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insurrection-writes · 9 months

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masterlist

dirt

sundress+no panties+daryl = uh oh...

title and soundtrack is dirt by depeche mode. you need to take depeche mode away from me tbh, I'm hung up on the exciter album writing smut when I should be making updates to my negan and ironstrange fics.

I also headcanon daryl having huge fat swinging balls for some reason and I'm so sorry you had to read that I turn into an animal when I write daryl

cw: 18+, word count 3k. a little rough (butt slaps, some bites, he calls you a "bitch in heat" and a "slut" a couple of times - lovingly of course), a little pervy (you're fucking outside and daryl eats his own come out of your pussy+breeding kink if you squint really hard).

He reaches in, fingers curling around the bunched up, patterned cotton of the dress and his mind blanks. The low growling, he realises, is coming from his own mouth.

"The fuck, girl?"

You look at Daryl over your shoulder, where the bare skin has erupted in goosebumps from his hot, humid breath. "What?"

You sound annoyed, but there's a distinctive teasing undertone to it. Your eyes are narrowed a little too much. The corners of your cherry-tinted lips are tilted upwards.

"You ripped all my damn underwear, Daryl! What did you expect?" You grouch, breaking the second of still silence. "Can't just take a stroll to Victoria's Secret anymore, can I?" Seeing his face darken even more, you hastily add, "I got a couple I wear on runs."

You sound so cute when you're annoyed, Daryl thinks, but it's overshadowed by his blood rushing in his ears, hot and fast. His cock is still pulsing in his jeans and it demands to be released.

"So you jus' walkin' 'round with allat juicy ass hangin' out fo' all da men to sniff?" Daryl feels an urge to clarify to you, what is exactly you're doing, that he's upset with. "Cuz that's exactly what all them dawgs are fuckin' doin'!" He's jealous, of course he is, but most importantly, he doesn't trust any of the men as far as he can see them.

Hell, he isn't completely sure even Rick would pass on the opportunity to get an eyeful of your soft thighs, your scrumptious ass, or your fat cunt, for that matter.

Lord knows they're the juiciest fucking things he has seen in his whole entire miserable life. Just thinking about it makes his rock hard cock twitch and release a sad dribble of pre-cum in his pants.

"Exactly, your girl!" You declare, eyeroll audible in your voice. "Nobody's seein' me without my panties 'cept you."

Daryl's only response is to hitch up the sundress higher, the movement so quick, the fabric gives a sad crack as the seams threaten to burst. Your ass is still bare, still round and smooth as ever, nobody should have this sort of curves while they're in the middle of a damn apocalypse, he thinks, and sinks to his knees and sinks his teeth into the supple skin of your right ass cheek.

You yelp at the sharp pain. You squirm, your attempt at getting away, of course, futile: your hips and waist are firmly in his grasp. Rough fingertips dig into you, just shy of painful.

"There," Daryl inches back a bit, admiring the indentations left behind by his teeth. For someone who forgets to take care of himself most days, his teeth are surprisingly straight and white and strong. And he lets you feel it. "Now if any asshole decides to go nosin' where he shouldn't, there'll be a warnin'." Daryl sounds proud of himself, which is all and all - fair.

Once the initial shock subsides, your feel your cunt lips stick together even more as your arousal oozes out of them- and down your thighs, now that there isn't any fabric to contain it all. In all honesty, you did enjoy the occasional breeze that would waft up your skirt, even if it didn't offer much respite from the sweltering summer heat.

And Daryl is definitely not helping matters, either. He's like a damn furnace, pressed up against the back of your legs, all solid bulk, breathing hot and moist into your skin, every exhale going around the curve of your ass and disappearing between your legs. He knows it the moment that you shift in place, subtly trying to widen your stance even though there is nothing more you want than to rub your thighs together to provide relief to your swollen lips and throbbing clit.

He raises a hand, wide and open-palmed, and smacks your ass. "You're such a fuckin' slut," he grouses. And your first instinct is to gasp at the offense; you hide your grin in a lip bite. Yes, yes you are. And you know it. And he knows it. Your ass cheek jiggles as he gives it another well-aimed slap. "Lookit you," Daryl presses the issue, "drippin' wet." To hammer his point home, he takes a thick, fat finger and runs it along the seam of your cunt.

It glides easily. You shudder, biting back a moan. Your legs shake just a little, but Daryl notices - he always does - and his finger dips inside your lips. The rough, calloused fingertip swipes through your labia, stopping just short of your clit. You whine and he withdraws.

His numerous knives and tools clatter as he abruptly gets up.

"You wanna be fucked, huh?" Voice quiet, Daryl's front presses to your back with a malicious intent. The prominent bulge of his erection is pushing into your back. "Is that why you goin' round naked? So anybody coulda bend you over, anytime, huh?" He reaches around you, hand blindly nosing for your face. When he finds it, he wastes no time in prying your mouth open, sticking the damp finger inside.

Your own cunt, salty and tangy, blossoms on your tongue. The gesture makes you moan around his finger and him- he sticks another one in, keeping you quiet.

"Shut the fuck up," Daryl orders. The rasp in his voice makes your knees buck and your cunt weep and he knows it. His free hand moves at your back, and with the accompanying noises, you come to realise that he's opening his pants and hurrying to free his dick.

When the damp, silky tip touches the bare skin of your ass, your body reacts before you do. Your mouth wraps tighter around his fingers. Spit dribbles from the corners of your mouth and onto his wrist. Your back arches into his body. He is just as scalding as the sun beaming down from the sky.

Daryl pushes his fingers deeper into your mouth, holding them there until you gag. The motion makes your whole form spasm and shiver; his cock gives a responding jump of its own.

"Lookit you," he rasps directly into your ear, hot breath tickling the shell of it. "Like a fuckin' bitch in heat," he grabs the meat of your ass cheek, spreading you one-handed. His cockhead noses around the cleft, leaving a sticky trail behind itself. It dips near your cunt, adding your juices to the mix. "You want it so bad."

You do. You really, really do. But you know Daryl is mean. You love it when he's mean to you. When he is proud of the strength of his bulk, when his eyebrows draw tightly over his brilliant blue eyes and nothing, absolutely nothing can escape his predatory stare. You crane your neck, trying to look back at him, to plead with your eyes.

He gets it, because he always does. Daryl's fingers quickly leave your mouth, dragging a wet trail of spit down to your neck where his fingers wrap around it in a secure hold.

"You want it so bad, then fuckin' beg," he says the words and you immediately, greedily descend into the permitted depravity.

"Please, Daryl," your voice sounds hoarse, interrupted by hiccups as you struggle to swallow the saliva that had pooled in your mouth and around his fingers, "please, fuck me. I'll be good. Please."

You feel him fist his cock as it twitches; you can't help it, really, as you arch your back even more and push your ass against his rough hand. Immediately, he withdraws it, just to slap you again.

"You're a bitch in heat," he muses, but you can hear the beginnings of impatience in his voice. "Say it!"

He's never made you do that before. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, you gasp, part shock part offense, until you feel a drop of fluid roll out over the outer lip of your cunt and fall and disappear somewhere below you. Then it's just lust. The kind that tints the whole world red and narrows your field of vision.

"Fuckin' say it!" Daryl demands, patience thin.

You wouldn't put it past him to just shove himself in at this point. "I'm... I'm a bi- I'm a bitch in heat," you hiccup, feeling your face flood with heat. "I'm a bitch in heat, please fuck me!"

You feel his lips tilt up just the tiniest bit against your ear before he reaches back for his cock and aims it at your cunt in a single, precise thrust. You gasp and mewl as he suddenly stops halfway through. Your cunt ripples and flexes and squeezes. Daryl drops his forehead onto your shoulder, panting.

"So fuckin' tight," he murmurs, mostly to himself. You're not - he knows better, he makes sure you're not before he even thinks about sticking it in - but you are. All that blood that went straight to your cunt the moment his breath caught up in his throat at the sight of your bare pussy - It's making your cunt swell all around him.

A pathetic mewl leaves your lips, your satisfaction incomplete. You wiggle, you arch, but Daryl is as unyielding as ever.

"You take what I give you," he growls, teeth bared like an animal against your ear. Nonetheless, you feel the tip of his cock kiss your cervix. Stars burst in your eyes. You are so full, practically bursting at the seam of your cunt where his fat balls rest against the stretched hole.

Slowly, Daryl withdraws, both of you hissing at the drag of his fat cock in your engorged cunt. You may be a bitch in heat but he's every bit the stud that is just as fervent and feral to breed you. His teeth creak as he pulls back completely, leaving just his weeping tip inside of you.

And then he slams home. And again. And again. And again.

With every powerful thrust of his hips, you gasp. Quiet, pleading moans is the limit of your vocal capacity. Mouth dry, the air gets trapped in the back of your throat as your lungs demand their due.

Daryl is unrelenting. His blunt fingernails drag over the skin of your throat, leaving marks in their wake, as he makes way to your mouth.

"This is what you wanted, slut?" He pants into your hair. "Be quiet. Be really fucking quiet unless you want everybody to see what kinda..." He inhales sharply, feeling your walls flutter at the flith dripping from his tongue.

And it shouldn't make you feel the way you feel. Those fucking words just add more accelerant to the fire in the pit of your stomach, spreading it from there and up, over your face. It flames. Your hand helplessly clutches the nearest surface as you attempt to brace yourself against his thrusts and the notion that anyone could see you.

Bent over something or another, dress hiked up to your waist and Daryl's hips pistoning in and out of you at a rapid pace. He didn't bother undressing save for letting his pants hang freely just below his cock and balls. Heavy, fat balls, littered with coarse dark hair, that slap against your cunt and your clit with a resounding smack every time he drives his cock inside of your cunt. The squelching noise it makes is obscene.

Another whine, and your pussy squeezes him once again, blind and hungry for release. You can feel it building steadily, deep within your abdomen.

"Fuck yeah," Daryl growls, "you fuckin' like this, don't 'cha?" He's gotten the hang of it: the dirty talk, he knows exactly how to get under your skin. He's a mean bastard with nothing close to dignity or self-respect. If anyone saw him, rutting into you, little more than two animals, he wouldn't, couldn't stop.

Daryl would stare them down up until his cock swelled and busted, depositing his seed inside your womb.

Your knees feel weak. It's getting harder and harder to keep up with him; seems like every pathetic whimper that leaves your lips only makes him meaner, stronger somehow. The grip of his hand on your hip is bruising. Daryl effectively wears you on his cock, submerging himself into the warm depths of your pulsing cunt over and over.

"Da-Daryl..." You gasp, you moan and you plead.

He doesn't stop. He merely handles you into a different angle, the one that hits that special spot inside of you with every powerful thrust. He is mean, but he is also fair.

"Gonna cream my cock?" He barely makes sense to himself, the words that his dry mouth garbles seem to have a mind of their own. "Gonna be good, girl? C'mon."

"Ah," you want to say yes, you want to affirm, but all that comes out of your mouth are garbled, unintelligible noises of pleasure. But Daryl sees it. It's in the way your arch becomes near-painful, body overtaking your mind. Even the slightest bit of pain blends into hot-blinding pleasure. You don't know where what ends and begins.

It begins somewhere behind your cunt. The contractions start slow and aching, and every punch of his cock to your guts intensifies the feeling tenfold, until every last inch of your cunt is squeezing around him in that same arduous, suckling rhythm. It's like your pussy is nursing at his cock, attempting to suck his life out of him and deposit it into you.

The pleasure is like a wall of fire and water. Your chest blooms with it, but your extremities swarm with pinpricks. Mouth parted in a silent scream, you sway forward, managing to catch yourself on your elbows at the last moment.

The man behind you doesn't care. He's way past caring, having had started chasing his release the moment your cunt enveloped his cock in a vice grip. The meat of it is sensitive and he spends the few inches to the finish line gracelessly mashing it inside of you, accompanied by the sound of wet flesh meeting even wetter, sloppier flesh.

"Take it, fuckin' take it," you hear him gasp through your stupor before that familiar, warm rush floods your cunt. His cock twitches, once, twice, three times, each forceful throb followed up by more and more seed being pumped into the depths of you.

Against your back, Daryl sags and pants out his excerption. Like a dog. His wet nose leaves sweat stains on your back where he nuzzles into you.

Your knees shake as you struggle to hold up his weight, and then your legs completely turn to mush when droplets of his cum escape your cunt as his spent cock slips out. You know you should be worried about stains in unsightly places but somehow, you can't bring yourself to care.

Daryl notices this, of course. His bulk slides off you; you hear him quickly shove himself back into his pants before his ass hits the ground with a loud thud. Next to you, of course, his stubbly, prickly cheek rubbing over the skin of your leg. He places a wet kiss on the inside of your thigh, and then another.

You know the drill. It's hard for him to find words, sometimes, after a scene like that. It's the intensity of it, the forceful ejection of him out of his head where he spends most of the time, that renders him speechless. Daryl is forced to feel - good things. It's not something that he is used to.

Your skirt is still around your waist and the hot sun is shooting lasers directly at your ass and pussy. You've managed to get your bearings enough to feel at least a little self-conscious, a little exposed. Your combined fluid still drip from you and for a split second, you think about pulling up your panties to try and at least somewhat contain the mess.

Right, you sigh to yourself. It makes your exhausted body twitch and sag even more.

Daryl gently pushes away your hand that was attempting to pull the dress over your ass. You freeze; he smiles against your skin, a little closed-lipped grin that makes something warm and fuzzy make a nest inside your chest. That quickly turns into a startled gasp as his fingers glide through the mess of your cunt.

You're spent. Exhausted. So sensitive, his rough skin practically hurts on your hole and clit.

But Daryl gets it. You get him, and he - he gets you. His hot breath fans over your pubic hair and it's all the warning you get before he opens his mouth wide, flattens his tongue and licks. You've made a big mess and there is a lot to take care of, but if there's anything about Daryl that you know, is that he's thorough at what he does.

In no time, he's got his tongue shoved down your cunt as far as it would go, curling against your walls, lapping up his and your cum like your pussy is an all-you-can-eat-buffet and what's inside of it is sugar and spice and everything nice.

But it's not enough. It's not anywhere near your clit, or any other place that could make you produce more of the cream he's feasting on. Idly, you think about who's the real bitch in heat here, but push out your hips to meet his face nonetheless. You can be mean too. If you want to.

I don't know what to say for myself

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insurrection-writes · 9 months

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The Housekeeper | Part 1 | Elijah Mikaelson x Reader

Additional tags: Human!Mikaelsons, Modern!AU, Housekeeper!Reader, no use of Y/N Pairings: Elijah Mikaelson x Reader, The Originals x Reader (Platonic) Summary: You've been hired as the new housekeeper for the Mikaelson estate, owned by the elusive Elijah Mikaelson.

His sister had hired you. She had explained during the interview that her brother's previous housekeeper had been getting on in age and was looking to retire soon. There would be two weeks of training to make the transition between housekeeper feel seamless. The master of the home had a certain expectation of the cleanliness of his home, and he would expect the same amount of care to be shown by the new housekeeper.

You weren't worried at all.

You grew up around the janitorial occupation. Your mother had taken you along with her to the home's she'd been hired at on days you didn't have school. She always sat you down and made sure you were occupied while she went about tidying up the million dollar residences. You watched her most of the time. Saw how hard she worked to keep the domicile organized and clean. Whether it be cleaning the toilets, mopping the floors, scrubbing the bathtub. Your mother did it all. And you had been so impressed with her.

While many other children looked up to and aspired to be firefighters or astronauts, you had wanted to do what your mother did.

"One of the greatest things in life you can do, is to serve others." Your mother had once said. After a long and tough day at work, you asked her why she seemed to enjoy this job so much when it took so much out of her, physically. That had been her response. And when her employer arrived, looking at his home impressed and awestruck, his wide smile and generous words had made your mother's face light up like a Christmas tree.

"That feeling you get," she explained, "when a person thanks you from the bottom of their heart, when you can see the gratitude in their eyes; you can feel your chest swell with warmth at their words. It's one of the best feelings in the world."

You hadn't felt that before. You wanted to know what it felt like. So, one day in school, you made an effort to offer your services to clean up the classroom for your 2nd grade teacher, Miss Dobson.

After the class had been dismissed for recess, you walked over to the supply cabinet and grabbed a cleaning spray you had seen your teacher use for cleaning smudges, and a small hand towel, and got to work on wiping down all the desks of your classmates. Miss Dobson, having occupied herself with wiping the chalkboard clean looked over at you, diligently cleaning the desks.

Her look of surprise soon morphed into one of unabashed thankfulness. "That is very thoughtful of you! Thank you so much, my little helper!"

Safe to say, your mother had been right. The feeling you got was unlike anything you had ever experienced.

Since that moment, you'd vowed to follow in your mother's footsteps. Having observed her all your life, you went into the housecleaning business once you turned 18.

And it's how you had ended up working for one of the heirs of the Mikaelson conglomerate. Namely, the 2nd eldest son, Elijah Mikaelson.

The Mikaelsons were a world-renowned name, made famous by the various industries each sibling was tied to. The oldest of the siblings and 1st daughter, Freya, worked closely with the 2nd youngest brother, Kol; the two had co-founded an archeological enterprise that specialized in finding and preserving ancient texts and artifacts, usually donating items to museums the world over.

The oldest son, Finn, was a deeply loved humanitarian and patron for education. He traveled the world, working with out-reach programs to feed famine-stricken countries and bring medicine to villages that faced medical crisis. He also worked closely with his siblings Freya and Kol to facilitate extracurricular programs for children to learn more about history, giving out funds to schools to create more opportunities to take their classes to museums and other learning facilities.

Nikalus Mikaelson; or as his more well-known alias, Klaus, was a huge advocate for the arts. He owned and ran several galleries in different countries, curated a vast collection of paintings from famous artists of the past, and was quite the accomplished artist himself. He also funded many theaters, most of them opera houses and even owned a very exclusive art supply chain.

Rebekah, the youngest daughter, and the one who had hired you in the first place, was one of the highest paid models of this generation. She also had her own clothing line and marketed a lot of her items online, using her influence to sell her product. Out of all the siblings, Rebekah was the most "accessible", so to speak, her online presence marking her as the most social of the family.

There was also the youngest brother, Henrik, but he was still pursuing his education overseas, although rumor had it that he was very close to his brother Klaus and it was expected that he would most likely venture into the art business with him.

Finally, there was Elijah. The more elusive of the siblings. The 2nd eldest son was well established in the wine industry. He owned several wineries and even some breweries. He even worked together with his sister, Rebekah, and started a clothing brand for tailored suits. It was widely rumored that Elijah was the one running the entire conglomeration of Mikaelson subsidiaries. He was rarely seen out and about in public, keeping himself far from the spotlight, seeming rather content to let his siblings be front and center.

You were no stranger to the more reclusive type, there were plenty of millionaires you had worked for in the past that stayed indoor as often as possible, many of them incredibly uptight about punctuality and routine. You had expected the same of Elijah when you first came to work for him.

Surprisingly enough, he was anything but. You had met him on your first day. He had been the one to open the door, held out his hand, and greeted you cordially. He then escorted you to his retiring housekeeper, Philomena, and left the two of you for some meeting or other.

Over the transition period of learning the in's and out's of the Mikaelson home, you had come to learn a bit more about the family. Most all the children had homes of their own, besides Henrik, who still lived with their mother and father, but many of them would stay over at each other's houses quite often. The siblings whose homes were occupied a majority of the time were Elijah's and Klaus'.

After a few weeks of taking over as housekeeper, you met the siblings one after the other.

The first was Rebekah, though you had already tehnically met, seeing as she was the one to hire you. She had entered the home one morning and asked for Elijah. You had told her that he had stepped out for an early brunch with several investors regarding the opening of another winery. The beautiful blonde model sighed at the news and muttered that it 'couldn't be helped'. She then had you sit on one of the plush couches in the living area as she brought in a rack of gowns and asked you to pick which suited her better.

It had been a bizarre morning for you but you had enjoyed the time you spent with the young woman. You learned that she used these mini-runway sessions as an excuse to visit her siblings. She mostly dropped in on Elijah or Klaus, the two brothers she was closest with, but she did occasionally visit the others.

That day you had seen a sight you would not soon forget. Once Elijah came home and caught sight of his sister, a bright, wide smile spread across his lips, his face lit up instantly, and he looked years younger. You were awestruck.

He was never completely devoid of emotion, but many of the smiles he had shot your way had been cordial and polite. To see his face smooth over and relax the way it had with his little sister, you felt your heart skip a beat at the sight.

You prepared a special meal that day, to celebrate Rebekah's visit. Rebekah's words of praise at the delicious meal had that wonderful feeling spread through you. Your beaming smile at the blonde distracted you from noticing Elijah's own eyes from staring at you with curious wonder.

Klaus had visited a week later after Rebekah's departure. You had helped him lug in his 12 foot canvases to the studio room you cleaned out every other week. Thankfully, you cleaned it a day before the brother's arrival, earning an appreciative nod from the man as he went about setting up his work space. Over the next few days, you catered to the artist, bringing him his meals and any other items he required. When Elijah was present, Klaus would step away from his paintings, and the two would mainly spend their time in the library, either playing chess, reading, or discussing various topics regarding their respective businesses.

The two had such differing personalities that it was amazing to see how they balanced each other. Klaus seemed to act out of impulse. You had heard him yelling every now and again to someone on the phone but Elijah's calm demeanor seemed to counteract his little brother's short fuse.

On the last night of Klaus's visit, the blonde man had retired to his room earlier that day. Seeing it as your opportunity to tidy the studio room a bit, you carefully entered. You went about sweeping and mopping the floors, organizing the brushes and towels he had left scattered around. Once you had finished, you finally took a moment to actually look at the paintings that surrounded the room. It was safe to say that Klaus was far more talented than you originally believed. You stared in wonder at the majestic landscapes depicted on the canvas.

It was in this enraptured trance that Elijah had caught you. The door to the studio hadn't been shut completely, allowing the fumes from the paint to escape. He had just been on his way to his office when he had noticed the light on in the room. He had merely gone to glance inside to make sure his little brother hadn't just forgotten to turn off the light. Then he saw you.

You were staring at the painting Niklaus had finished. Your eyes were shining in amazement, and your mouth agape with awe. And Elijah couldn't help but smile. As his housekeeper, you and he communicated quite often, but there was a distance that couldn't be breached due to your position and because of that, he only ever saw you focused on your duties, polite and respectful responses to his questions and requests. Your professionalism only seemed to drop when you interacted with his siblings. And there was a part of him that was envious of them.

He had left the scene very shortly after watching you for a moment, slightly embarrassed at his blatant ogling. You were none the wiser to his presence that night.

Freya, Kol, and Finn arrived in one fell swoop. You had been surprised, only having expected to meet each Mikaelson one by one. Finn and Freya were warm in their greetings. Kol, while still polite, was the more aloof one of the trio. You had the sense that he was very wary of outsiders. From your observations while they resided in the estate, Kol seemed to thrive on the attention and praise of his siblings. He was an incredibly smart person, intuitive and thinking outside the box for solutions to problems. You noticed that he stuck very closely to his older sister and brother and how he would retaliate verbally more harshly toward Elijah or against Klaus and Rebekah if they were mentioned in some form or another. You soon realized that his aloof persona was really a shield to hide away his own insecurities. He craved validation from his siblings and wanted to feel just as loved as he so fiercely loved them. His combative nature toward Elijah, Rebekah, and Klaus seemed to be more out of jealousy at their bond with one another than actual contempt.

Having realized that, you treated him with more care than the rest. He didn't trust you but kept a close eye on you during his stay with his siblings. He would flirt with you, not because he was interested, it was a tactic for him to get you flustered, wanting you to slip up whatever facade he believed you had going on. But you were not that easily shakeable. You knew he was worried for his family. You'd heard plenty of stories of previous hired help around the home and how some had the audacity to try and steal from the Mikaelsons. Kol was just looking out for Elijah—and by extension the rest of his siblings—in his own way.

It was only when you had shown interest in a particular project that he and Freya had undertaken, did he start to warm up to you. The two had discovered ruins in the outskirts of a small village in El Salvador. Freya had sent an advance team ahead to secure the perimeter and begin initial survey's of the terrain for the main archeological team. Kol and she had been seated in their office, piles of books surrounding them with maps and charts pinned to the myriad of cork boards they had covering the walls of the office.

You had been bringing them a pot of tea, Finn trailing behind you holding a tray of cookies to go along with the prepared drink. As you laid the two trays on the emptiest looking portion of the desk, you caught sight of a map of El Salvador, a red circle encompassing their purported dig site.

"Oh, are you going to be digging near El Boquerón?"

Freya and Kol abruptly paused their discussion and turned their heads to you. Freya saw you eyeing the map and nodded, "Yes, that's correct. You know the place?"

You looked up from the map and sheepishly stepped away, "Uh, I was really interested in ancient civilizations during high school. I read a lot of books talking about various indigenous cultures in Central and South America. I really ended up focusing on Mayan nations and sub cultures that formed in remote locations. I know that there was a section of indigenous people in El Salvador known as the Pipil."

You pointed to the red circle on the page, "This area was devastated by a volcanic eruption in the late 1910's. The lake that was once there completely disappeared and many of the homes of the people there was completely burned or melted away by the lava."

Freya and Finn practically beamed at the information you were providing them. Kol tried hard not to look impressed with your knowledge. The three were quick to bring you into their discussion from that point. Asking if you knew anything about the climate there and the terrain they may face.

Elijah came in later that day to find the four of you huddled around Freya's laptop, an image of an item resembling a ceramic jar, half buried in the dirt. Again, a pang of envy coursed through him at the sight of you chatting away so freely with his brothers and sister.

But a bigger part of him was overjoyed to see how well his family had taken to you. Philomena, while a phenomenal housekeeper, had kept to herself and never connected with him, nor his siblings, on a personal level.

You were something special.

He looked on silently as you continued to point out different portions of the computer image. The moments of jealousy that coursed through him were unexpected but not wholly unwelcome. It told him that there was something he wanted to explore with you—only if you wanted to as well, of course—and that the time for distance was to come to an end.

He wanted to know you more, the same way his siblings had gotten the privilege to over these last few months.

Elijah was eager to learn more about his dear housekeeper.

***

Part 2 | Part 3

Author's note: This just kept getting longer and longer until I had to make it into a separate part.

Can you tell I love Original sibling interactions with OC's/reader's?

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insurrection-writes · 9 months

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Sincerely | TVD

"i would live this life a thousands more times just to meet you."

"i wouldn't."

Three.

Parts: ONE TWO THREE FOUR

a/n: writing this as I sit at work doing the most mundane things.

The house is silent.

He returned back to the sleepy town after weeks of travel.

Legs propped up on an old wooden desk, hand's occupied by a well worn book. One he has read a hundred times, and will read a million more.

Focused on the words dancing across the page, he almost doesn't hear it. The fluttering of papers, dampened by the oak beneath his heels.

Slowly lowering the book to his lap, he returns his feet to the ground. Curiously, he reaches to open the desk drawer as the sound settles.

Where a empty drawer should be, lays a solid stack of paper. Letters. Addressed to no one, signed by one.

He skims the top letter, and then the next, and the next, until he's gone through at least thirty of the more than four-hundred pages.

Writings about feelings, goals and triumphs, doodles on the sides, he almost feels like he's violating some sort of privacy.

He's well into the two hundredths when Niklaus comes barging into the house, door slamming into the wall, puncturing plaster and drywall.

Huffing and puffing like a unsophisticated fairytale, eyes wild and unfocused. Niklaus seeks Elijah, tumbling into the dark study, thoroughly sending unease into his older brother who had not yet seen this flimsy version on Klaus in many decades.

Standing before Elijah, Klaus feels almost foolish to be so unkept by such a seemingly minor occurrence. Staring into his older brothers eyes, he speaks only three words that will very certainly start a downward spiral for the whole family;

"I found her."

The wolf was gone, it had been for quite sometime now.

Sitting at the kitchen island, any outside projects long abandoned, Mauve planned out her next steps.

Sorting out her lists, notes she’d taken from the many books laying around the house.

She was confident she was in Virginia, most books on gardening and wildlife in the house were based around Virginia. The native plant and animals matched.

It made sense to her.

She couldn’t leave the boundary. Which made no sense to her.

She never was strongly opposed to the idea of magic before, so why would she be now? Her only logical conclusion was that it was a magic barrier. That made the most sense, she couldn’t cross it, that wolf couldn’t cross it, but other living things could. The birds, the squirrels, the insects. She couldn’t.

Sorting out her thoughts.

Why was she effected by this magic? Why did her attempt to ending her own life suddenly turn into her locked away behind an invisible wall?

Was this heaven? It couldn’t be. It was never real, right? Maybe she wasn’t still alive. Maybe she was dead.

She felt alive. She thought she was alive. No way she wasn’t alive, right?

Right?

He followed Niklaus to this supposed house in the woods.

The house his brother claimed to house her.

Twenty-two miles off the no name dirt road east of town. Hidden in the vast expanse of natural preserves of Virginia.

They hadn’t even a chance to discuss the matter further than his brothers inability to approach the house, slammed by a magical force.

Why hadn’t they made a plan?

“Niklaus, please do inform me of what you plan to do.”

Klaus stopped his stomping, halting to turn back towards his older brother, exasperated, “I have no plan, Elijah! I just need to know she is really here, I need you to confirm my suspicions!”

Elijah walked calmly towards him, steps light and cautious, “What suspicions brother? What could you possibly think other than one thing?”

Silent, Klaus kept walking, closing in one the clearing just through the trees.

Elijah continued, “Please tell me you’re not hoping for something else. If what you saw was real, then she really is-”

Breaking through the tree line, he stopped mid-sentence, losing all train of thought.

A girl, no older than twenty five years of age, stood in the middle of a garden, none the wiser of the brother’s presence. Meer yards away.

Humming a song that sounded eerily similar to his dreams, she swooped down at the waist to grasp at a plant when Klaus finally spoke to answer, “Our soulmate.”

#elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #stefan salvatore #tvd damon #tvd elijah #tvd stefan #soulmates #tvd klaus #tvd fanfiction #tvd #the vampire diares imagine #damon salvatore #soulmate!au

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insurrection-writes · 9 months

Text

SINCERELY | TVD

"i would live this life a thousands more times just to meet you."

"i wouldn't."

Two.

Parts : ONE TWO THREE …

a/n: this part really sticks with me still, even though I wrote it many months ago. the emotions I tried to convey with a little shitty poetry seem to work, so yay! i have a few little unfinished “chapters” after this that I’ll start working to finish on my next day off. not promising anything consistent but i feel the itch to write at the moment.

Sunlight dwindles into dusk. Blue fades into hues of pink and orange, only to be extinguished into the darkness of night. With twinkling stars reflecting into dripping wetness from her eyes, Mauve cries.

Soft, inaudible sobs. Lightly bubbled in her chest, yet heavy weighing on her soul, spilling out between the hands clamped over her mouth to quiet sounds that no one would hear either way.

She cries for what she has lost. She cries for what she will never gain. She cries for everything and nothing all the same.

That anxiety would never fade. The fear and paranoia of being found would stick, even after death. In a house so silent you would swear to hear imaginary things, the thought of breaking this silence was stricken enough.

She cries, yearning for physical touch. She cries for comfort. She cries for everything.

The memories that still haunt her. The routine thoughts and actions that kept her safe, not needed but still followed. The first of many times, and the last of many failures to protect herself.

She cries, starving for validation. She cries for reprieve. She cries for nothing.

Cries fade, tears dry, a stuffy nose and tired eyes. Trained on the wall, unfocused, she gets a sense of deja vu.

The realization of yet another depressing episode commencing startles her.

It shouldn't be this way. She should be fixed.

Shes not.

A radio stationed on the window sill, it's sounds bleeding out into the garden. Soft melodies a constant, never an ad or talking voice.

The rush of water from the hose, being directed over the plants. Soaking into the soil, trails of water following its own paths into the planting bed.

Leaves rustling in the wind, branches swaying from the force. Whispers of squirrels and other woodland creatures chattering in the distance.

In this peace, Mauve settles her mind. It's been 36 days since her break down. 508 days since she arrived here.

Some days are better than others. She has stopped wondering how and why. She's just thankful for the quiet.

Her quiet oasis. Floating in the rift between worlds. Peaceful and soul healing. Something of a cosmic joke and miracle rolled into one.

Her quiet oasis. Until it's not.

She hears it before she sees it. The ruffle of feathers and squawking of birds hitting the sky. The thunderous hooves of wild deer rushing through the forest.

Trees grounding from added weight and tumbling to the ground. Underbrush being ripped from it roots.

It last for many seconds until it quiets. Unsettling silence. The paranoia ticks in Mauves brain. This is different. Unwelcome.

Until something breaks the silence. Branches snapping, leaves rustling against something large. It breaks the tree line.

A wolf. A very large wolf.

It's almost comical in size. She's watched enough animal planet in her time to know that wolves are larger than dogs, but certainly not this large. It's towering over her, it's shoulders above her five foot six inch head. At almost 15 yards away and separated by a fence, a thrill of horror still bites down Mauves spine.

This cannot be real.

It sniffs the air, it's heavy claws tearing the grass beneath it. She sucks in a slow breathe, her mind entering fight or flight.

Slowly backing up, cautiously, to the kitchen door. She stumbles, mistaking the number of steps, and brushes against the gnome on the bricks. Sending it toppling over, clattering to the ground. Splintering into tiny pieces as the wolfs head snaps in her direction.

It's hackles raised, teeth bared. As Mauve wrenches open the door, throwing herself inside, this beast takes into a full sprint, crossing the distance in seconds before slamming itself into the invisible barrier.

She watches from the window as it tries again and again to slip past some magical force just feet away from her fence that would've been just a step to this monster.

Still staring outside, Mauve wonders why she seemingly recognizes it. She wonders why a random wolf would seem so familiar.

When it stops and breathes heavily for a few moments, it's pounding breathes slowing as it sits, turned to face the window she occupies, that she realizes.

Electric yellow eyes meeting her stormy blue.

She knows those eyes.

#elijah mikaelson #tvd elijah #tvd stefan #tvd damon #tvd fanfiction #tvd klaus #klaus mikaelson #klaus #Elijah #the vampire diaries #damon salvatore #stefan salvatore #soulmates #soulmate!au

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insurrection-writes · 9 months

Text

SINCERELY | TVD

"i would live this life a thousands more times just to meet you."

"i wouldn't."

ONE.

a/n: thoughts and suggestions always welcome, I thrive off picking others brains and mashing ideas together. enjoy part one.

PART : ONE TWO THREE …

Dark.

Cold.

Sort of like what Mauve thought death would be like. Not like the Christians explained it, it definitely was not a white paradise in the sky or a burning pit in the midst of the earth. Instead, a nothing filled void, no sounds, no movement. Seemingly cramped for something she assumed stretched on forever in every direction, an infinite loop.

She always imagined that, after death, she would just cease to exist. That's what made the most sense to her. Nothing magical. No God to relay and judge her "sins", or some wonderful white world she would meet every person ever lost in her time on earth.That was not ever a possibility in her mind.

She understand, theoretically, that her brain was just firing neurons, electrons, electricity, the only reason she had thoughts or a consciousness was because of evolution and the growth through time.

If those electrons stopped, she would stop. Her consciousness gone forever and she would just, be gone.

That's what she hoped for, at least. To just, not exist. To rid her mind of every memory, every pain, to no longer feel. Anything. Nothing.

Mauve took her own life on October 17th. A few old pain pills from a car accident and some cheap Vodka, she wished to go in her sleep, without a mess for anyone to clean, just a used body bag and possibly a plot in the ground.

She spent the day writing a note, cuddling her dogs and left the television on in the bedroom, watching the show Bones as she took the pills down with vodka from the freezer, thirteen separate pulls to swallow all twenty-eight pills. She had laughed at the show as she began to tire, allowing herself to finally roll over and hug a pillow to her chest, her dog lay curled in the bend of her knees, and she shut her eyes.

Only to open them to this void.

It worked, she thought.

So why, after death, was she still here?

Time didn't seem to pass. She had no concept of how long she could have possibly been in this void. She couldn't see her arms or legs, couldn't move herself. It was just, her thoughts. Her mind. The thing she tried to kill, still seemingly alive.

Suddenly, it flashed. The void. It was moving. More like a pulse. Light steadily thrumming and moving to a beat she did not want to begin to understand. It started taking shape. A room, with a old, stained wood bedroom set. Old wood stained to a dark color forming the bed frame, night stands, dressers and desk. It seemed cozy.

Then it paused.

The whole void erupted in a bright white light, for what seemed like possibly forever, yet no time at all.

Once it the light blinked out of existence, she saw her body again. She was back.

The second thing she noticed, was that she was in that same room.

Examining her limbs and torso, she was whole again.

She spent the next few moments exploring, figuring out pretty quickly that she was not only in a room, but a pretty decent sized home in the middle of the woods. She walked out the front door, met with a small gravel path to a fence, backed by woods that she could not enter. An invisible barrier blocking her from going further.

She had traded the void for another imprisonment. A house with food that replaced its self and grass that never grew.

The first year of apparent imprisonment, Mauve spent writing letters. Every day. Tracking her time by writing out her thoughts on the apparent never ending stationary on the raggedy old wooden desk that creaked with every shift of her wrist. Shoving the letters into the little slide out drawer.

Only for them to disappear day after day. Every day. She had no clue where they went, or even if they did go anywhere. Just that they'd be gone the next day.

After about four hundred and seventy-two days, she almost gave up. She wished for the void again, almost.

472,

I still feel stupid, writing letters to an imaginary person, when in reality, I am the only person who will ever sees these things.

I've run out room for tally's on the wall in the kitchen, I had to start a new one in the dinning room. That's the one of only thing that sticks here in the house. The things I make and display. Everything else, well, loops.

It's day four-hundred and seventy two.

It's been a year and 107 days.

Time seems irrelevant.

Spending my time unwisely would have sent past me into a spiral, yet here, it soothes me.

Studying things I never thought of before, learning of native plants to different regions. Things outside of the house don't seem to loop as well as the things inside.

Last night, I came across a book on plants in Virginia, I am certain that this hobby has a scientific name of some kind. Not that I could google it to find out.

These bushes drawn in the book are the same that wrap around the fence line. They're called Sweetspires. I am not totally sure if this means I am in Virginia, but my gut says I am.

I spent the morning in the garden. My tomatoes are almost ready to harvest, as well as the green beans. That sounds so dumb to be excited about, I know, but it's a fun hobby. It makes the passage of time tolerable.

Maybe I'll stop writing. See if anything changes. Maybe if I change my routine, I'll see something different. I don't know.

The longer I am here, the more I start to think I should try again. Maybe it'll stick this time.

Probably not.

Sincerely, Mauve

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