, then he's going to have to start being a LOT more annoying. Because he isn't getting rid of you any time soon.

The next several days would be spent together, processing everything you had gone through. Your companions had all gone their seperate ways fairly quickly after a hasty celebration: Wyll and Karlach to Avernus, Lae'zel to war against Vlaakith, Gale to return the Crown to Mystra, Shadowheart with her parents and Halsin with his foundlings. After only a few days, it just you and Astarion left in the city. You had stayed by his side throughout this time, only ever leaving to get food or check on the acquaintances you had made in the city. But you were both growing restless. He appreciated your presence, but you could tell the time was coming for the both of you to move on from this place and make a new adventure for yourselves together.

You hadn't even realized you had fallen asleep until a few hours had passed. As you open your eyes, you see your pale elf has moved from the bed. He's seated on the floor, in front of the chest full of the shared things the two of you have gathered along your journey. You slide off the bed, and he turns his head to smile at you. "There you are," his eyes were a soft shade of carnelian in the warm lamp light. You came to sit by him. He seems concentrated on whatever he's holding. You touch his shoulder and look to see what he's examining. A dagger. Not just any dagger but one that made your blood run nearly as cold as Astarion's. Rhapsody. The dagger Cazador had used to scar his back, and the one which would ultimately end his wretched existence. Nineteen times. Astarion had stabbed Cazador nineteen times. You had counted each stab. Presently, he was turning the blade in his hand with a contemplative expression.

"Hideous, isn't it?" He scoffs. You noted he was taking care to only touch the dagger's ornate hilt and pommel, avoiding touching the actual blade at all.

"Is it..?" You stared at the twin design of the twisting gnarled metal.

"Silver? Naturally. How else is one supposed to permanently scar a vampire?"

You bit back the sympathetic words that were lingering on your tongue, knowing he wouldn't want to hear them now.

"Pretty effective at killing vampires as well, I'd say." You quipped gently. Astarion hummed in response, but his expression remained contemplative.

"Yes. I suppose it might be somewhat useful if we ever get on the wrong side of another vampire," he mused. You lean in closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder as you pondered the dagger. "True. Could also be useful if Petras ever decides to come around and bother us."

You're almost startled as he throws his head back and barks out a loud laugh. He sets the dagger down as it's obviously lost his attention for the moment. "Darling!" He exclaims. "You were the one who convinced me to save the poor wretch! Twice, in fact! Only to want him dead now? I mean, it's understandable, but clearly, I'm having a bad influence on you."

You couldn't help but smile back. This was the most you had seen him smile or laugh since losing the sun. His laughter was so light and airy it made your heart burst. "Yes, you are such a very bad influence on me, Astarion."

You crawled over to him, eyes locked. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his gaze softens as you asked permission to go further. He answers by giving you a series of playful kisses leading along your jaw from your earlob to your lips. He locks on those lips and deepens his kiss, going slow and taking his time. A deep, passionate kiss. Your hands find their way into his curls, and they twine their way around your fingers loosely. He sighs into the kiss, whole body relaxing into you. When you pull apart, he's smiling, a touch of melancholy still lingering on his features.

"I saw you in my reverie," he says unexpectedly. You listen to him intently as he continues. "We were leaving the Shadow-Cursed Lands after Shar's curse had been lifted. I hadn't seen the sun in weeks, and then there you were, bathed in its light. I hadn't realized until that moment how beautiful you were in sunlight." He smiles sadly and kisses your hand.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze and look him in the eye. "And it's a sight you will see again one day, my love. I promise you." Your arms come around him and hold him close, stroking his hair and simply letting him feel. After a few minutes, he seems to come back to you. "I want to leave this stupid city already," he says plainly. You chuckle and pull away from him. "Me too, my love. We can leave as soon as tomorrow if you'd like."

Astarion's gazes at your travel chest again. He takes out the dagger again, looking at this time with disgust. "And I want to get rid of... this thing," he says with bile in his voice. "It's hideous, just like everything else Cazador ever commissioned. All that damn wealth, and I swear it's like he challenged himself to own the ugliest pieces of art he could." He huffed and shook his head. "I want to throw this damn thing away." An idea came to you. Looking towards the clock, you note there's still a few hours left before sunrise. "Would you like to get rid of it now?" You ask him, careful to only present it as an option. He's still getting used to making big decisions, and you don't want to pressure him. He looks at you. "Gods, yes."

The two of you head out into the warm night air of the city, and Astarion's nose almost immediately wrinkles in offense. "Gods, how have they still not managed to fully get rid of that rotting squid smell? I thought there were clean-up and recovery efforts underway." You roll your eyes. "There have been clean-up and recovery efforts underway, silly. They've gotten rid of all the Mindflayer corpses already. Your nose is just sensitive." Cloaked in night, the many little homes making up the vast reaches of the Outter City light up on the horizon before you. You walk together and tell him all about the acquaintances you've made in the city and how they had been faring after the chaos of the battle.

Eventually, you make your way to your destination: the docks of Baulder's Gate where you had all pulled yourselves ashore after crash-landing the Netherbrain into the sea. Astarion slows down as you walk along the dock. The last time he was running for his life, burning up in the sun. You hoped returning here with him to do this will make for a proper end to your illithid odyssey. At you stop at the dock's end, you take Astarion's hand in yours. You say nothing, waiting on him to make the next move.

He sighs and takes out Rhapsody, giving it a final look. For a moment, you wonder if he might hesitate. He stares at the blade intensely, holding it as if its weight were far greater than it physically was. Two centuries of terror. Without any further warning or fanfare, the dagger is airborne. For a split second, you can just barely make out a tiny glint of moonlight reflecting off the blade as it flew through the air. With a small splash, it's gone forever. Astarion lets out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding in. "You monster!" You exclaimed with mock horror. "You just murdered some poor innocent fish!"

Astarion rolls his eyes. "Maybe the Hero of the Gate should go and rescue the poor thing." He grabs you around your waist, his newfound vampiric strength catching you off-guard. He spins you around as if he means to literally throw you off the dock, and while you're fairly certain he's joking, you panic nonetheless. You let out a high-pitched "ASTARION!" that practically comes out as a shriek.

He's giggling like a madman as he sets you down, holding your shoulders for a moment to steady you. "You're lucky I love you as much as I do, you know," you mutter as he continues to laugh at how easily he can tease you. "You're adorable when you pretend to be annoyed with me," he says. The two of you sit on the dock together for a long while, holding hands and simply taking in the starlight dancing on the water. "There's something else I wanted to discard as well, actually." He reaches into his pocket and produces two rings that you recognize as the twin Szarr family rings you had used to unlock your way through Cazador's mansion.

Astarion contenplates the rings in his palm. "You know I..." the words catch in his throat, seemingly paralyzed. You wait for him to continue, and after a few moments, he shakes his head, a smile barely perceptible.

"It's nothing, my dear. You know Cazador really did have the most hideous taste in things, including jewelry. Can you imagine wearing these? Ugh." You take one of the rings and examine it. "Hmm. Not my style, I'll be honest."

"That's because you're not blind, darling." He stands up and prepares to throw it.

"Together?"

"Together."

#bg3 #baulders gate 3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #tavstarion #astarion fanfic #astarion one shot #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic

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anonymousewrites · 2 months

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Nature of the Human Soul (Book 1) Chapter Thirteen

Platonic! Hazbin Hotel x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Alastor x Teen! Reader

Chapter Thirteen: Fight for their Souls

Summary: The Hotel faces the exorcists.

Mouse Note: One more chapter after this! Here is all the action. Let me know what you guys think!

Morning arrived. (Y/N) stood under Hell’s red sky. Around them, their friends and the people of Cannibal Town stood with their weapons ready. It was time for the exorcists to arrive.

(Y/N) flexed their hands, making sure their vines and briars were ready. The plants held angelic weaponry—ready to kill the angels who once wielded them. (Y/N) themself had a knife strapped to their side so that, if it came to it, they could fight one-on-one with an angel, too.

They also proudly wore their new outfit, feeling like a true member of Hell in it. They wore a red dress with a proper collar and cuffs, and overtop, they had on a long black vest. Finally, they wore black boots. It was a simple outfit, but it was put-together, and (Y/N) felt like they fit with their friends. More importantly, (Y/N) felt strong and like themself. They felt ready to fight.

In the skies above the Hazbin Hotel, a golden portal to Heaven opened up, and everyone tensed.

“Here they come,” said Vaggie, standing next to Charlie. Both sported their own outfits for battle. “Get ready, everyone. We fight together!”

“Come on, let’s go,” muttered Cherri, tossing her bombs to herself.

“Let’s do this,” said (Y/N), narrowing their eyes and grinned.

Angels dove through the portal.

Vaggie raised her spear. “Now! For your souls!”

Angels, cannibals, and hotel guests alike let out a war-cries and ran/flew towards each other.

“Let’s fuck them up!” said Charlie.

The groups clashed, and violence became the theme of the day. The exorcists, expecting to easily destroy the sinners’ souls, were shocked as their own golden blood was spilled. None of them were aware they could be hurt or killed, and the sinners used that to their advantage.

A cackle from the roof of the hotel alerted everyone to Alastor’s presence. His magic swept over the hotel, and a shield of runes and shadows collected around the hotel. It kept the foolish exorcists in, trapped to be killed. Outside of the shield, shadows with angelic weaponry swung at the remaining exorcists (and Adam).

Inside the shield, no one wasted time and immediately took advantage of the exorcists’ surprise at facing further resistance. (Except Charlie, who just discombobulated them and let the others finish them off). Cherri threw bombs, laced with angelic steel shrapnel, and tore the exorcists to bits. Husk took several down with his cards, and Niffty ran around stabbing them to ensure their death. Angel shot them with six different machine guns, strong as ever.

“Come and get some!” cackled Angel.

“Eat shrapnel, fuckers!” cheered Cherri.

“All angelic weapons, fire at will!” Pentious had, of course, set up cannons and technology to take down angels. He had used his intelligence well, and the exorcists were falling.

On their part, (Y/N) was making full use of their magic. Briars of thorns grabbed and pierced the skin of the angels, throwing them towards other vines or people with weapons to kill them. (Y/N) stood at the center of the growing vines, roses blooming as their strength grew. Their grin never left their face as they tore angels apart and slashed exorcists to death. Despite being on the ground, (Y/N) could feel every single one of their plants like additional limbs. They sensed them growing, dying, killing. The power was positively addictive.

An exorcist dove through (Y/N)’s protective brambles. She raised her spear and let out an angry shout. Vines wrapped around her, stopping her in the air.

“You know, I really don’t appreciate you trying to kill me,” said (Y/N), narrowing their eyes at her. “I didn’t get to enjoy myself in life. I had to always hold myself back.” They grinned. “So it’s fucking rude of you to interrupt me when I’m having a good time.” The vines sprouted thorns and roses, choking the angel. “Please leave,” chirped (Y/N). The vines slammed the exorcist down onto her own abandoned spear.

(Y/N) looked at her dead body, and their grin didn’t leave. Their plants had already ended other lives, yes, but this…this was more of their own hand, own direct awareness. And they didn’t feel guilty. (Y/N) had killed again, and again, they felt like they’d done the right thing. (Y/N) stood straighter. They were leaving behind any guilt or shame that people had tried to tie to them in life.

(Y/N) felt powerful.

“Alright,” they said, grinning. Their plants lifted them off the ground, and they floated in their magic. “Who’s next?”

The exorcists launched at them, and (Y/N) met with them equal ferocity.

“Alastor’s shield is working!” said Charlie in relief.

“Try to focus, sweetie,” said Vaggie, pirouetting and stabbing an exorcist. (She had learned more than a few techniques from Carmilla).

“We might actually have a chance!” said Charlie.

“Love the optimism,” said Vaggie, smiling. “Still trying to focus.”

Wham!

The entire shield shook as Adam slammed into it with a powerful punch from outside. Cracks of holy light splintered through the shield, and it shattered. The hotel was exposed once more.

“Fuck,” cursed Angel.

“Oh, no,” said Charlie.

Adam dove to the roof of the hotel where Alastor still stood.

“Alastor,” murmured (Y/N).

“Focus, kid,” said Husk, throwing several cards into exorcists’ necks. “Alastor will put up a fight.”

“Right, right,” said (Y/N), shaking their head and putting their frustration into their attacks.

A giant flash of gold cut through the air, and everyone looked up to see Alastor being thrown, unprotected, across the roof. Far away, the On Air sign of his radio tower flickered and died.

(Y/N)’s eyes widened. Alastor was injured. He’d been beaten. Their plants grabbed them and lifted them up, but Husk darted through the air on his own wings and pulled them back down.

“If Alastor couldn’t beat him, stay here,” barked Husk. “Do not go running to get yourself killed, kid!”

“But—”

“We still need to fight!” said Angel.

(Y/N)’s eyes narrowed, but they knew they had to keep fighting. And with how this was going…they’d get a chance to face Adam. Would that go well? Logic said no, but (Y/N) was angry and wanted to unleash that fury on the man so eager to hurt all their friends.

“There are more coming on your right!” said Pentious from the balcony of the hotel where he was looking out for angels. “Get ready for them, Vagatha, (Y/N)!”

“Not my name, but got it!” said Vaggie, lunging for the exorcists.

(Y/N)’s vines, as furious as their master, lashed out at the angels, ripping them apart and stabbing through them viciously.

“Sorry! Sorry!” said Charlie as she hit angels with her shield so cannibals (and Niffty) could finish them off.

“Stop apologizing, they deserve it!” said (Y/N), their vines supporting them through the air and assisting them in dodging the exorcists. “Come here, you fucking bitches.”

Angel and Husk were also still fighting as energetically as ever, though the fight was never-ending.

“These fuckin’ angels won’t stop comin’,” huffed Husk.

“Hah!” laughed Angel.

Husk cracked a smile. “Okay, I walked into that one.”

Angel grinned before turning on an exorcist attempting to kill one of the Egg Bois and shot her down.

“You alright, squirt?” he asked.

The Egg Boi hugged his leg. “I nearly scrambled myself.”

“Get somewhere safe,” said Angel.

Bam!

Part of the hotel exploded, and people were set flying. When the dust settled, (Y/N)’s eyes narrowed. It was Adam, fighting with holy light.

“Suck my holy light, fuckers! Yeah!” he cheered with glee.

The angelic power was too much, and the demons were sent flying. (Y/N) winced as their plants were destroyed, feeling them cry out as they died.

“We aren’t going to last unless we do something about him,” said Vaggie.

“But what? Alastor was supposed to handle him!” said Charlie.

Hearing them over his monitors, Pentious made a decision. Pulling Cherri to him, who was beside him, he dipped her.

“I’m trying to fight here! Are you out of your fucking mind?” said Cherri.

“Yes.” And Pentious took a chance and kissed her. “Miss Cherri Bomb, I love you,” he declared. “Remember me!” He slithered off to his most prized creation—his ship.

Cherri blushed. “That was kind of hot.”

Below, the battle continued to rage, though the tides had turned on the demons as Adam’s holy light threw them around. It was all they could do to avoid getting hit, let alone really deal damage to the exorcists.

Then, the shadow of Pentious’s ship loomed over them. The hotel group stood, and their eyes widened.

“Pentious…?” whispered Charlie.

“That crazy motherfucker,” said Angel.

“He’s going to die!” cursed Husk.

“He’s doing it for us,” said (Y/N).

Pentious’s ship went to fire, and Adam lifted his hand. Pentious’s shot and Adam’s holy light met midair, and the holy light pierced through Pentious’s attack and struck the ship. The entire thing exploded. The Egg Bois and Pentious were gone.

“Oh, whoop. That could’ve been ugly,” chuckled Adam, sneering.

“No!” screamed Charlie.

Cherri covered her mouth in shock, and the rest of the Hazbin Hotel’s eyes widened in sadness. Pentious was dead, killed by Adam.

“Fuck…” Angel hung his head. “You did good, buddy.”

“Thank you for your sacrifice, Pentious,” murmured (Y/N).

“No, no, no.” Charlie fell to her knees.

“Charlie, I’m so sorry,” said Vaggie, holding Charlie.

Charlie let out a growl and stood back up. “Razzle! Dazzle!”

Her voice had never been so angry. The two goat demons flew around her, and she rose into the air. Flames erupted around her. Horns extended from her forehead, and the entirety of her eyes turned red. A trident appeared in her hand, and Razzle and Dazzle grew to giant dragons. This was Charlie Morningstar, daughter of Lucifer, heir to the throne of Hell, in all her demonic glory.

Charlie and Vaggie leapt onto the backs of the dragons, and Charlie pointed her trident up at Adam.

“Let’s ride!” she declared.

(Y/N) wasn’t about to wait around, this time. Adam had hurt Alastor and killed Pentious. They weren’t letting him do more. Their vines carried them up into the air, killing the angels in their way.

Lute and Adam hovered above them, ready to face them. Lute dove at Vaggie and Dazzle and slashed through Dazzle’s throat. Vaggie let out a shout, and she and Dazzle fell towards the hotel. Lute pierced Dazzle again and sent them all crashing through the roof of the hotel. Vaggie didn’t waste anytime beginning a fight with Lute, and the pair fought all over the foyer of the hotel.

“Vaggie!” In concern, Charlie dove down towards her girlfriend.

“Charlie!” shouted (Y/N) in warning.

Too late. “Surprise, bitch!” Adam appeared before Charlie and sent her flying with a powerful attack. “Your turn, you fucking brat!” shouted Adam, turning on (Y/N).

Holy light shot at them, and (Y/N)’s briars tossed them onto the remains of the roof before they were chopped in half by the light. Landing hard, (Y/N) rolled to a stop and pushed themself back up as Adam landed on the roof.

“You fucking sinners are so fucking stupid,” sneered Adam as he looked at them. “I’m Adam. The first man. Created by God. What makes you think you have anything on that?”

“Yeah, well, for being created by God, you fucking suck, don’t you?” sneered (Y/N).

Adam narrowed his eyes and sent several blasts of holy light at them. (Y/N) dodged, expertly using their plants to pull themself to safety each time.

“Hold still, you little shit!” cursed Adam.

“I thought you were the first man,” said (Y/N), refusing to stop moving. “But you have no style and only one move!”

If they did, they were dead. They weren’t stupid; they couldn’t win this fight. They didn’t have that strength (yet, said a small voice in their mind, a whisper like the rustle of leaves). But that didn’t mean (Y/N) wouldn’t stall Adam for as long as it took Charlie to recover and for their friends to handle the other exorcists. (Y/N) wasn’t backing down.

“No wonder everyone hates you,” sneered (Y/N).

“I’m a favorite of God! I’m adored in Heaven!” shouted Adam.

Ironically, his pride was his weakness. (Y/N) would use that. “Yeah, well, Earth doesn’t like you. You fucked up just like Eve, eating that apple,” said (Y/N). “I wonder why you’re not in Hell, too? You must have kissed a lot of ass to get out of that. Kind of pathetic. You got to Heaven, but you’re just as bad as all of us down here!”

“I’m an angel! I’m better than you fucking sinners!” said Adam.

“Watch it, pride is a deadly sin,” said (Y/N) with a wide grin. “Wouldn’t want that, would we, oh-so-heavenly-angel?”

“Don’t act like you’re better than me, bitch,” said Adam. Another blast of heavenly light, and the explosion knocked (Y/N) sideways. “I punish you fuckers because you deserve it. I’m acting as God intended!”

(Y/N)’s eyes turned red, and their pupils flashed into roses for a moment. Across their body, tattoos of leaves and vines glowed green. Their rose into the air, the roses of their hair blooming, thorns and brambles joining them. (Y/N)’s demon form began to emerge.

“As God intended?” (Y/N)’s voice echoed, and the unheard voices of the trees and leaves and flowers, angry at human interference and destruction, furious at the abuse of humanity, flowed through their words. “Oh, yes, the infamous excuse of the righteous. When they harm others, when they abuse the unprotected, it is as God intended. I hate that excuse.” Their grin widened. “You're all just righteous cowards hiding that they’re the worst of humanity.” They cocked their head. “And I killed the fucking righteous cowards on Earth. So I think I’ll kill you, too.”

For a moment, Adam stared as (Y/N)’s words cut to him, cut to his one fear: his inadequacy. Lilith had left him; Eve had left him. Then, as usual, Adam’s anger and desire to prove himself superior came to the forefront, and he glowed with angelic power.

“Come at me, bitch,” sneered Adam. (Y/N)’s vines struck, and Adam laughed as he fired holy light into them. “Pathetic! What is that supposed to d—”

Thwip!

(Y/N) flipped by him, and the dagger in their hand slashed through his mask. Adam stumbled back, clutching his cheek as golden blood flowed. He had been injured. It wasn’t much, sure, but a sinner, a common mortal soul damned to Hell, had harmed him! Adam! The first man!

He didn’t even bother speaking; his rage overtook him. Holy light exploded out from him. (Y/N) barely dodged it, and the plants on their body were singed, sending agony through their veins. They cried out, and as the roof exploded, (Y/N) was thrown over the side. They landed on the ground hard, groaning, barely surviving since their plants managed to catch them with the strength they had left. The light in their eyes and newfound tattoos faded, leaving them unprotected and injured on the ground.

Adam stood on the side of the nearly-destroyed roof and aimed down at (Y/N) again. They stared up at him with narrowed eyes. This felt like their first death. But this time, they felt only satisfaction. They had found freedom briefly. They had found friends. They had found family. (Y/N) had even injured Adam. If this was their final death, then so be it.

(Y/N) would die knowing they’d done the right thing.

Before Adam could kill them, though, Charlie slammed into him. She had recovered her strength and immediately come to defend her friends. The Princess of Hell was there for her people, always.

Unfortunately, as the fight went back and forth, it appeared that the first man’s strength as an angel was still more powerful than a demon’s. Adam slammed Charlie down, and as his exorcists surrounded her friends, he grinned and closed his hands around her throat.

“This fight was cute n’ all, but it’s time to die with the rest of them,” sneered Adam.

“Charlie!” screamed Vaggie.

Thump!

Adam cried out as a punch sent him flying. Charlie slumped forward, and a shorter man caught her.

“Dad?” she gasped.

Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell, had arrived. He smiled at his daughter as he held her. “Sorry I wasn’t here sooner, sweetie.” He placed her on her feet, and they faced Adam as he crawled to his feet.

“Okay, seriously?” he said, aggravated. “How many of you freaks do I have to fight?!”

“Oh, I’m the only one that matters,” said Lucifer with a smirk. He rolled up his sleeves. “See, you messed with my daughter, and now I’m going to fuck you.”

Silence.

That could not have been said worse, thought (Y/N) blearily as their body tried to repair itself.

“It’s fuck you ‘up,’ Dad,” whispered Charlie awkwardly.

“Wait, what did I say?” said Lucifer, blinking.

“Agh!” Angry, Adam grabbed Lucifer and slammed him through the wall of the roof.

Lucifer transformed into a snake, escaped, and poofed back into his original form with three pairs of wings extended. He laughed at Adam as the man attacked and flew at him.

“So, this is what you’ve been up to since Eden?” Lucifer chuckled. “Gott say, you really let yourself go, buddy.”

“You, judgin’ me?! You’re the most hated being in all of creation!” sneered Adam, grabbing snake-Lucifer by the tail and throwing him.

Lucifer transformed into a duck, flew away, and then became himself again. (He was showing off, angering Adam’s pride). “Well, your first wife didn’t seem to hate what I had to offer,” said Lucifer. He smirked. “Or the second, bow-chicka-wow-wow.”

Adam grabbed him. “I’ll fuckin’ end you!”

Lucifer began a horse and bucked him off. “Whoa, missed me!” He became himself and dodged a blast of holy light. “Hoohoo, not even close! Hehehe, nice try, douchebag!”

“Hold still, you slippery fucker!” cursed Adam.

He threw a giant blast of holy light at the hotel, and the entire thing exploded, sending Charlie falling towards the earth. Charlie let out a scream, and Lucifer dove towards her. He caught her and smiled softly at his daughter.

“I got you,” he said.

Charlie’s demon form flared as Adam cackled and prepared an attack since Lucifer was distracted. “Dad, look out!” she cried.

Her arm turned large and demonic, glowing red. She caught Adam’s hand, stopping his attack.

Adam’s eyes widened in shock. “Woah, wait, what the fuck?!”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, he turned, and he grabbed Adam. With a tingle throw, Adam was sent hurtling towards the earth. He crashed into the ground, leaving a crater behind. His entire mask was shattered, and bruises littered his body as he looked up at Lucifer and Charlie.

“You come at me and my daughter, don’t forget, you’re in my house, bitch!”

Lucifer’s eyes glowed red, horns sprouted from his forehead, and flames hovered between them. This was the King of Hell with the Princess. Lucifer didn’t give Adam a chance to even feel fear, put Charlie down, and lunged at him. He punched Adam over and over, pummeling the first man into the ground. Lucifer raised his hands, and flames collecting between them. With a single move, he could kill Adam.

“Whoa, whoa, Dad.” Charlie grabbed Lucifer’s shoulder. “He’s had enough.” She spoke gently, as kind and merciful as ever. Even in the face of the man who had hurt her friends and killed so many, Charlie refused to change her ways.

Lucifer frowned, but he listened to his daughter. He stood straight and looked down at the beaten, bleeding angel. “Alright.” He sneered, allowing himself anger even if he wouldn’t kill Adam like he wanted to. He would try to do what his daughter would do. “How’s mercy taste, you little bitch?”

Knowing Adam could do no more and couldn’t do anything against him, Lucifer turned away and walked back towards the gathering survivors of the sinners. The exorcists hovered a ways away, unsure if they could keep fighting and in shock at Adam’s defeat.

“No,” groaned Adam, pushing himself out of the ditch he lay in. “You don’t get to end this.” He had to crawl, his wings hanging uselessly at his sides. “I’m fucking Adam!” He glared at Lucifer, Charlie, Vaggie, Cherri, Angel, Husk, and Niffty. The sinners just stared back, seeing him barefaced and as he was: just a man. “I’m the fucking man! And you’re just some fucking clowns or something!” Adam couldn’t take the even looks in all of the demons’ eyes. They didn’t see him an angel so far above them. They just saw a man, nothing special. Adam couldn’t take that. “I started everything on Earth! All of mankind came from these fucking nuts! You al should be worshipping me!” Looking over them, Adam felt the dangerous feeling of inferiority settle in as no fear shone in the eyes of the people united against him. “You ungrateful, disgusting, fucking losers—!”

The shadow loomed over him, and everyone’s eyes widened. Adam whirled.

Squelch!

A knife pierced Adam’s stomach. It twisted, and Adam let out a strangled cry, eyes wide.

“I hate false righteousness,” sneered (Y/N), pulling the knife from his stomach.

He stumbled back and fell.

“(Y/N)?” said Charlie, eyes wide. The rest of the hotel stared.

Adam stared up at the plant that had carried (Y/N) to the battle. “Fucking…every…time.” The apple tree loomed over him like a sick joke.

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pedrointofolklore · 10 months

Text

Rosebud

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: carnations bloomed when you saw joel. too shy to admit your feelings, but too overcome to not, you began leaving flowers at his doorstep.

warnings: very brief but graphic depictions of violence, mentions of death/grief, tragic backstory, emotional processing, reader is a loser who falls in love in two seconds, lots of metaphorical language, swearing, mostly just self-indulgent fluff, joel is soft, big age gap (reader is in late 20s), no smut, no use of y/n (reader has a nickname), jackson era.

word count: 6k

a/n: hey y’all. i’m delving into the world of fanfiction writing and i’m tentatively posting this as my first story. this story by @army-author is what inspired me here—i read it years ago and loved the concept ever since. i also super don't know much about flower gardening so apologies for any inaccuracies.

Your earliest memory was sitting in the garden with your mother one September. You were small then, no more than three years old, covered in soil and some residual stickiness from whatever fruit you’d just devoured, watching with a curious eye as your mother pruned her roses.

When you thought of her, you thought of that garden. In your memories, it was a labyrinth. Flowers, shrubs and vines overflowed the yard. You used to fear getting lost in the brambles, but at some point, you started to crave their thorny embrace.

It was a pink rose, so bright and intense, like a painting come to life. She shed the thorns, tucked it behind your ear and pinched your chubby cheeks. That was the first time she called you ‘Rosebud.’ Nobody ever called you anything else.

You couldn’t have known then that you were just a few Septembers away from losing her.

She died on the first day, in the centre of the garden. Your lasting memory of her was your father driving a pair of garden shears into her jugular. She collapsed to the ground, blood as dark as a crimson rose pooled around her as your father wept over her lifeless body. You sprinted inside and threw up.

She died a stranger. You didn’t understand what was happening to her then, but you understood that she was gone before the shears even entered her neck.

It haunted you for the next twenty years—but that person was not your mother.

Whenever the wound opened, and that memory came flooding back, you closed your eyes and thought of her as she truly was—kind, gentle, passionate. You recalled her soft smile, her musical laugh, the books she read, the flowers she loved.

When you were a kid, you thought of her as the sun that kept those flowers alive. As you grew older, she became the sutures that kept you from falling apart.

You knew your father had no other choice, but you could never quite look at him the same. Still, he was all you had, and he kept you safe until the day he died.

It was your mother’s leather-bound notebook that kept you going. She listed every flower she could think of, and wrote the meaning next to it. That notebook went with you everywhere, all across the country. Every new species you came across, you found it in the book, memorised its meaning, and crossed it off your mental checklist.

Flower seeking had to be the most frivolous thing one could do at the end of the world, but it kept you close to your mother, and gave you some semblance of purpose. Each new flower felt like something blooming inside you—your own secret garden that grew from the depths of your soul.

Carnations bloomed when you saw Joel.

He first came to Jackson in December with a girl by his side. They were gone by the next morning, but you saw him. He was coming out of the bar, tugging his coat back on when you spotted him through the crowd of carolling townspeople.

Even from a distance, you noticed the pain in him—a pain similar to yours. There was a wistfulness in his face, a longing for something he missed, and a fear so intense it seemed paralysing. He clutched at his chest, holding in the marigold that grew where his heart should have been.

You wanted to know him.

He came back that spring with the same girl, and this time, he stayed.

It was a while before you spoke with either of them. Everyone who arrived in Jackson had a tendency to be closed-off at first, and you couldn’t fault them for that. You didn’t know where they’d been or what they’d done, but you knew they’d gone through hell.

You met Ellie first. She came by the greenhouse one day, arms crossed and face vacant. Her reticence might have been mistaken for hostility if you didn’t relate so much.

You tore your soil-covered gloves off and wiped a hand over your cheek, probably just further smudging whatever dirt was caked on there.

“Hi there!” You did your best to sound cheerful, to come across as someone who was definitely okay with unexpected visitors. “What can I do for you?”

“Maria told me you might need some help around here.”

You didn’t think you needed help, and it seemed like the girl wanted to be anywhere but here. But as you pondered her, you started to recognise what she was actually getting at.

She didn’t know what to do, but she needed to do something.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Ellie.”

“Nice to meet you, Ellie.” You held out your hand, which she stared at for a good couple of seconds before shaking. “Call me Rosebud.”

“You’re a florist named Rosebud?” She was incredulous, and you didn’t even care that she was making fun of you—it was the first time you’d seen her smile during this entire interaction.

“It’s a nickname,” you told her, “and I'm more of a floriculturist. If you want to help me out, grab some gloves and a trowel.”

“What the fuck is a ‘trowel’?”

You spent the next few hours with her digging holes in the soil, un-potting flowers and planting them in the ground. As apprehensive as Ellie had been to begin with, it didn’t take her long to warm up to you.

The first thing you learned about her was that she asked a lot of questions.

“Why do we have to move these?”

“It’s spring. They’ll do better in the ground.”

“Why didn’t Maria show us this place when we first came here?”

“It was winter. Half the flowers had gone to shit, so there wasn’t much to see,” you replied, flattening the soil around a sunflower plant.

The greenhouse had been established before you got there. Nobody ran it, it was something for everyone to tend to, but nobody cared enough to do so. The gardeners of Jackson preferred to focus on crops that could actually feed them. But then you arrived, and you knew how to grow a thriving flower garden, and with all the bees it brought, it only helped the agriculture. It also meant that Jackson had honey.

“This one’s cool. What is it?” Ellie asked. You looked over at the plant she was settling into the ground—a grassy little shrub with white flowers blooming at the ends.

“Starwort. It means ‘Welcome to a stranger.’”

“Appropriate,” Ellie said. “I didn’t know flowers had meanings.”

“It’s called floriography,” you replied. “I have a book all about it.”

Ellie stayed until the sun began to set, leaving in much better spirits than she arrived. You were used to working alone, and you thought you preferred it that way, but she turned out to be good company. You sent her home with a starwort blossom and a jar of honey as a thank you, and told her to come back any time. You really hoped she would.

You met Joel the next morning.

There was a knock at your door, which you expected to be Ellie back again. Instead, you opened the door to find her guardian standing on your front porch.

Your eyes flicked shamelessly over his form. He was broad, strong, with plaid sleeves hiked up to his elbows—you didn’t know it was possible to be attracted to someone’s forearms. His features were beautifully angular, especially his nose. But it was his eyes that really got you. They were dark like coffee, deep and intense. You could fall into them and never stop.

The garden you carried in your soul had never felt more alive. It was weird you hadn’t spoken yet, but you worried if you opened your mouth, the brightest, reddest chrysanthemums would come bursting out.

“Good mornin’. Sorry to bother you,” Joel finally said, with the rehearsed politeness typical of a Southern man. There was still an earnestness to him, like he didn’t quite remember how to do this but he was determined to try. “I think Ellie was here yesterday?”

“That’s right.” You internally cheered when your voice didn’t fail on you. “Is that okay? I know I didn’t get your permission. She just kind of showed up.”

“No, that’s okay. I just came by to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“She's been struggling to…adjust, I guess,” Joel explained, “but she was in a good mood when she came home yesterday. I think being here helped her, so thank you.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say. People silently appreciated what you did for the commune, but nobody had ever gone out of their way to thank you for anything. It was a little overwhelming.

“Well, she’s welcome here any time.” You didn’t think Ellie was particularly interested in gardening, but you could see that the girl just needed to feel busy, and maybe needed some company. You were just glad she could find that with you.

“Thank you,” Joel said again. “What was your name, darlin’?”

“Just call me Rosebud.”

You expected a laugh, a mocking jab of some sort, but instead he just tilted his head and looked at you with complete sincerity. “Pretty. It suits you.”

Your cheeks were embarrassingly warm.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” Joel said. Your heart fell. “It was nice meetin’ you. And, uh, thanks again.”

He started to leave, but you weren’t ready for him to go. Before you could think it through, you called after him, “Wait.”

You might have imagined it, but for a split second after he turned back around, you could've sworn you spotted an eagerness in him, like he was hoping you’d say that.

“You can come inside,” you offered, “if you want.”

He did.

Five minutes later, Joel was standing in your kitchen, leaning against the counter. You could feel his gaze on you as you moved, getting the water ready and setting out two mugs.

“How do you like your coffee?” You were already sure of the answer.

“Black. No sugar.” Yep.

You poured the coffee into a mug, absent-mindedly blowing on it as you handed it to him. He didn’t wait for it to cool down before taking a sip, not even flinching at the heat.

You opted for tea with a generous amount of milk and honey.

“Thanks for the honey as well,” Joel said. “Ellie loves it. She’s never had anything so sweet.”

“That doesn’t surprise me if she grew up in a QZ,” you replied, turning to face him with your mug cradled in both hands. “I think I cried when I first got here and they actually had sugar.”

“When did you get here?”

“Around two years ago. My dad knew Seth—you know, from the bar—got in touch with him, and he told us how to get here,” you explained. You truly hated Seth, but he did save your ass and that left you obligated to be nice.

“Your dad’s not here, is he?” Joel spoke without any particular sentiment. It was an observation, plain and simple. You didn’t mind, you just shook your head. It felt normal to talk about your dad. You missed him, but his death wasn’t horrifically tragic to you—the man had a heart attack.

“What about you? I mean, how’d you end up here?” You were nervous about prying, or accidentally chasing him away before you really got to talk, but Joel had fascinated you since December. You needed to know more.

“I was in the Boston QZ for a while, left to look for my brother, found him.” He wasn’t going to get more detailed than that. Too much had happened that was difficult to talk about, and you could see that, because it was the same for you.

No matter how much you wanted to, you didn’t let yourself ask anything more. You didn’t ask why he’d been here in winter, why he left so soon, why he came back, why he didn’t come sooner if his brother was here, how Ellie fit into all of it. You didn’t ask, and you wouldn’t ask. All you could do was hope he’d open up in time.

It occurred to you just how different Joel looked now than he did in December, and not just because you were actually seeing him up-close. His whole spirit had shifted. Back then, he’d been like an open wound, barely being held together by exposed, bloody tendons that threatened to snap at any moment. He was different now—still wounded, but no longer in pieces.

There was something else in him too. Something dormant, but always on the verge of springing back to life. A quiet guilt.

“Flowers always been your thing?” Joel asked. You were grateful for the subject change.

“Pretty much. I used to know someone who loved them. Made me love them too.”

He nodded with an unexpected softness in his expression. It wasn’t pity, or even sympathy, but a warm kind of understanding.

“I know the flower stuff seems silly,” you said, looking down into the milky beige of your tea, “but it really is useful.”

“I know that,” Joel said. “I don’t think it’s silly.”

You could practically feel your chest split open that very second. Flowers sprouted from your heart, and they bloomed for Joel. They longed to reach out, wrap him up in their stems and vines and pull him into you.

Carnations. Chrysanthemums. Vervain.

You kept your composure until Joel left. You said your farewells, waved him off, shut the door, and immediately collapsed on your couch in a lovestruck heap. It was all so dramatic, the sofa may as well have been a bed of roses.

It wasn’t just that Joel was attractive—and fuck, he was attractive—it was the way he wholly and truly respected you. Respect was something you’d had to earn from everyone else around here, but Joel didn’t need any convincing. He saw your worth right away.

He was all you thought about for the rest of the day, the evening, until you went to bed that night. Even then, your mind wouldn’t stop racing.

These feelings were big, too big. Keeping them inside hurt, but you feared letting them out would be agony. They were safest with you, blossoming into flowers in your soul, where only you knew about them.

But still, you were wide awake, consumed by the urge to do something, say something.

So you got up, pulled your shoes on, went outside and picked a flower from your garden.

Jackson was desolate as you wandered down the street. The only residents awake at this hour were those on patrol. It might have been eerie if you weren’t so wound up.

You scanned each house as you passed by, looking for Joel’s. Your heart pounded in your chest when you found it. You didn’t need to be so nervous, the lights were off, but you kept imagining someone walking out and catching you in the act. But you’d come this far, and his front door was just a few yards away.

You climbed the stone steps with a quiet urgency, twirling the flower between your fingers one last time before dropping it just outside his door.

A single gardenia.

You were going to leave it at just one flower—you didn’t want to be weird and scare Joel off before you really got to know him. But then Ellie came by the greenhouse again.

“Did you leave a flower on our front porch the other day?” she asked, watering a yarrow seedling.

“What? Why?” You felt so lame, and so stupid for forgetting that Ellie lived there too. Your gesture was bound to get intercepted.

“There was a white flower out there. I showed it to Joel, and we figured it was from you.” It was a very reasonable thing to figure considering it was from you.

“What did Joel say?” you asked, trying not to sound as desperate as you felt.

“He said it was for him.”

“So he took it?”

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “Don’t know what he did with it.”

Ellie wasn’t nearly as invested in this as you were, but it still sounded promising. Joel had accepted the flower, maybe even liked it. The thought made your stomach feel strange, like a bunch of petals were flurrying around in there.

“Well, it was for him…” you mumbled.

Ellie glared at you in feigned outrage. “I’m insulted.”

“What are you complaining about?” you laughed. “I gave you a flower.”

“It’s wilting.”

“Fine then”—you handed her a pair of pruning shears—“go cut yourself a new flower.”

She wandered around the greenhouse for about five minutes and came back spinning a flower between her thumb and index finger. It had pure white petals and a bright yellow pistil. “I chose this daisy.”

“That’s a cosmos,” you corrected. “It represents harmony and balance.”

Ellie assessed the flower in her hand, genuinely mulling over the meaning of it, and you realised how much you appreciated her. She saw value in something you cared about.

“What did Joel’s mean?” she asked.

“I’m actually not sure about that one.” It was a total lie, but you sounded convincing enough that Ellie shrugged it off and carried on watering flowers.

You couldn’t help yourself after that. Knowing that Joel accepted your gift made you want to do it again. And again.

So you did. Every few days, when you were sure he and Ellie were asleep, you sauntered down to their house and dropped a flower outside the door. An aster, agapanthus, camellia…

Joel never mentioned it, and you never really expected him to, but the nods and soft smiles he gave you when he saw you around were enough to let you know he appreciated you.

But Joel would never know the true meaning of your flowers. It was better that way.

Maria and Tommy’s son was born later in the spring, and your garden had never seen so many visitors. The new parents were practically drowning in congratulatory flower arrangements, and eventually Tommy had to tell you to start turning people away.

One of these visitors happened to be Joel, and he was the one person you couldn’t turn away.

Unlike everyone else, Joel came to your door first. The slight nerves he’d had the first time he came over were gone, but so was the facade of sociability. Maybe this uncouth version of Joel should have irked you, but seeing him comfortable enough to drop the pretence just made you like him more.

“I need help with something,” he said, not even bothering with a hello.

“What is it?”

“A gift for the happy family,” he spoke bitterly, like he was actively trying not to grimace as the words came out.

“Flowers?”

“Flowers seem appropriate.”

Joel was strangely upset for someone who was welcoming their nephew into the world. You didn’t know the story between Tommy and Joel, just that they hadn’t seen each other for years before Joel and Ellie arrived in Jackson, and that Maria really disliked him.

But despite his sour attitude, it was clear Joel was trying. Whatever was weighing on him, he was pushing it down and choosing to be thoughtful for the sake of his family. Tommy could deal with one more bouquet.

You walked down to the greenhouse with Joel trailing behind you, his hands shoved into his pockets the entire time. On a better day, you would have tried to make conversation with him, but he obviously didn’t need that pressure right now.

He finally spoke up when you arrived at the greenhouse. “This place has seen better days.”

It wasn’t the flowers he was talking about, it was the structure itself. The contractor in him must have noticed the rusted metal pipes holding everything together, the holes and tears in the plastic sheets, and the fact that there was almost no room to walk.

“I know it’s bad,” you said with a nervous laugh. “It was built before I got here. I don’t think they used their finest materials.”

It was always cramped in here, but Joel being so broad and having such a presence made it even worse. He was closer to you now than he’d ever been. He smelled warm, like fresh coffee and leather and musk. It made your head spin.

“So, what kind of flowers are you thinking?” You needed to change the subject before you threw yourself at this man.

“Uh...pink?”

You laughed—you couldn’t help it. He couldn’t have been more vague if he tried.

“Why’s that funny?” He wasn’t mad, but he did seem impatient.

“Sorry,” you said, fighting back a smile. “Maybe you could elaborate on that?”

“I don’t know,” he groaned, running a hand over his prickly beard. “This is why I need help.”

You felt bad for laughing when he was so stressed out. He was overthinking something that should have been simple, and it made your heart ache for him. He was looking for guidance.

“We’ll do peonies for good fortune,” you told him, “and daffodils for new beginnings.”

His shoulders relaxed as some of the tension left him. Whatever was weighing on him was still there, but this was one thing that made it bearable.

You walked back to your house after cutting the flowers, where there was actually space to work. You expected Joel to leave then, go home and wait until the flowers were ready like everyone else did, maybe even have you deliver them on his behalf, but he stayed by your side.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Joel asked, sitting across the table from you as you worked. “About flowers, I mean.”

You never got into this with anyone, but your inexplicable attachment to Joel compelled you to open up. Whatever pain resided in him reminded you of your own. He understood you.

“My mom had this book. She wrote down the meaning of every flower she knew of, and I guess I’ve memorised it all over the years,” you explained.

Talking about her didn’t hurt like you thought it would. It was actually a relief.

“When did it happen?” You knew what he was asking.

“First day,” you replied.

He nodded solemnly. “Me too.”

This wasn’t the first time you had seen through the gaps in Joel’s armour, but it was the first time he’d made the choice to let you. You didn’t know his limits, if those two words were as deep as he could get, but you wanted to see what would happen if you just asked.

“Joel?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t seem happy about this,” you said, straightforward but still cautious.

“I guess I’m not,” he admitted, looking down pensively.

“Why is that?”

“Just don’t understand bringing a kid into all this.”

You agreed with him. The people of Jackson were as safe as they could be, but outside the walls were infected, raiders, FEDRA, and a multitude of horrors too awful to speak of. It would only take one mistake for Jackson to be completely wiped out. You wouldn’t want to bring a child into a world like that either.

But you also knew that most people who had kids post-outbreak hadn’t done it by choice.

“It’s not as if people have access to birth control,” you pointed out, stacking peonies onto a piece of tissue paper. “But I don’t disagree.”

“It’s just a lot for me to wrap my head around,” Joel continued—or maybe he was starting on a completely different train of thought. “Tommy’s the uncle. He’s always been the uncle. I’m…“

He couldn’t say it. He didn’t have to.

“You still are,” you told him. “Tommy’s still an uncle.”

Joel was silent, letting your words sink in. It was cold comfort, and maybe you shouldn’t have said it, but it was what you believed.

“Why do people call you Rosebud?” The question took you aback. It was completely unrelated, yet felt so important. He was the first person in twenty years to ask you that question.

“My mom came up with it when I was little. It’s what everyone’s called me since.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Joel asked. “Seems like a constant reminder of what you lost.”

It was hard having to live without her, but you never wanted to forget what you lost. “I guess I like the reminders.”

His hand absent-mindedly fell to the broken watch on his wrist, and for a fleeting moment, you were seeing the man you first saw in December. An open wound. Marigold.

“She didn’t stop being my mom,” you said quietly. “I didn’t stop being her daughter.”

And as quickly as the wound opened, it was once again sewn shut. He even managed a smile. “You’re wise, kid. You know that?”

Kid.

Ouch.

It felt like a kick to the stomach. In an instant, the carnations that bloomed when you first saw Joel all those months ago, that had been so red and vibrant, faded into yellow.

You held yourself together until he left. You finished arranging the flowers, wrapped them up, handed them over to him, said goodbye and wished him luck, then trudged over to the couch and flopped down onto it—this time in a dejected heap.

It wasn’t as if you thought you had much of a chance with Joel, but this just felt so awfully final. It didn’t matter that you were basically thirty years old—in his mind, you were a kid.

It was embarrassing. You thought about the flowers you left—a quiet admission of feelings—and prayed the couch would swallow you whole and suffocate you.

You’d gotten it all wrong. Joel never appreciated it. He probably thought it was weird and pathetic but didn’t have the heart to tell you. You wondered why he even accepted the initial flower, and if you weren’t feeling so spurned and humiliated, it might have dawned on you that you were overreacting.

You still left a flower that night, if only to get some closure. It would be the last one you ever left him.

A red tulip.

Joel came to your door one day in July.

You’d come to expect Ellie on your front porch at least once a week, but Joel wasn’t a surprise either. You were friends now, even after such an embarrassing rejection.

Joel still never mentioned the flowers. He was probably relieved when you stopped leaving them and wanted to pretend it never happened, and that was fine by you.

Being friends didn’t help matters though. He was always rough and grumpy in his Joel way, but he was sweet too. So sweet. It felt impossible to move on.

“Hey, Joel,” you said. “Need help with something?”

“I wanted to help you, actually.”

“Me?”

“I can’t keep lookin’ at that greenhouse,” Joel said. “It’s a piece of shit.”

You had to laugh at his honesty. “You want to patch it up?”

“Was thinking of taking the whole thing apart and rebuildin’ it.”

The offer stunned you. It was so generous and so out of nowhere. Your first instinct was to say no, that it wasn’t worth the trouble, but something stopped you. It was Joel coming to you in earnest and saying he wanted to help. It felt like an insult to deny him.

You smiled warmly and nodded. “Okay.”

“When can I get started?” he asked.

Shit. You had dozens of flower pots you didn’t know what to do with. “Uh, I’ll have to empty the greenhouse first. I guess I'll bring the flowers here in the meantime.”

“Ellie and I can help with that,” Joel said. “I’ll go get her.”

You blinked at him. “Now?”

“You got other plans?”

You absolutely did not. “Ah, no. Now is good.”

“Great.”

That was how you spent your day, lugging flower pots from the greenhouse and unloading them in your front yard with Joel and Ellie in tow. It was so lovely it bordered on being painful—pink roses unshed of their thorns pierced your heart.

You let yourself imagine for a moment that this was reality. That you, Joel and Ellie were a weird, happy family. The carnations in your soul had never been more yellow, and you instantly regretted indulging in that particular fantasy.

Joel was already at the greenhouse when you went there the next morning. He was up on a ladder, and half of the structure was already torn down. Rusted metal pipes and discoloured, ripped up plastic sheets were piling up a few feet away.

“Need any help?” you called out.

He looked down at you and smiled—a real, wide smile you hadn’t seen on him before. “You know what you’re doin'?”

“Not really.”

“Then, no,” he replied. “Don’t want you droppin’ anything on that pretty little head.”

Huh?

You flushed all over, wishing your couch was here so you could collapse onto it. Less than two months ago he was calling you a kid, and now he thought your head was pretty. The thought crept in that maybe he was purposely messing with you, but you liked Joel too much to entertain the idea.

“Well, I probably can’t help with the physical labour,” you said, cursing how nervous your voice sounded. “But if there’s anything else…”

“You’re a sweet one, Rosebud,” Joel said. He had to be doing this on purpose. “You just let me do my thing, and we’ll leave it a surprise.”

You laughed. “In other words, you’re telling me to get lost?”

He grinned at you fondly. “Just trust me.”

It only took one exchange for that hope to come back to life. You tried to stop it, tell yourself he was just teasing, that he didn’t mean it that way, but it was too late. Those carnations were already morphing back into a searing red.

You wanted to come by everyday and watch him work, but you stayed away and waited for him to come to you. It only took a few days for him to show up at your door, looking infuriatingly hot covered in blotches of sage green paint.

“Is it ready?” you asked.

“It’s ready.”

You followed along behind him, keeping your eyes down so you didn’t accidentally spot the new greenhouse before he was ready for you to look. You ended up just ogling his ass, which was a decidedly better and much more pinch-able sight than the ground.

“Look now.”

You lifted your gaze, and your hands flew up to your mouth as you let out a dramatic gasp.

It wasn’t just good, it wasn’t just an improvement, it was beautiful—masterfully pieced together with timber and painted the same sage green that Joel was sporting on his clothes. And it was bigger. There would actually be space for you to walk around inside.

Joel started to panic from beside you, and you realised you were crying. “Is it the green? I can repaint it if you hate it.”

You seemed to have lost the power of speech to reassure him, so instead, you threw your arms around him and held tight. The suddenness of it shocked him, and his hands found your waist. You weren’t sure if he was about to push you away or pull you in.

“So, you like it?” he asked.

“I love it,” you snivelled into his shoulder. “Thank you, Joel.”

He hugged you back then, caging you in with his big arms and making you feel so safe. You felt a prickly sensation on your temple as he brushed his lips against it.

Red tulips were threatening to burst out of you in droves. You didn’t want to let go, but you were seconds away from making a confession you couldn’t take back if you spent too much longer in his embrace.

You pulled yourself away, and even with the sun beating down on you, you missed his warmth.

He walked you back home, came inside when you offered him iced tea (you were out of coffee), drank it all even if it was too sweet for him, and all you could do was thank him repeatedly for what he’d done.

“Don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I wanted to do this for you.”

What did that mean?

“I’m sorry I never said anything,” Joel continued, a pink flush apparent on his cheeks.

“About what?” You knew exactly what.

“The flowers. I wanted to thank you, but I didn’t know how. I’m not used to it.”

“Used to what?”

“Kindness.” He almost winced, like it hurt to say.

“It was weird. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t weird,” Joel assured you. “It was…nice. Bummed me out when you stopped.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I get it.”

You didn’t know what to say at this point. You didn’t want to be talking about any of it, and you were about to tell him that, ask him to move on from this, until he decided to put you on the absolute spot.

“What did they mean?”

Fuck. “Hm?”

“The flowers,” he said. “You said flowers have meaning. What did they mean?”

“I actually don’t know those ones.” That harmless little lie worked on Ellie, but Joel saw right through it.

“Why are you lying to me?” He didn’t even sound angry or annoyed, just genuinely curious, and a little sympathetic.

You considered doubling-down, insisting you didn't know, but you couldn’t do that him. It was a vulnerable conversation for not only you, but Joel as well. You understood how hard this was for him, and you cared for him too much to shut him down.

But you couldn’t say it, not verbally. Instead, you grabbed the notebook that was laying on your coffee table and held it out to him. There was a split second as he was reaching for it where you imagined yourself tugging it back out of his reach, forgetting about this entire thing, but then it was in his hands and it was too late. Nothing would ever be the same.

You held your breath as he flipped through it, his eyes flicking over the words. His face gave nothing away, but his finger was tracing over something.

Red tulip - declaration of love.

He gently shut the book and set it down, and your eyes stayed firmly on the floor, hoping if you stared at it long enough it would split open and consume you.

“Are you surprised?” You couldn’t project your voice above a whisper.

“I guess not,” Joel said. It was the honest answer, and the one you most expected. “I thought you were just bein’ nice, then Ellie kept insisting you were interested.”

That girl was smarter than you gave her credit for—and you already thought she was very smart.

“I thought there was no way,” Joel continued. “You’re sweet and young and so pretty. I’m just an old man.”

“I don’t care how old you are,” you replied.

“I’ve done a lot of bad things...”

“I don’t care what you’ve done. I care who you are now.”

You were looking at him now. He looked moved, rapt, and not at all like someone about to deliver a devastating rejection.

“And you want me?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause where neither of you said anything, but the air was thick with an unspoken question: Where do we go from here?

“Can I kiss you, Rosebud?”

You nodded, and he did. It felt like dozens of chrysanthemums, camellias and carnations all springing to life under your skin.

He was gentle in a way you never could have imagined, cupping your cheek with his palm and holding your waist with the other. It was reminiscent of the hug you’d shared earlier, and you wondered if he’d wanted to kiss you then.

His lips were rough, a little chapped, but soft in the way he moved them. This wouldn’t be how he always kissed, you were sure of that. Someday it would be messy, frantic, all-consuming. But this careful, slow movement of his lips against yours was all you needed right now.

He wanted to be gentle with you, because he cherished you like a rosebud.

flower translations:

rose (pink) - perfect happiness

rose (dark crimson) - mourning

carnation (red) - admiration

marigold - grief, despair

starwort - welcome to a stranger

chrysanthemum (red) - i love you

vervain - enchantment

gardenia - you’re lovely

yarrow - healing

aster - symbol of love

agapanthus - secret love

camellia (pink) - longing for you

peony - prosperity

daffodil (bunch) - new beginnings, hope, good luck

carnation (yellow) - rejection, disappointment

tulip (red) - declaration of love

rosebud (red) - pure, lovely

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller imagine #the last of us #the last of us hbo #pedro pascal #the last of us fanfiction

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arckiaym · 3 months

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"AH!" "what?" "This child is offering a pearl!" "Yah, she wants to trade" "what do I do??"

"What you mean 'what do I do'? She's piglin, you trade." "Hm.."

"do we need pearls?" "no" "well what do I do?" "Tell her we don't need pearls.?" "How?" "Ah"

"yeah, I forgot you don't know the language." "HOW."

"shut up and pay attention." "!?" "Take notes"

"hulloo! No thanks on the pearls." "Okie dokie!" "But!"

(wow! I can't understand a thing they're saying! Even though their text is in English still) "..."

(it's like the artist can't be fucked!) (excuse my french) (to translate a whole language!)

"oi bingus! I got us a place to stay!" "Nice!"

Rambles and brambles under the cut, this post is long enough.

Ok so I feel like viking would have the most issue getting used to the whole "o shiny!" bit. So legs would make a Child At The Mall harness so he wouldn't wander off lol. And warped vines have a lil stretch to em (at least in my mind) so that's what it's made of.

And that's what the lil guys accessories are made of too, i think the piglins would be real good at utilizing all the stuff in the nether. Uh don't notice that I forgot her bracelets in all the panels except ONE

Legs is very tired of keeping viking outta trouble tho, he's not used to caring so much lmao. Poor guy experiences empathy?!?? Older brother syndrome got em GOOD

Also I 100% ran out of ideas so that's why viking looks into the camera lol

But hey there's set up for a part 2, which I'll make sometime I'm sure

(cough cough, hi amberstormblade @amberstormblade I'm not stealing ur idea I'm just full of thoughts ;-; if you write anything more I would be ecstatic!!)

#legundo #viking pilot #dominion smp #wasting time tryina think of a fanart tag #also omg im watching tfp and i forgot hoe many people DIE IN THIS CHILDRENS SHOW????#cars are EXPLODING! THESE PEOPLE ARE DEAD HOLY CRAP

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theywhowriteandknowthings · 2 months

Text

A Beast, By Any Other Name | Prologue: In Dreaming

NSFW - my blog and all content is 18+ Minors DNI. This fic especially will have themes inappropriate for minors.

Summary: Something is coming for Johnny, it’s gaining on him. Time is running out. But it’s all a dream, right? Right? Word Count: 1k~ Warnings: Gore, injury detail, out of body experience, lucid/vivid dreaming, horror elements, fear, monster horror, supernatural horror, blood, viscera, being chased. Let me know if I missed anything! Tags: GHOAP, GhostSoap, Ghost x Soap, Author’s notes: Here we go! Supernatural Monster AU GHOAP here we come! It’s going to be angsty but sweet, smutty and fluffy too. [Ao3] Thank you @deadbranch and @beefrobeefcal for looking at this before I posted. I was feeling hella self-conscious about it!

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The wind whips around Soap’s body. An amorphous cat of nine-tails lashing at his exposed forearms. The red scent of iron fills his nostrils as he runs. The ground is sodden and spongy under his feet as he crashes through dense foliage. His body feels encumbered, like he’s shaking off a heavy cocktail of drugs.

His head spins, frantic energy burning under his skin as the very air he breathes threatens to choke him. But the forest has swallowed him whole. He doesn’t know if he’s running out of the woodland or further into its depths.

The smell of roses, rainfall, moss, and something else burn acrid in his nostrils as the shadow of a creature looms over him. Impossibly tall, a crown of antlers that twist out like grasping hands. He quickens his pace as he searches for a break in the trees.

The night is pitch-black, his surroundings shapeless and ever moving as the darkness warps his vision. There’s a desperation to his movements, so unlike himself. Icy fingers grasp at his spine as fear creeps up the back of his neck, burrowing into the base of his skull.

But the fear is not his own.

It’s a dream, surely? It must be. I has to be.

But the burn of lactic acid in his calves, the way his chest heaves heavy and raw as he flits past a moss-covered standing stone is very real. An anguished roar explodes from the inky darkness behind him, but he doesn’t falter. He doesn’t look back.

The russet red of a fox darts across in front of him. The sudden distraction enough to make his heavy, uncooperative limbs falter and fail. The ground surges up to meet him as his arms refuse to move fast enough to break his fall.

His nose crunches sickeningly as his face collides with the cold forest floor. A mournful cry escapes his lips as thorns and brambles claw at his ankles, they rake up his calves as they tear at his… socks?

Soap looks down, finally noticing his attire.

A MacTavish tartan kilt falls to his thighs, white knee-high socks hug legs that aren’t his own. Something is terribly – grotesquely – wrong as he gropes at an unfamiliar body. His hands grasp at the black vines that begin to snake around his ankles. By chance, a black band of iron on his wrist collides with a barbed tendril and a sound like no-other pierces the air.

The high-pitched squeal threatens to burst his eardrums as the very air around him thrums with venomous energy.

Hatred, pain, sorrow.

Immediately the assaulting vines recede, hissing like splashed with acid. Soap doesn’t hesitate, forcing his broken body to rise from the spongy earth. Pain streaks through his shins as he limps towards a gap in the trees ahead.

Hope swells in Soap’s chest as he sees a familiar silhouette of a house. Yellow lights flicker in tall windows. He doesn’t know why the house is familiar, nor why the moon threatening to break through the clouds above brings him desperate relief.

But there’s something akin to triumph buzzing in his mind as he passes another standing stone. His tongue is coated in blood, sweat seeps into every crevice of his body as he stumbles across the boundary of the forest. His shirt sticks to his skin as he gulps down desperate mouthfuls of air.

It’s over.

Elated relief floods Soap’s system as he falls to his knees, but something in the back of his mind urges the man on his knees to move. There’s a severance between his mind and this body as a low, undulating growl reverberates behind him.

“Move, get inside.”

Soap finds himself shouting wordlessly as he looks down on the kneeling figure, as if suddenly floating behind him. A loud droning, like a swarm of insects, jilts his concentration as he feels the hulking presence of the creature surge forward.

“Run you idiot.”

He screams his throat hoarse, thrashing impotently as the presence of the beast passes through him. It’s too dark to see much more than the outline of a twisted, mutated, deer skull sat atop a hulking, shapeless form.

The smell of roses, moss, rainfall, and a rich musk washes over Soap as he watches the creature hunch forward over the man kneeling in the wet grass. There’s a wet crunch and a muffled howl as the lone man’s body is obscured from Soap’s vision.

There’s a cacophony of sick, wet, squelching sounds as Soap tries to turn away, to escape the horror unfolding before him.

The horned skull swings around suddenly, cavernous sockets ablaze with sapphire-blue flames as blood drips down it’s ivory maw.

“John.”

The creature’s voice bounces around his skull as blood and viscera oozes from the gaping void of its gullet.

Soap jolts awake, drenched in sweat as he looks around his bedroom. Everything is where it should be, his writing desk clear but for his closed laptop. Bare beige walls and brown carpet exactly how he left it when he fell into bed not eight hours before.

He gingerly runs his fingers over his exposed torso, checking for damage or anomaly. But as he comes to, there’s no doubt. He’s safe, whole. Unharmed.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he grumbles to himself as he runs his right hand through his overgrown mohawk and the fuzzy sides of his grown-out hairdo. He aches like he’s run a marathon as he looks over to his bedside table.

As if on cue, his phone lights up, an unknown number flashing up on his screen as a call comes through. He fumbles it to his ear as he answers it with a groan.

“Hello?” The man on the other end of the call filters through with a wobble in his voice, “Is this Mr. John MacTavish?”

“Aye, who’s askin’?” Soap groans down the line as he itches at the stubble on his jaw. There’s a faint smell of moss and soil on his fingertips.

“My name is William Simcoe. I’m your uncle Jamie’s solicitor, I’m afraid I have terrible news.”

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wri0thesley · 1 year

Note

How about D1 for diluc please??

“This hurts me more than it hurts you.”

cw: yandere behaviour, physical abuse, burning, diluc being mean but thinking he’s being kind, reader wears a nightgown but no pronouns or gendered terms are used.

Diluc's grip on your wrist is bruising. You can feel heat sizzling beneath his gloves, his palms searing - and you have to be grateful, then, for the little barrier the fabric provides, for if it were not in place . . . you're certain your wrists would be burning as well.

Your legs are covered all over with thorn pinpricks and cuts from brambles and vines; your nightwear (there had not been time for any dressing more appropriate) charred through in places from the convention of electro and pyro slimes you had accidentally stumbled across. The same slimes that Diluc had slew without a second thought; without having to exert more than a few beads of sweat upon his proud forehead.

You keep your mouth pressed in a tight line, mulish; after everything else, you will not give Diluc the satisfaction of tears, or begging. No doubt he would only wipe those tears from your eyes with his thumb and a look of terrible guilt on his face. No doubt he would only coo at you softly and murmur quiet hushings and reassure you that this is all for your own good - all the while locking another door, breaking down another escape route.

You're pulled through the house; your bare feet (this particular escape attempt had not left you enough time to put on shoes, though the luxurious soft slippers that Diluc allows you to wear in the house would have afforded little protection anyway) sinking into the soft pile of the carpet. You must be smearing mud everywhere, and Adelinde will not thank you for that - but you had not intended to be caught.

He pauses at the entrance to the guest room he has been keeping you in at Dawn Winery.

"Aren't you going to lock me in again?" You ask him, tasting bitterness on your tongue - but Diluc merely shoots you a look like a wounded animal.

"I can't trust you," he says, so softly you barely hear him, his voice low and soft. "I . . . I wanted to. I wanted to be a good man for you. I wanted you to feel safe. But every time you stumble into trouble_ on purpose_."

He does not let go of your wrist. Your heart skips a beat as he stands there, his jaw set, as he mulls over whatever decision he is about to make. You do not stumble into trouble on purpose, of course - any more than you'd stumbled into Diluc on purpose, that first time that had set course for so much of the rest of your life. You'd stumbled out of Dawn Winery on purpose, but only so you could be rid of the Winery owner and his burning crimson eyes and his hot whispers of how much he loved you and how safe he was going to keep you against your ear.

"Diluc?" You ask, hating how your voice pitches on the second syllable. He nods to himself, and then drags your wrist roughly down the hallway.

Towards his own bedroom.

"I'll have Adelinde move your things," he says, without looking back. "You can't be trusted alone. You'll bathe with me from now on. I'll bring you into my study when I work and Adelinde will be with you whenever I'm not, I'll have to take on another maid but it's worth it for your safety--"

"My safety?" Your voice rises in panic. You're not strong enough to shake him off, but you try and dig your heels in even so. "With _you _sleeping next to me, Master Diluc? With you by my side constantly, when you can barely stop yourself undressing me with your eyes when you come into my room to say goodnight already?"

A flush rises to his cheeks, but he pulls you along even so, until his oaken door is before you and he's pulling you inside into his inner sanctum. The blush does nothing to assuage the white-hot fear and anger roiling in your stomach - in fact, it just makes it worse. How dare he act so flippant? Like he is a man with a crush, and not a kidnapper, not a monster?

"I won't," you tell him, tearful (when did tears spring to your eyes? You suppose they must have started around the same time the hot burn of fear made a home in your throat). "I won't, Diluc!" The fingers of your other hand fasten helplessly around the door frame.

Diluc heaves a soft sigh, and turns. Slowly and deliberately, he raises the hand not currently ringed about your wrist to his mouth, tugging on the fabric with his teeth.

"This hurts me more than it will hurt you," he says, very softly and regretfully - and you realise with a whimper what he's going to do, as he grabs your other wrist and his bare palm collides with the soft, tender skin. A scalding heat rises where flesh meets flesh, a sickening sizzle and pop - and you are dragged bodily into the room and allowed to stumble away from him, hiccuping out pained noises, until you collapse by his bedframe on your knees in your poor stained nightgown.

Diluc closes the door silently. He turns the key in its lock and removes it with a click, dropping it into his pocket - but he remains silent. He removes his other glove and places it on his dressing table, and still he says not a word.

And then, he drops to his knees in front of you.

"Y-you're disgusting," you whimper out, cradling your poor burnt wrist in your other hand. Diluc won't allow it to get too bad, but right now you do not want to give him the satisfaction of asking for aftercare either. "Y-you know I won't stop trying to get away from you, don't you?"

Diluc's gaze is so, so sad as he looks at you - a man who has had too much put upon his shoulders. In another lifetime, in another world, perhaps you would feel sorry for him.

But not in this one.

"Darling," he says to you. "Angel. Beloved. You know I can't let that happen. You know I would go to the ends of Teyvat to keep you safe, don't you?" You swallow back more bubbling sobs, your chest heaving. "But . . . Ah. I didn't want to have to do it. It hurts me to hurt you, angel. But if it is to keep you safe . . ." A small, sad smile pulls at his lovely mouth.

And as he reaches down towards your bare feet and ankles - his vision at his hip pulsing to life and his palms bared - all you can do is scream.

#not sfw text #yandere diluc #yandere genshin impact #writing #drabble #ask game #physical abuse cw #burning cw #yandere cw #genshin impact posting

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c-e-d-dreamer · 1 month

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Punish You With Pleasure (Pleasure You With Pain): Part Two

A/N: I know it's technically WIP Wednesday, but what if I just post a whole ass update instead? That's right! We're back for more Rhysta! Sometimes, bullying does work. As a very important note, I have updated the tags for this fic. I know you can't see them here on Tumblr, but please know they now include the Major Character Death tag. If that's not your jam or if Rhysta still isn't your cup of tea, not clicking the read more and scrolling past this is free. Massive shout-out to the Nessian besties who helped me plot where this fic is now going and an extra big shout-out to @witch-and-her-witcher for beta-ing another chapter of this mess! Anyways! Onward to the NSFW smut-fest!

Read on AO3

“And then, of course, the table breaks, pieces of splintered wood everywhere.”

“It was a problem with the table. It wasn’t structurally sound.”

“Oh, sure, Cass. Blame the table. I’m sure it had nothing to do with you being drunk off your ass or anything.”

Mor and Cassian continue to bicker and tease one another across the table, arguing over the true events at Rita’s last night, but Rhys is quick to tune them out. He tunes out Azriel’s quiet, cool remark. He tunes out Feyre’s light laughter. Everything in the dining room fades away until his focus is solely on the female sitting all the way at the other end of the table.

Nesta hasn’t said a single word to him since she walked through the front door, but at least, she’s here. Clearly, his visit earlier in the week to her apartment was as effective as he’d hoped. Clearly, she followed his demand for her attendance at family dinner. He has to hide his smug smile behind the rim of his wine glass, taking a small sip of the red liquid.

She keeps her head down, gaze pointedly focused on the plate of food in front of her, aimlessly pushing around the vegetables across the porcelain. But Rhys doesn’t miss the way her grip around her fork tightens slightly, the barest hint of her lips pinching. He knows she can feel his gaze pinning her in place.

He dares to reach out and into her mind. Tall, iron gates reaching high and twisting dark vines and brambles greet him, but Rhys doesn’t allow it to deter him. He scrapes a talon dark as night along those mental walls, digging in just enough until he finds a tear. It’s small, but it’s enough for him to thrust the images into her mind.

The sight of her on her knees before him, tears streaking down her cheeks, lips stretched wide, and breasts bouncing with every hard snap of his hips, every plunge of his cock down her throat. The sight of her slumped over the back of her sofa, skin tinged pink and glistening with sweat, his come dripping from her abused cunt and coating the inside of her thighs.

A pretty view, don’t you agree? Almost as pretty as you sitting quietly here at dinner. Who knew all you needed to behave was a good fucking?

Nesta snaps her attention toward him, eyes narrowed in a withering glare. She shoves him hard from her mind, but Rhys knows he’s had the desired effect, the start of a pink flush beginning to pool in the apples of Nesta’s cheeks. He chuckles softly, taking another sip of his wine and turning his attention away from the eldest Archeron.

But his mind continues to linger with her.

Even here, in this dining room, the scent of her arousal still seems to cling to the air around him, still clogs his senses with the sweetness of it. The sounds of her moans still echo in his ears, the sound of her begging for him. He can still feel the wet warmth of her cunt, the way it took his cock, the way her walls fluttered and squeezed around him.

Worse still is the way his magic has swelled since that evening spent at Nesta’s apartment. It writhes in his chest in a way he hasn’t experienced since he first took up the mantle of High Lord, eager for attention and desperate for release.

Like calls to like.

That’s what his father always said. But whatever magic Nesta stole from the Cauldron, whatever power licks and climbs through her veins, it calls Rhys’s magic to rise in a way that’s indescribable. In a way that has him feeling dangerous and wanting more, has him wanting to learn what happens when their magic truly meets and melds. A siren song all its own.

So much power, so much potential.

“Rhys.”

Drawn out of his thoughts, Rhys turns to find a pair of bright, blue eyes watching him curiously, a soft smile. Feyre’s hand rests on his knee, and Rhys reaches for it, bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Sorry, darling. Lost in my thoughts I suppose.”

“Thought for a thought?” Feyre offers, a tease of their old game.

Rhys hums, giving Feyre’s hand a squeeze where it’s still held in his. “Just reminiscing really. Thinking about how far our family has come, to all be sitting here like this.”

Feyre’s expression softens even as she rolls her eyes fondly at him. “You’re quite the sap sometimes, but come on. Everyone is moving into the sitting room.”

Feyre pushes up from the table, heading out of the dining room and toward the voices drifting in from the other room. Rhys watches her go before turning his attention back to the table and his now empty wine glass there. With a quick wave of his hand, he conjures up something stronger, the burn of the amber liquid a welcome reprieve when he tosses it back.

When he steps inside the sitting room, his whole family is lounging before the fire flickering and sparking in the large fireplace. Feyre is perched on the arm of the large armchair, the invitation and open space for him clear, but Rhys’s gaze dances toward the other end of the room. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised to find Nesta near the window, as far away as everyone else in the room as possible.

With everyone else’s attention otherwise preoccupied, Rhys allows his eyes to shamelessly rake over Nesta. His gaze lingers where her legs are primly crossed. It’s been a few days since his visit, but he can’t help but wonder if the female has had any other callers to her apartment since then. How well she washed in that rusty tub of hers after he left. He wonders perhaps if his seed still clings to her after stuffing her full.

He has to swallow hard at that particular thought.

His eyes continue to trace up and up. There’s a pretty pink flush clinging to the swell of her breasts. He smirks. It’s clear she’s noticed his attention. But he keeps his attention firmly in place, watches the way her breasts rise and press over the bodice of her dress as she takes a deep breath in.

Finally, he flicks his gaze up to her face, a pair of stormy blue eyes already narrowed and glaring at him. He dares to reach out for her mind again, scraping claws sensually against those iron gates of hers. Her face hardens, and she shoves to her feet, not sparing anyone in the room a second glance as she strides out of the room.

Rhys allows a few seconds to pass before he turns on his heel, sauntering with ease through the winding halls until he reaches the front doors. Her back is half turned to him, but Rhys doesn’t miss the way Nesta’s body stiffens, her fingers pausing where she was securing the clasp of her cloak.

“What do you want?”

Rhys hums noncommittally, leaning casually against the wall. “Leaving so soon?”

“I came to your stupid dinner,” Nesta snaps, whirling on him. “Aren’t you happy?”

“Oh, Nesta. I’m ecstatic. But it’s quite late. Why don’t I walk you home.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking home myself.”

“I simply want to make sure you’re safe, in my city,” Rhys offers, stepping closer until he can leer down at her. He drops his voice down into something cold, allows his power to rumble beneath the words. “It would be terrible if something were to happen. Don’t you think?”

From the way Nesta’s lips pinch, Rhys knows that his threat has landed, that it had the desired effect. He smiles down at her, all teeth and cool power. He doesn’t know what it is about the female that draws out this viciousness, that bids the line between mask and reality blur. Perhaps, like calls to like also applies to the matching venom twined like thorns around their hearts.

Another tense moment passes between them, but then Nesta is turning and yanking the door open, stepping out into the crisp, night air. Rhys follows behind her, pulling the door closed behind himself.

He allows Nesta to walk a few paces down the street, but as soon as they’re out of view of the windows, he grasps her bicep. Nesta has barely let out a gasp of surprise at his harsh grip before Rhys is winnowing them both. Right to the doorstep of her apartment. Nesta stumbles forward when he releases her, clearly not used to the sensation of winnowing.

“See?” Rhys drawls, straightening out the cuff of his sleeve. “Wasn’t that so much easier? And you didn’t even have to walk in the cold.”

Nesta straightens, glaring at him. “You’ve walked me home. Now, you can fuck off.”

Rhys tsks, shaking his head. “Now, Nesta, I thought we had fixed that smart mouth of yours. Do you need another lesson?”

“You wish.”

Nesta unlocks her apartment and steps inside, but Rhys is quick to slip in as well before she can slam the door in his face. He backs her up until she’s pressed against the wall, his body firmly caging her in. He grips her chin between his fingers, jerking her head up and forcing her gaze to meet his. His thumb drags across her bottom lip, tracing that line of pink that had been so prettily wrapped around his cock before.

He swears he sees a flash in her eyes when they meet his own. A recognition. A promise. As though she feels the same anticipation he does of what’s to come. Of what they could be. Of what they could create.

Already, the scent of Nesta’s arousal has begun to swirl around them. A scent that Rhys has been unable to stop thinking about, that’s haunted him and left him addicted in a way he’s never experienced. His cock twitches in response to that sweet scent, his power humming and flickering in his veins.

His hand slides down until his fingers can curl around her throat. Until he can feel the thundering flutter of her pulse pressed to his palm. Until he can feel each heaving breath she gasps in beneath his grip. He swears he can feel her own power beneath his fingertips, silver flaring beside his shadows, twining with the darkness. It’s a caress, a whisper, a lullaby to the beast within him to lure it forward. A key in the lock of the cage he’s always kept that beast in.

He swears he can hear her name on the breeze, the beast echoing the chant. The High Lord and Death herself. A pairing he’s sure even the Mother couldn’t have foreseen.

“Did you miss my cock, Nesta?” Rhys taunts, pressing his hips forward until she can feel his own growing arousal. “Miss it stretching you out and stuffing you full?”

Nesta whimpers, but defiance still burns in her blue eyes. “Your ego truly knows no bounds.”

“Lying to your High Lord? Need I remind you of the way you begged for me to fuck you last time?”

When he reaches into her mind this time, his power surges, talons tearing open those iron gates. In the expanse, it’s easy enough to share a vision again, the broken, breathy voice crying out. Please. It’s easy enough for him to root through her own memories, drawing forward the feel of his cock spearing deep within her, his balls slapping against her clit with each hard, rough thrust. The recollection of sensations is enough to have Nesta moaning softly, her heady scent growing thicker and stronger around them until Rhys can practically taste it on his tongue.

“Please…” Nesta echoes in the present. One simple word but it has that beast within him purring in delight. The prey within his grasp all but asking to be played with.

“Much better. Perhaps you learned something last time after all.” Rhys pulls his free hand back far enough that he can conjure a dagger, dragging the tip of the blade along the neckline of Nesta’s dress. “I know your sisters bought you new things, and yet you still wear this ratty old thing?”

One downward swipe of the dagger, and Rhys splits the dress in two. Hooking the metal into the fabric at her hip next, he tears the undergarments she’s wearing. He sends the dagger back into a pocket universe, finally releasing his hold on Nesta’s throat only so he can shove at the remnants of her dress, pushing it off her shoulders, down her arms, until it’s a puddle at their feet.

He watches the fabric as it flutters, taking his time as he raises his gaze back up. His eyes trace over her calves, up over her thighs. The inside of them are already sticky with her arousal, the dark curls covering her cunt starting to glisten. He continues upward over her stomach, to her chest and the flush painted across the skin there. Her nipples are already peaked and protruding, practically daring for his touch.

She’s indescribable, standing here naked and wanting and vulnerable for him. Whatever power she may hold over his thoughts, it’s him that’s in control here.

Rhys reaches forward, taking one breast in each of his hands. He squeezes and kneads at them, relishing in the heavy weight in his palms, in the shutter that overtakes Nesta’s body and the way she arches off the wall with a moan. He ghosts his thumbs over her pebbled nipples, the touch light and teasing.

“Please.”

Rhys tightens his grip, he pinches and tweaks at her nipples, tugging until Nesta lets out a broken sob of a moan, her hips thrusting forward desperately against nothing.

“Do you need something?” Rhys taunts, smirking at the dazed expression that’s overtaken Nesta’s face, cheeks pink, lips parted, and blue eyes out of focus. He shoves his thigh between her legs, Nesta’s eyes fluttering as she whimpers. “Go on, then. Get yourself drenched and ready to take your High Lord.”

Nesta doesn’t need to be told twice. She starts to rock and grind her cunt against his thigh, every swipe and circle of her hips smearing arousal across the fabric of his pants. He presses his thigh harder against her, practically forcing her up onto her toes, but it doesn’t deter her. She rides his thigh faster, chasing the friction against her clit.

Every moan and whimper that tumbles past her lips goes straight to Rhys’s cock, his length pressing almost painfully against the confines of his pants. He resists the urge to press his own palm against his erection, to relieve some of the ache. Instead, he returns his focus to Nesta’s breasts. He told himself he was going to fuck her tits the next time, but all he can really think about now is burying himself balls deep in her cunt again.

Nesta tosses her head back against the wall, her moans becoming higher in pitch. Her hips start to stutter against his thigh, and even through the fabric of his pants, Rhys can feel the way her cunt has started to flutter. It’s clear that she’s close.

He slides one his hands back up to her throat, squeezing tightly. “I don’t recall giving you permission to come.”

“Rhysand… Rhys… I need…”

“Don’t you want to be a good girl? You were so good, at dinner tonight. How about you be a good girl and sit on my cock.”

His words have Nesta moaning again, even as he pulls away from her completely. Her hips buck against nothing as he steps back from her, eyes glued to his tented pants, his cock twitching in response to her attention. This time, he magics away his clothes. It’s a relief to finally have his cock free, and he fists it lazily, giving into the heat rushing through his veins, the groan trapped in the back of his throat, as he watches Nesta lick her lips.

Rhys walks over to Nesta’s sofa, settling against the cushions with his arms stretched casually along the back, his thighs spread wide. He peers over his shoulder back toward Nesta, raising a pointed eyebrow. “I thought you had learned your place in this Court. Don’t keep me waiting now.”

Nodding her head, Nesta saunters around the sofa until she’s standing in front of him. She keeps her eyes on him as she slowly sinks to her knees, settling between his spread legs. Her hands slide up his thighs, nails biting against the skin, until she reaches his cock. She knocks away his hand so her own fingers can curl around him, slowly dragging up and back down, and then she’s leaning forward.

Her hot breath fanning across the head of his cock is Rhys’s only warning before Nesta swallows him all the way down. A long groan is torn from his chest at the wet heat of her mouth, at the feel of his cock hitting the back of her throat. And when she moans around him, the vibrations traveling all the way to his toes, there’s no stopping the way his hips buck against her, Nesta gagging around him only adding to the delicious sensations burning through his limbs.

“Fuck, look at you,” Rhys groans, threading his fingers through Nesta’s hair and holding her there. “I knew you missed my cock.”

Nesta moans around him again, looking up at him through tear stained lashes. She pulls back slowly, her tongue dragging along the underside of his cock, until he comes free from her mouth with a quiet pop. His length glistens from the ministrations of her mouth, and Nesta leans forward again, lapping up the milky liquid that dribbles from his cockhead.

Rhys watches her through dark eyes. Watches her eyelashes kiss her cheeks with each flutter of her eyes. Watches her hand slip down between her legs, her fingers toying with her clit. But that beast roars for more, demands he take what is his.

“As much as I’m enjoying the sight of you on your knees before your High Lord, I believe I told you to sit on my cock.”

Nesta swallows hard, but then she’s pushing up to her feet on shaking legs. She doesn’t even bother wiping her mouth, lips puffy pink and wet, her cheeks still mottled with tear stains. She hesitates for a moment before settling her hands on his shoulders, using him for balance while she clambers into his lap. Her hand reaches down, fisting his cock and lining him up with her entrance.

She circles her hips, dragging his cock through the wetness gathered there, so he can feel how absolutely drenched and aching she is, but he doesn’t have time for any more teasing. His own hands reach forward, gripping Nesta’s hips hard enough to bruise.

He pulls her down hard until she’s sitting fully on his cock.

The female lets out a sharp cry in surprise at the sudden movement. The walls of her cunt spasm and squeeze around him, the tight warmth exactly how Rhys remembers it.

“Gods, you just love to be stuffed full of my cock, don’t you? Look at how you take it.”

Rhys wastes no time in setting a brutal, punishing pace. Using his grip on her hips, he pulls her up and slams her back down, thrusting up his own hips to meet the movements. It’s indescribable, the drag of her walls against his cock, the way they flutter around him and seem to pull him deeper still with every inward thrust. He’s quickly growing drunk off her sweet cunt, off the litany of moans falling past her lips and mixing with the wet slap of skin on skin.

“You’re just so desperate, aren’t you?” Rhys growls, fucking up into her harder still. “Desperate for your High Lord. Desperate for his cock. Desperate to be filled to the brim.”

“Fuck…” Nesta moans, her hands reaching for her bouncing tits, palming them and pinching her nipples.

“Don’t try lying to me again. I can feel how soaked you are, feel what a mess you’re making of my thighs.”

“Rhysand, please.”

“We both know you can do better than that,” Rhys taunts, his voice dipping into the cool, authoritative tone of a High Lord. “Scream it.”

And scream it she does. Nesta screams his name until she’s hoarse, bouncing on his cock and kneading her breasts desperately. He knocks her hands away, instead enclosing his mouth over her nipple. He sinks his teeth against the skin, biting and tugging until Nesta lets out a high pitched shout. She arches fully against him, her cunt squeezing so tight that Rhys can’t hold on any longer. He pulls her down as far as he can against his lap, his cock pulsing and filling her deeply.

He thrusts shallowly a few more times, groaning and riding out the high of his release. When he lets go of her, Nesta slumps to the side, falling on her back on the sofa beside him. Rhys turns enough that he’s able to pry her legs back open, his gaze focused on her cunt. He watches the way it flutters with the aftershocks of her own orgasm, the way his seed drips out and pools on the fabric of the sofa.

He swipes two fingers through his come, gathering as much as he can, before he shoves his fingers back inside her cunt. Nesta whimpers at the sudden intrusion, but Rhys doesn’t let it deter him. He keeps his fingers pressed deep, leaning over her body and leering down at her.

“We don’t want to lose a drop, now do we? How else will it take?”

Nesta’s whimper shifts into a moan, her entire body shuddering in response. Her walls clench around his fingers, inviting them in deeper, holding his come exactly where it belongs.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Rhys asks, daring to curl his fingers, Nesta bucking up against his hand.

“Yes,” Nesta whispers, her voice little more than a broken moan.

“Not just stuffed with my cock, but full of my seed.”

“Yes!”

Rhys swears in that moment her power flares and rises along with her voice. Swears it calls on and draws out his own, mingling in the space between them like a swirling storm of glittering shadows. Swears he can feel it like a caress, hear it like a whisper. It ensnares him. It’s a finger hooking and tempting him to dive right into the darkness.

Rhys’s cock twitches in renewed interest, already hardening again, and he’s never been more happy for his fae body and its way to recover so quickly. The fingers of his free hand curl around himself, stroking his cock until it stands at full attention again. He shifts fully up onto his knees, pressing Nesta’s leg up and back until its hooked on the back of the sofa, until she’s fully opened up to him.

Rhys pulls his fingers free from her cunt just long enough to replace them with his cock, holding himself still with his hips pressed firmly to hers. “Well, since you begged so pretty, we can make sure you’re really filled and overflowing.”

Rhys pulls his hips back just to snap them back forward again. The beast is fully unleashed as he fucks into her with a ferity he didn’t know possible. Nesta’s moans and shouts ring in his ears, the wet sounds of sex as his cock glides through his own seed, as it slams into the warm cunt of the female beneath him.

He’s half aware of her nails biting into the skin of his back, but it’s the scent that really has his attention. Not just that heady, sweet scent of Nesta’s arousal, but his own scent all over her, in her, mixing together into something that promises power and possibility. It makes him dizzy, pulls a growl from deep within his chest.

Nesta is little more than a mess of pleasure. Her eyes are heavy lidded, whole body rocking with every hard thrust of Rhys’s hips, of his hard cock spearing into her again and again and again. A litany of half choked sounds and sobs falls from her lips like a chant, but he doesn’t miss his name, the please. Somehow, it makes him harder still.

The selfish, stubborn female, the female with the fire of Death in her veins, fully submissive beneath him. All his for the taking.

Rhys can already feel himself climbing dangerously higher, can feel the heat building and writhing for release. Normally, he might feel embarrassed at the speed, but not here, not now. A few more thrusts and he explodes, stars swimming in his vision. Nesta’s cunt squeezes tight around him, practically milking his cock as he spills deep.

He gives himself a moment to catch his breath then finally pulls his softening cock from the blissful refuge. His cock is a mess of her arousal and the result of two releases, but it’s nothing compared to her cunt, beautifully stuffed full and dripping just as he promised. Rhys lazily strokes his hand down and back up his length, his cock giving a final spurt as if in agreement.

He gathers up that final dribble and smears it across Nesta’s lips. “Wouldn’t want to waste a single drop.”

Nesta is pliant, doesn’t protest as he presses those fingers past the seam of her lips and into her mouth. When he pulls his fingers free again, he drags the wet pads of them down her chin, her neck, all the way down the valley of her breasts. He hums quietly to himself, feels what thrums beneath the surface sparking at his touch.

“Perhaps you’ll have some use to this Court after all.”

#rhysta #nesrhys #nesta archeron #Nesta x Rhysand #Nesta x Rhys #acotar #my fic

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boom-baebee · 7 months

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His ass is NOT LISTENING ‼️❗️‼️

#ajin #bramble off the vine #kou is so cute tho i wish i could pincha his cheeks

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songofthesibyl · 1 month

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Spring’s Awakening

A Tamlin POV of his early days as High Lord of the Spring Court.

Tamlin woke from his dream to find he had transformed into a monstrous beast. It had been a nice dream—only vague recollections of it now, as he blinked it away in the dawn, sparks in his eyes like stars. But there had been peace, and laughter, and music. And a tearing up of roots. Lifted aloft, to the stars, on wings. Far away.

Escape.

But that was over now. He had felt the roots, the vines, the brambles—every crawling, clinging, claiming thing reach up out of the earth, and wrap round his feet, climbing. Thorns piercing his flesh as they wrapped round and tightened. Until it had attached, and dragged him down. The earth feeding on him, and him unable to sever his ties to it without cutting himself off, a pool of blood soaking the earth, profusions of red roses. He would never be rid of it. He was tied to this place forever.

He felt the earth against him now, as he came to. Bleary-eyed, ash in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth. Smooth, and straight. The sharp points retreated back into himself, for now. He lifted his arms, groaning with the effort. Five fingers on each hand. Slightly roughened with use. But no claws, no fur. Only dirt—he moved his hands closer to his eyes—under his fingernails too. From digging.

He winced, and dropped them back onto the earth. Everything hurt. It took too much effort to do anything. He would lie here a little longer. Just a little longer. Until he sank further, until the roots came to claim him, until he was buried, and the grass grew over. A little longer.

Where his mother was. Where her head would rejoin her neck, her bleeding heart connected to the earth’s veins. He remembered dirt on her hands, and under her nails, too. From cultivating life, from nourishing life. He looked at his hands again. It was not just dirt. Dried blood. He did not know from where. There were so many it could have been. He dropped his arms again, threatening to dissolve into sobs. He was so weak. He had been so weak. But then that power, that had exploded out of him. He could have killed anyone. He had—killed everyone, and everything. He dropped salt tears. Nothing would grow here now. And he could never leave. He had burned the wings.

He shivered at the rumbling of the earth, and remembered his nakedness, closing himself into himself, willing the earth to take him. But it would not. It would leave him here, exposed.

There was no hiding what he was now.

He heard vague voices, and pricked up his ears. Had Rhys come back, to finish what they had started? To ask about the wings? No. He couldn’t smell him. But they were coming for him. To make him pay, to sit on a throne. To murder him, perhaps. What did it matter. He contemplated turning back into his beast form. But he couldn’t be bothered.

As they approached, he recognized the smell, and furrowed his brow slightly in confusion. But didn’t move, or bother trying to hide himself.

“Tamlin,” she said above him, part pity, part sorrow. And he felt something being dropped on him. There was a brief thought the female who addressed him was his mother, until he remembered. He flexed his hands, remembering the blood on them. How he must look. Then gathered the cloth around him. Priestess robes.

“Tamlin,” she repeated. “We’ve been looking for you for days.”

He said nothing.

“My father…he’s been searching day and night. He came across you a few times before, but…”

His beast form. It had kept them away. As it had driven away everyone else. But they were still here. She was still here.

“Ianthe…why are you still here?”

His voice was rough. He had been roaring, yes. Over and over.

“I wouldn’t leave you.”

Maybe if he changed now. He could scare them away again. But he had no energy. And he had to admit—the warmth of the robe felt good. He certainly wouldn’t take it off in front of her now.

Instead he sat up, clutching it around him. It was too small, of course. He didn’t try to wear it normally, but wrapped it around his waist. Ianthe looked away, coughing. She was only in her plain underdress now.

“My father is waiting with a horse for you. Unless you want to winnow—“

“No.” He wanted to take as much time as he could before he returned to the manor. He trembled—no, he couldn’t go back there. But he couldn’t leave either. He could never leave.

“Tamlin. You have to go back. Your people are waiting…”

“My…” he finally turned to look at her. “What people?”

“Me, for one. My father. Your court is more than just the nobility. They need you.”

“Need me for what?”

She sat back on the dirt. “What happened with Rhysand isn’t your fault.”

“Ianthe—“

“Yes?”

“Don’t mention his name. Or what happened. It’s done.”

“If it’s done, then move on. Look at you. You’re already glamouring yourself. You’ve been High Lord for little more than a few weeks.”

Had it been that long already?

“How long have I…?”

“Six days. You don’t remember?”

“I—“ He shook his head. He remembered, after they had burned. After he had buried his mother. There had been a fracturing. So many forms he had thought of. And yet the crack was in everything, it got through, and split him, forever. He was bear, and wolf, and stag, fleeing each other, growing away from each other. All of them, and none. He was a monster.

“Have you eaten?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth again, and tasted blood.

“I—I don’t know.”

She breathed in. “The manor has been cleaned. It’s ready for your arrival. For your coronation.”

“Clean…what coronation? This is a time of mourning.”

She bowed her head. “Of course. That does not change the fact that you are High Lord now. This is your Court. That must be acknowledged.”

She put her hand on his bare arm, but he wrested it free. “It was a mistake.”

“The Mother makes no mistakes.”

“Maybe she didn’t choose this for me. Maybe the Mother is dead.”

She looked on him sadly, but he didn’t let her say anything else, instead standing up. He was still so sore. In the distance, he spotted the moonlight pool. He didn’t remember coming here. He wasn’t too far away.

He turned to Ianthe, and saw the pity well up in her deep blue eyes. She wouldn’t leave him alone.

The rumbling of the earth. He looked towards Ianthe, who had risen, turning towards it as well. Her father, on horseback, leading a white mare. He looked to them, and threw him a uniform. Tamlin caught it with one hand, holding up the robe with the other. It was starting to slip.

“Put that on, and give her her robe back. You don’t want to ride home like that.”

Home.

He looked at the clothes. What he had worn in the war camps. Where he should still be. But even that life, that was a concession, was gone now.

It was as he told Ianthe—it was done. If this was his punishment—so be it.

He nodded to them, and they turned away while he changed. It felt strange to wear the clothes. He felt anything would be artificial, a farce. He should still be lying in the dirt. He should be the only one to. He was going to die in one of his father’s wars. That was the plan. Until—briefly, he had thought he might live.

“Ianthe—“ She turned, and he walked to her, handing the robes back. “They’re a little dirty.”

“It’s alright.” She put them back on.

“Are you coming, then?” Her father said.

He looked at the horse waiting for him. His mother’s. “Yes.”

They rode back in silence, Ianthe with her father, and himself alone, dragging behind. He looked at the scenery disinterestedly as they passed. Willows, and blossoming trees, and wildflowers, and meadows. All forever opening, forever blooming. It didn’t make sense. There should have been a change. The blossoms fall, the wildflowers droop, hanging their heads. The willows should weep. It shouldn’t still be like this, now. They should be mourning, all of them. No—she would not have wanted that. She would want her gardens to thrive, for the beauty of her Court to endure. It was just that she was immortal. She should still have been here, too.

He stopped, instinctively, as the manor came into view. “No,” he mouthed, without sound.

No.

But he saw Ianthe and her father stop, their heads starting to turn towards him, and he moved forward again. Compelled. Dragged.

He could still smell the blood everywhere. Inside, and outside. Two of his camp—Bron and Hart—stood guard outside. He dismounted, and began to take the horse to the stables, when her father stopped him, saying he’d take care of it.

“Will you help me, Tamlin?” Ianthe said, holding out her arms to him.

He walked over to them, helping Ianthe down.

“I’ve sent regiments to the borders,” her father went on.

“Don’t stop anyone from leaving, if they wish.”

“We haven’t been. But we need to make sure the borders are secure, the way things are.”

He should probably have assisted him. But he merely thanked him, and waved him off, watching him as he left with the horses. He didn’t understand any of this.

“You should get cleaned up, and changed,” Ianthe said, “into clothes more befitting—“

He didn’t want her to say it. “What I’m wearing is fine.”

As they approached the doors, Bron and Hart began to bow, but he stopped them. They stood back up, awkwardly, and Bron opened the door for him.

He stepped over the threshold, and it hit him. The screams, the blood. Rhys’ eyes. The shadows filling the halls, then disappearing. Leaving this behind.

This place was a tomb.

“We’re working on getting the manor re-staffed,” Ianthe said.

He walked without thought, towards the library, letting her walk beside him. Needing her. Needing someone to tell him what to do. No one ever had before. This was never supposed to happen.

“Everyone’s left, then?”

She hesitated a moment before speaking. “Once the nobility fled. And you—“

“Became a beast?”

“…Found your beast form. All High Lords have them. And after what you went through…no one could blame you for—“

Yes, they could. “But they left.”

“They were afraid. You were gone. They thought Rhysand and his army of brutes would come to finish the job. Or simply kill everyone they could lay their hands on.”

Brutes. That’s what his father had called them. “But he hasn’t come back? Him, or his army?”

“No. Not yet. But we can’t assume he won’t. We have to be prepared.”

He had felt Rhys’ power when they had stood facing each other—already so long ago. He could have killed him easily. But Rhys was smart. He knew leaving him to this was the far greater punishment. He would not come back. Maybe ever.

They reached the library. He trembled, remembering. Exchanging poems. Playing music. He had been so much more. She had hoped for so much more for him. And she had told him, when he had told her about Rhys—to be careful.

He would never write poems again. Music would never be heard here.

He walked in, looking at the paintings. Examining the shelves.

“I don’t need servants. We don’t need to prepare for any invasion. They’re not coming."

“If not him, someone else. Someone who will take advantage of this.”

He took out a book of poetry, flipping through the pages without reading.

“Take advantage of what? An empty, ruined Court? A beast who plays at being High Lord?”

“Your Court is not empty. And it is no illusion. Only the glamour you have on yourself that drains your power every moment you use it.”

As she said it, he could feel it struggling to get out. Fighting with the beast. It was profane, that light. He felt naked, obscene, as if he had not put on his uniform.

“Let me see,” she insisted.

“Why? What is so important about showing you my un-glamoured form? What you saw lying in the dirt was a true as that.”

“It was not. That is what you’ve always thought yourself to be. What your father and brothers saw. It is not who you are. When your father sent you away, it was because you already outshone him. He proved his own unworthiness from such a thoughtless and reckless action, one he took without stopping to think what the consequences would be for his own Court. How many lives it would destroy. To kill someone’s mate—never mind a High Lord’s…he and your brothers got what was coming to them.”

He could not argue with her there. His father and brothers had forfeited their lives murdering Rhys’ mother and sister. But so had he.

“Your mother…what happened to her was horrific, and unforgivable. And I am truly sorry for it. I wish she could be here for you, to see this. To see you step into your full power. To lead as you were always meant to. To remake your Court.”

“Ianthe…” He did not know what she saw, that made her say this. It was not him.

“The Mother—the magic—chose you over your brothers for a reason. Most High Lords become so by violent means. Many killing their predecessors. Yet you did not, and never would have. You would rather have died than cause your mother that kind of pain. To lose her mate.”

Yet he had anyway. She seemed to sense his thoughts, and stopped.

“It was tragic, the method of your ascension. I will not deny that. But it was not a mistake. And it will help no one to hide it. To lie in the dirt, and wait for your enemies to come.”

“I…” He still could not believe. But he began to think of what his own mother would have wanted.

“Please, Tamlin. Let me see. For just a moment. The Mother’s will. Your light, that will shine throughout this realm. See how it feels to accept it. To stop holding back.”

He sighed and closed the book, putting on a nearby table. “If it will get you to stop all this talk.”

She smiled slightly.

“And just for a moment.”

“Of course.”

He breathed in, and out, and loosed the grip on his power. He saw the light reflected in her eyes, that widened before she fell to the ground.

“Magnificent.”

He turned towards the door. It was not Ianthe who had spoken.

“Amarantha.”

Her red hair was done up, gathered in a ponytail that fell down to her lower back. She wore a dress of blush pink, trimmed with red roses. A fashion of the Spring Court. And not her taste at all.

She did not wait for an invitation, but made her way into the room. He drew back into himself instinctively, and Ianthe stood up in front of him.

“We’re sorry,” Bron said, out of breath, “we tried to stop her.”

“It’s alright.”

“Oh, don’t glamour yourself on my account,” Amarantha said. “Ianthe, wonderful to see you, as always.”

“Amarantha. What are you doing here? You are not welcome.”

“I only came to congratulate the new High Lord on his ascension. As the Spring Court’s closest ally.”

His mouth ached. He ran his tongue over his canines. But held them back.

“Ianthe. Bron. Leave us.”

“But—“ Ianthe started.

“This won’t take long. Go.”

She bowed, glaring at Amarantha before she left with Bron.

“Come to take the rest of my Court with you?”

She grinned. “Was that all that’s left, then? Those three?”

“What do you want?”

“Only to congratulate you, as I said. And pay my respects.”

“Is that why you’re in that ridiculous dress? It doesn’t suit you.”

She straightened herself. “Neither does this lesser form you’ve resigned yourself to. Do you know how beautiful you are?”

“I don’t need, or want, your flattery.”

“Perhaps if I wore priestess robes instead?”

“She is my friend. You are nothing to me.”

“Really? And yet you sent them away. Maybe it’s because you know they are nothing. They are not what you need now. They cannot help you.”

“But you can?”

“Much of your Court has fled to my lands.”

“You mean the king’s?”

Her left eye twitched slightly. “Yes. But it’s my home, too. And now the home of most of your Court.”

“And what? You want me to beg for them back, is that it?”

“Our lands have been allies and partners for centuries, Tamlin.”

“I’m aware.” He had been to Hybern so many times, as a child.

“Now is not the time to run from us. From me. You need me.”

“I need nothing from you.”

“Do you? Look around. What do you have? A common priestess. A few loyal soldiers from the war bands. The king of Hybern is powerful. His magic. His army, with me leading them.”

“His magic, his army, and you leading them, still lost the war.”

She looked at him angrily. “You have no training, no sense of how to lead. No idea of how to speak to a foreign dignitary. You can’t do this on your own. But if we finally join our lands. Your people will return to you, and no one will dare—“

“That’s what this is about? This dress, and your fawning? You think I’ll be desperate enough to finally marry you?”

She blinked rapidly. “It is not desperation. It is wisdom. It is prudent. And it would be foolish to refuse.”

“As you said. I have had no training. No guidance on how to lead. I suppose I am a fool.”

She moved a step closer. He moved back in response, but he was already against the table.

“I am truly sorry for the loss of your family. I am sure it is difficult to think clearly. They were almost my family as well. I mourn your father. Your mother—“

“Don’t speak of my mother.”

“I am sorry, Tamlin.”

His eyes blazed, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. But this, at least, from her was genuine.

“It should never have happened. They took advantage of you. It’s what they do. Seduce, manipulate. Wear a mask, hiding their true intentions. And you have been so lonely. Join our lands. I will stand by your side. We can get revenge on the Night Court for what they did…together.”

“Revenge…” He looked past her, and smoke was in his eyes.

“Yes. Those brutes have sat in comfort for long enough. They cannot stand against our combined might.”

He saw Rhys staring back at him, his eyes black, and full of fury. He blinked, and looked at her, at her black eyes. There was nothing behind them but malice.

He spoke quietly, and calmly.

“I don’t want any revenge, Amarantha. I want nothing from you. I want nothing with you. I will never want you. Ever. Now get out.”

“Tamlin…” She moved forward, putting her hand on his arm. “Please.”

He wrested his arm from her. He could feel it, growing. The sharpness against his lip, the pain against his skin. As he lifted his arm against her, they came out. His fangs, and his claws.

She backed away a step. But smiled, eyes wide. “Now there he is. There is the male who murdered another High Lord without a second thought. Of course, it was right. To kill him, in revenge. Right to give your father the information to kill his wife and daughter. I know everyone has left you. They see you as nothing but a beast. And you are. You are powerful, and brutal, and feral. I understand. I see you, Tamlin. We are the same.”

“We are not the same.”

“Do you still have the wings? That you ripped from them? I would love to see them.”

“No.”

“Pity. They would have made a wonderful trophy.”

He wavered, looking at the chain around her neck, the finger against pink chiffon. An eye swiveling wildly on her hand. And the claws retracted. The poking against his lip was gone.

“Get out.”

“Tamlin—“

“I reject your offer. I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. You are not welcome here. You will leave my Court, and the Night Court, alone. If you want to know what will happen if you refuse, ask the former High Lord of the Night Court.”

She was silent a moment, an unreadable expression on her face. “Very well. But I would reconsider my offer. It won’t be on the table forever. And then you really will have to beg.”

“I will never beg, or bow to you.”

She only smiled, and turned, and left.

“Ianthe.” He heard her say, before her steps disappeared. A moment later, Ianthe was in the room.

“Are you alright?” She asked.

“Were you there the whole time?”

She demurred. “I was worried.”

“I’m fine.”

“I can see that.”

He flexed his hands again. “Her coming here was inevitable. I had to deal with her once and for all”

“And now you will never have to again. As High Lord.”

“No.” He looked at the door. “I won’t.”

She smiled, following his gaze.

He had once thought to leave this place, and the stain of his father’s legacy, and Hybern—forever. To become part of Night. It had been a silly, childish dream. And it was over. He was a coward, and a traitor, and a murderer. He was a beast. And he was forever tied to these lands. But they were his.

He began walking.

“Tamlin,” Ianthe followed behind, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Where are you going?”

“To meet with your father. I don’t want just anyone walking onto my lands.”

Her smile deepened. “Yes, Tamlin.”

“And don’t bow to me. There will be none of that here.”

“As you wish.”

He stopped. “You are my friend. You will always be my friend. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me. You, and your family. That you stayed. I will never forget that.”

She inclined her head.

“Ianthe…”

“It was not a bow. And you don’t have to thank me,” she said, taking his arm. “Ever. As you said, we are friends. I will always be on your side.”

@tamlinweek 2024 Day One: Heir of Spring

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin #acotar

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oncewhenalongtimeago · 9 months

Text

Floret pt 2

Pairing: Unrequited!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Reader

Words: 2265

It’s time. You pass without fanfare, and life moves on. Hiccup reminisces.

Tags: angst, unrequited love, hanahaki, flower disease, heartsickness, gn reader

<Previous - Full

You were tired.

You closed and opened your eyes in odd intervals as you strolled through the new forests. Your direction was aimless, just as it had been for many days. Sometimes it would bring you back into the village for food you couldn’t eat, sometimes it would bring you to other unreachable parts of the forests.

From lived experience, you knew that half of the danger of the flower disease was malnourishment. You’d seen plenty die to that before the roots and blossoms had grown tall enough to choke, and to suffocate. You wondered which death would claim you first.

The higher fields located above on the cliffs were unreachable to you, too weak and weary to climb upwards. Besides making it harder to breathe, your flowers made it near impossible to eat. As soon as anything touched the back of your throat, you’d be sent into another coughing fit.

Of course you could, appropriately, feel your days coming to an end. You haven't had much energy for a long while.

After you expended the last of your reserves finding your way through a thicket, you stopped by a small stream, hoping for a quiet place to rest.

You stared at the ever moving water. You imagined what it would be like, to be so unaffected.

This new island, it had all the right parts, just in all the wrong places. The same plants, trees, grass, oceans- It all makes you miss home. Berk. The trickling streams and rivers you knew better than yourself.

Lazily, you spotted your own reflection. Couldn’t say you were anything to gawk at.

The large coat you wore made you look imposing. Wise. You didn’t feel like either of those things. But you did feel almost settled.

You lowered yourself between two rocks by the creekside, filled with a sense of nostalgia. It’s the first time you’ve been comfortable in a long while, or as comfortable as you could be as roots burrowed through soft mucousy flesh.

It was a good napping spot. A good place to think.

If you cut it down to its most simple parts, you would have to say that Hiccup was the sun.

You stared up into the empty blue sky, laced sporadically with clouds of thin white cotton. It was bright out, almost painfully so.

He used to be your star, but he’d left for brighter, more suited pastures. You were the night sky, a dark blanket with no light. An empty background. Stifling, perhaps.

So maybe it was out of some subconscious effort that you’d decided you’d had to take matters into your own hands. Every petal was a new blinking star in the night sky, every leaf a constellation. You were your own stars, now. That was a better alternative to the truth.

You blinked, half lidded eyes feeling heavier than the weight in your limbs and the burden of your own heart.

You assumed your flaw was making him the only star in your sky. Perhaps if there had been more people to share the love, you wouldn’t have cared for those seeds so thoroughly.

He couldn’t get what you’d said out of his mind.

He’d stumbled upon it earlier, wondering where you’d been going off to these past few days. Pushing through old brambles, searching for you when no one else would. You weren’t well known enough in the village for people to rush to find you after you’d gone missing.

However, you were close to Hiccup.

His breath caught. The pansies were in a varied state of birth, bloom and wilt. So, already, there were pods ripe with seeds dotting the grasses around your final resting place.

There were no fancy arrangements of vines and roots to signify some grand and important passing. It was a simple, narrow clearing with sparse dottings of flowers, not extravagant but no less precious.

Hiccup might not have realized it was you at first if he hadn’t seen your body, graying and cold, wedged between the rocks.

Neither you nor Hiccup ever expected to die in a blaze of glory, so perhaps it was fitting.

A heavy weight fell in Hiccup’s chest.

You’d been off recently. Out of it. He wondered how long you’d been suffering and he hadn’t noticed. You had to spend your last days alone.

Sometime between adolescence and adulthood, you’d grown. You’d been able to cast off the confusion and awkwardness that had bonded the two of you together and where there was unsurety and gawkiness before, there was wisdom and a deep sort of knowing.

Unfortunately, it felt as though now that you were gone, all of the answers seemed to have gone with you.

Hiccup bent down, and, gently, pulled a few pods from their stems. He hadn’t the faintest clue why, but grief did many odd things to a person. He fully intended to leave your body for now, as it felt like holy ground, to disturb your dirt would be sacrilegious.

Objectively, however, it would need to be burned lest the island become overrun. Hiccup just hadn’t the heart to do it himself.

Perhaps he’d sew the seeds in a pit by his house, or keep a pot by his workbench, though he’d never been the type to grow anything so delicate. He’d never been the type to care for plants at all, in fact.

Hiccup rubbed his creased brows, sitting at a full table, papers and effects spilling off of the sides like waterfalls. Even after all these years, the feeling that he just wasn’t cut out for this life still hadn’t left him. He didn’t enjoy this.

He didn’t like directing vikings, managing houses or organizing exploration efforts at all. Trying to keep everyone in line was stressful and being in charge of the upkeep of all the storehouses and events was unbearable.

Sometimes, even keeping up with his friends was difficult. His family. He couldn’t just fly off when he needed to take a break, anymore. Hiccup dealt with it.

But Snotlout, the Twins, they definitely got on his nerves now a lot more than before. Fishlegs was helpful. The most help, though, came from Astrid

Not in the typical sense. She was a doer, not a manager. She was a pusher and a fighter, and sometimes that was just what he needed to force himself to keep going.

Astrid, truly, was strong. Their relationship was the same. Good, sturdy. She valued capability, and boy did he try to be capable. He proved his worth time and time again. She loved him for it. It was all he wanted. At least, that’s what he thought.

Still, he wondered if she’d ever thought of being with someone else. If she’d wondered if she was better off alone the same way he did.

But no, Astrid was good. Perfect, even. He still couldn’t help but wonder if she was good for him. It was a lot of work, to constantly meet her toe-to-toe, especially in times when he just needed rest.

He hated the thought, because she’d never done anything to deserve that kind of thinking. Because that’s what she needed and deserved. Because there were hundreds of vikings who would kill to be in his place. Because if he couldn’t keep up, then why was he here? Why had he wasted so much of her time?

No. She’d chosen him.

She’d chosen him.

Hiccup clung to that phrase like a mantra, eyeing the pot on the windowsill.

He frowned at the wilting leaves, pushing up from the desk to walk to the sill. He kept a watering can there, always filled. It was the least he could do.

There was a noticeable mark under where it usually sat, which Hiccup grimaced at. No matter how many times he tried to brush it off, it was still there. He reminded himself to try sanding it off later, if he had time, though it would probably fall to the wayside, same as many of his other crafts.

He realized with displeasure that he had been neglecting it.

Caring for the flower had in effect become part of his routine. Astrid sometimes looked at him oddly for it, though she never said anything, probably wondering why he’d picked up the sudden hobby.

It was difficult at first, just another thing he had to keep up with. But over time he found that it was relaxing, unwinding in a way he’d never have thought. So even when he was at his busiest, he’d found time for it. He’d been careful to prune dead and unwieldy branches. To pick out weeds, bring it in during the winter and replace the soil every spring.

Hiccup scratched his beard, watching as water sunk into the pot soil. He smiled faintly as he heard hurried footsteps march up the porch to the Haddock home, too light to be Astrid, or Gobber, or any one of the other Riders.

The door swung wide open and his children burst through, trampling wood as they ran in. He caught a shot of the outdoors in his periphery as the door swung shut. It was a bright day outside, paths littered with small purple and white flowers.

The fields, he knew, would be blooming too. Even after the burning, they were still there. The flowers eventually crept into the village. As it turned out, they didn’t get in the way of the crops or paths or anything of the sorts. They didn’t drown out the fields either. Hardly suffocating as he’d expected.

After the initial irritation, everyone figured they weren't malicious, so eventually everyone had gotten used to them and just let them be. Eventually they just became another part of the island, though there was some prevailing confusion over where they had come from.

A little body stopped right next to him, standing on toes to also examine the soil. Then there was a groan, probably at the realization that there wasn’t much of anything interesting to look at, at least not for her, which was alright enough, he supposed.

“Dad, Why do you water the pansies?” Came the annoyed voice of his daughter, as Hiccup placed the watering can back in its rightful spot, “There are so many outside already.”

Hiccup furrowed his brows again, trying to find the right words. He was at a loss at how to answer. He wasn’t exactly sure himself.

“...A good friend of mine gave them to me.” He tried the phrase on his tongue. Still, even after he said it, it didn’t feel quite right.

It was true, in a way. Ignoring Hiccup’s own part in taking the seeds, you’d given everyone and the whole island some sorely needed color.

Maybe his daughter could tell he was sort of unsure himself.

After some thinking, he decided that they reminded him of the way you used to look at him, like he was the only thing you cared about. He used to shy away from it, but now, especially in times like these, he missed it.

He stared at the soft petals as she wandered off, dragging her brother along with her.

Hiccup could say that, in part, the flowers were reminiscent of better times. He wasn’t sure which better times he was referring to, though. He could mean the times he spent out with the riders, or with Toothless soaring over the archipelago.

But he also recalled the faint image of all the quiet times you two had spent sitting across the fire after the fact, in the early hours when everyone else had gone to bed. When even the crickets were silent and the licking heat and crackling fire were the only things that existed in that moment.

He’d spent the time talking to you, the two of you whispering in loud and hushed voices. He could almost smell the burning logs, feeling his arms twitch, recalling the muscle memory involved with feeding sticks and stumps into the pit.

He felt sort of odd caring for the flowers sometimes, when his reminiscing would bring him and his watering can outside into the bushes on the outskirts of New Berk, caring for and replanting some of the blooms there.

He was an interloper of a sort, caring for flowers born from a love that was not meant for him. When he did, he imagined what sort of life he’d have led if you’d survived somehow. It was impossible, even so, he wished for it.

He could picture the last time he saw you alive, looking over those clifftops. He wished he’d said more, said something valuable to leave you with. He wasn’t completely sure what, but he wished he would have said something.

Hiccup leaned against the windowsill on closed fists, looking, finally, outwards, into the trees and past them to the few straggling vikings he could observe over the cliffs.

He puzzled gently, picturing your face. Sometimes, when he thought of you, it almost felt a little bit like-

Hiccup paused as a cough wracked through his chest, causing him to tense and hit his chest, burying his nose into his elbow and shutting his eyes tightly. It’d been happening more and more often, and had gotten to the point where it had begun to give him the shakes.

As the spasms calmed, he thought of going to a healer, as he occasionally did.

Then Hiccup wiped his mouth, rubbing his hand off on his pant leg and brushing it off, as he always did.

It was just a cold, after all. It’d pass.

#hiccup haddock #hiccup x reader #how to train your dragon #httyd #x reader #fanfiction #httyd imagine #toothless #gn reader

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captain-mj · 1 year

Note

*slides briefcase across the table*

You know what I’m here for.

(Please please give them both animal ears and wings. Please I will kill myself if you don’t🥰🥰)

If you want to read this as König being mildly obsessive or that his species actually has soulmates, that is up to you guys. Vote in the comments or something lol

If you guys want a part 2, send me an ask!!

König stalked through the underbrush, listening closely. He felt distinctly out of place in this heavily plant filled area. Brambles and vines clung to his legs as he walked.

The trees weren’t too bad though. Tall and looming.

His presence must’ve scared everything living off besides a few chirping bird.

There was no indication he could really point out. Nothing that screamed you’re about to be attacked.

He knew though. Right as the person descended on him. Huge moth like wings blocking out the goddamn sun as the blade flashed in their hand.

König dodged it at the last second, pulling out his own knife.

The person was… tiny. Well, for his species, he was probably a fine height. But König was close to 8’6 and this tiny person looked to be 5’10. Their wings flared out to make themself look bigger, the leather armor clinging to him. It was a fair bit more conservative to König’s. His face covered, sunglasses on.

König’s own armor was metal pieces over his sensitive areas with fishnet like material to connect them. It was meant for ease of movement where this person’s looked to be made more to take hits.

“Tiny…” König mumbled.

The person started to talk at him, but he didn’t understand the language. He moved closer to him and the person lashed out, their blades meeting in the air.

Their wings were so pretty. König wondered what they’d feel like. Furry? Maybe?

König hummed and stared down at him. He was still hissing curses at him but he didn’t magically understand the language anymore than he did when he first started speaking.

“König.” He said to the person before pointing at himself, not at all bothered by the blade that kept swinging at him.

The person paused and König repeated it, trying to show that was his name.

“Horangi.” He provided after a moment before trying to rush him. Why they were fighting was lost on König. Maybe he had accidentally got on his territory?

König grabbed his arm and flipped him to the ground, pinning him down with his weight against Horangi’s back. His thighs were on either side of his hips, hand on the space between his shoulders.

Horangi looked… embarrassed. König could just barely see his eyes behind the dark glass over them.

“Don’t feel bad. I am ve-” Horangi did a move, flipping them over. He put the blade to König’s throat.

König looked up at him. Oh. He was very pretty. The wings blotted out the sun, making shadows fall around him. His hands settled on his hips. His own skin had swirls of gold all over it, making dizzying patterns that in a way complimented the dark splotches of Horangi’s wings. He blinked up at Horangi, smiling.

Horangi looked irritated at him, though substantially less angry. Blade pressed harder against his throat. König exposed his throat more in response. His hood covered all of his face but his eyes, but even through the fabric, the blade still managed to press right against his jugular.

König flipped them again, this time between Horangi’s legs, his hands pressing the wings down. They were furry feeling. And very soft. Horangi immediately started to kick at him but seeing as König was between his legs, it didn’t really work. His arms went to hit him and he caught his wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head.

It didn’t really occur to König how intimate the position probably felt until Horangi looked at where his hips were pressed against Horangi’s inner thighs.

Ah.

Oops?

Horangi stared at him, a flush clear on the little bit of skin König could see. He pressed the tiniest bit closer.

His team wouldn’t be there for a while since they split up.

König got flustered and went to pull away but Horangi’s legs wrapped around him and pulled him back. Ah. He could’ve easily pulled away. Horangi wasn’t in the position to get much leverage, even though König could feel the strong muscles underneath.

It wouldn’t be a crime to… He pressed just a tiny bit closer, despite how flustered he was. Horangi purred, rolling his hips.

Oh.

König flushed and gently let go of his wrists to grab his waist instead. Tiny. He rolled his hips back, feeling a delightful pressure against his bulge.

After some consideration, he pulled on Horangi’s laces, watching the armor loose before he could take his pants off. Horangi immediately smirked at him and even through the mask, König could see it.

How come even though he was pinned and König was the one pulling at his clothing did it still feel that Horangi was in control?

König flushed and suddenly felt rather embarrassed but he pressed closer, wanting more. Horangi took König’s clothes off quickly, wings fluttering slightly with excitement. They started to grind against each other before König got his hands on him, turning him over so he was on his front.

Horangi went to pull away and König bound his hands, stroking his wings gently. He followed the outline of them and watched him tense before shuddering into his grip. König had oil in his gear for his weapons that he poured over his fingers to gently push into Horangi. One hand stayed on his shoulder to keep him down, hearing his gasp of surprise followed by very soft moans. It was so sweet sounding.

König purred at him and laid over his back as he worked him open. With how small he was, König wanted to be careful. He kept his mask on and gave Horangi the same dignity, nuzzling against his shoulder. Horangi’s eyes were closed tight as he moaned and whined, pressing back against his fingers. His eyelashes fluttered as König’s fingers dug in deeper.

König pulled away and got the rest of his gear off, keeping Horangi pinned. He glanced up at König, batting his eyelashes and trying to look at him.

König got flustered and quickly tried to distract. His body was… He had more of the swirls and scars and he did not find himself very pretty. He very much doubted Horangi would find him pretty.

Instead, he lined up, wrapping his arms around him so his back was pressed to König’s chest.

“I know you can’t understand me, but just relax.” König cooed and Horangi flushed more, leaning up. The binds on his wrist kept him from moving too much. Gently, carefully, he pushed into him, surprised by how warm he felt. He was also so perfectly tight.

Horangi tensed up and König gently rubbed his back until he relaxed again so he could keep pushing into him.

“Good boy.”

Horangi murmured something in his own language at him, legs shaking slightly. König held his hips to keep him stable, not wanting him to fall. He thrust in, hearing Horangi wail.

“You’re so much more sensitive than my previous partners.” König mumbled to him. “I want to… touch you more. Your skin is so soft.” His hands trailed down his sides, feeling him all over. He gently tugged his wings and Horangi’s back arched, a soft moan breaking from his mouth.

His thrust grew faster and he did… something that had Horangi scratching at his binds, trying to shove him back against him.

König flipped him on to his back again, pinning his tied hands above his head as he thrust into him again. His cock made a small bulge in Horangi’s stomach and if he had the time, he’d love to mark the area. Honestly, he wanted to stay there and mark every inch of Horangi. Bite and lick his way across his whole body.

But they were two strangers and not much else. He shouldn’t get so attached. They also didn’t have much time.

König put his forehead on Horangi’s and thrust in again, getting the same result as before. He pounded into the nerves in Horangi’s body, feeling him start to tense and pant. Horangi yanked out of his grip to yank his mask down. His fingers tangled themselves into König’s hood as his head fell back.

König looked at his gorgeous face. The soft skin, the scars on either side of his mouth that looked like whiskers. He wondered where they got there.

He wasn’t paying attention.

Horangi lifted his mask and kissed him.

König felt panicked. Did Horangi’s species considering this as intimate as König’s did?

His heart started to pound as he melted into Horangi.

Something curled through his thoughts.

My heart.

My stars.

My love.

König came in him, quickly stroking Horangi to help him finish. He’d have to take him home. He would have to get his bed fixed so it would be shorter. The way it was Horanig would have a problem getting on it.

Horangi came and then sank his teeth into his bindings, ripping straight through it. He flipped König before standing up and stretching.

“What are you…” Horangi shut him up with another kiss and König’s eyes closed instinctively.

Please keep kissing me.

Horangi pulled away and was gone before König even opened his eyes. He had to clean himself up, alone. This feeling was not nearly as nice as the feeling of being kissed.

“König.” His hand swiveled to see Ghost of all people. Catching him crying. Ah, that’s embarrassing. “You okay?”

“I… uh…”

“You reek of sex.”

“I think I found my soulmate and they left!” König threw himself at Ghost who grimaced.

“Oh… Wow. Um.. Huh…”

“They kissed me. Twice!”

Ghost pulled away. “Seriously?? Twice? And they just left you?”

“Yes!”

Ghost patted him, which was a bit awkward since König was almost a foot taller than him. “Don’t worry buddy. Uh.. Shit look this is more Price’s thing. If it’s meant to be, I’m sure you’ll see him again?”

König started to cry again.

“Okay, okay. Um.. Do you want me to help you lookkfor him?” Ghost did not look the happiest about this idea.

“Yes, please.”

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