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evielmostdefinitely · 5 months

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a hazy shade of winter |young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader|

prompt: wedding nuptials and coriolanus' upcoming inauguration, leads to press.

my first work lol <3 reader's surname is "duke" for the series. i picture the duke family being a rothschild similar type if that makes sense???

contains: possessive snow, nothing too graphic, he's manipulative and a little dark. established relationship. mentions of corio's mom. alludes to smut but none.

Coriolanus stared back at his own reflection, fastening the buttons to his shirt. A nicer fabric, Tigris still selected it but did not have to mend it together like before. No, now the Snow’s were back in power, still climbing that ladder of socialites and success- thanks to you.

A small rapping on the door pulled his attention. “Just a moment.” Corio huffed, looking at the clock. Flickerman’s producer said nine sharp, he still had twenty minutes.

The rapping didn’t stop, following again, heavier this time. Corio’s spine straightened, icy with fear. His mind raced with possibilities- a rebel outside the door, here to kill him; or perhaps it was the guards, they’d found the guns he threw in the river years ago and we're here for him too.

Corio reached for his own weapon, slinking to the door, peeking under the crack. Two white heels.

“Corio,” Your voice whispered, a hint of a giggle. “Let me in, Corio.”

Coriolanus relaxed, setting the weapon down, tucked under his jacket. The door opened, you in your pristine white outfit, the sapphire fixture on your ring finger. “What are you doing?” Corio scanned the hall. “You’re supposed to be in your dressing room.”

“Tigris finished with me.” You waved him off, slipping under his arm into his own dressing room. “She went to join my parents in the audience, and I wanted to see you.” You hum, eyes rolling down his frame.

Corio scoffed lightly, shutting the door. “This is improper.”

“I think they’ll forgive us, Corio.” You giggle. “We are married.” Your hand laid gently against his chest, smoothing out a crease on his collar, engagement ring sparkling even in the low light of the room.

Corio’s hand found yours, admiring the ring himself. His mother’s ring turned yours, one of the few items he had left of hers- that they hadn’t lost or sold to stay afloat. He added the halo of diamonds. After all, he was marrying into the Duke family, he needed it to be flashy- to be worthy.

“We’re not married yet, my love.” Corio muttered, thumb swiping over the ring. “Still two more sleeps.”

“And a press conference,” You sighed, leaning into his soft touch. “And a press tour.”

It had been your father’s idea. Coriolanus was to be President come the new term, and since marrying into Panem’s wealthiest, the press tour to each District seemed fitting. The communication was less and less now, Corio wanted to keep it that way, but have them still feel involved. Your father loved the idea.

“Mmm, but a solo press tour.” Corio hummed, nose brushing against yours gently. “Just us for weeks, days on the train. By ourselves.” His voice rapeseed, tone dropping to that dark octave that left you squirming, tummy flipping with excitement.

“We won’t really be alone.” You pouted, lip jutting in a petulant sort of sulk. It made Corio’s lip twitch. “There will be the peacekeepers and guards and Tigris and-”

“-But we’ll have a whole carriage to ourselves. A private one. I’ve made sure of it.” Coriolanus nodded, the pad of his thumb brushing over your lip. “Just for us. A honeymoon before we come back.”

You smiled softly, hands raking up the soft fabric of his shirt, careful not to bunch or wrinkle the fabric- you knew how much he hated that. Corio’s hands found your waist, pulling you into him, lips slotting over yours. He always took the lead, and you’d let him, his domineering personality never settling even in moments of intimacy.

Two sharp knocks pulled the two of you away, Coriolanus pausing rigidly. “Come in,” You called, your hand moving respectfully to his arm, smoothing out your skirt.

“Ah, the love birds.” Lucky Flickerman grinned. “See, Juno, I told you they’d be together, and it looks like they’re decent.”

Corio’s face swelled with heat, mouth settling in a fine, thin line. Once he was sworn into oath, he’d have his tongue cut out for that vulgar comment. Your hand squeezed his bicep lightly, soothingly.

“So, I wanted to give you the run down before we are live on the air to all of Panem.” Lucky grinned, you knew he was smug at his rising fame. “President Snow and the First Lady… Do you want me to address you as Snow or Duke?”

“Snow.” Corio hissed before you could respond. His hand was firm on your waist, pulling you possessively into him. “She is a Snow, now.”

Lucky blinked, awkwardly cutting his eyes to you. “Right. So President and First Lady Snow, we’ll talk about the wedding- the dress, the ring, the proposal, the details, the guest list. Really lean into that, ok? Get the viewers excited for the district press tour after.”

You nodded, Lucky’s droning instructions a blur to you. Your eyes caught sight of your and Coriolanus in the mirror. How tall he stood next to you, proud and boasted- powerful. He always had his chin held high, looking down his nose at others. You were just glad he had lessened the way he’d glare down at you, traded it in for a softer side you weren’t sure you’d ever see.

His hand stayed on the small of your back, respectfully, but holding that same ownership, leading you through the small studio. “You look beautiful.” Corio whispered, pushing a loose strand of hair back into place, tucking it behind your ear.

You blushed under his praise, looking down at your white kitten heels. “Don’t do that.” Corio frowned, hand pressing into the middle of your spine. “Stand up, darling. Don’t hide from them. Let them know.”

You followed him out, hand in hand, waving to the studio audience under blinding lights. Since the success of the Hunger Games, the donors- your family included- had poured in money to have the studio revamped. Something nice, more enticing. Your father and mother sat next to Tigris. Your fathers eyes were narrowed, watchful in nearly a predatory sense, a warning to the both of you.

“Mr. and Mr. Snow,” Lucky grinned, a toothy smile that dazzled under the lights. “Or so it will be soon, yes? The wedding is…”

“In two days.” Coriolanus nodded, shoulders squared, eyes sparkling, his hand rested on your knee.

“Marvelous, just marvelous. And what a beautiful couple they are, aren’t they?” Lucky turned to the audience, nodding at their applause.

You felt hot, skin boiling under the harsh lights, under your father and Corio’s even harsher stares. The pressure to not falter, not even for a moment, was making you dizzy. Do not stutter, sit up straight, smile.

“And don’t forget, President Snow and his First Lady will be making their way to each of the Districts out there before the Inauguration and of course, before the fifteenth Hunger Games.” Lucky called exaggeratedly, clapping with his cards with the audience. “Don’t forget to join us for the reapings, it’s only a month away, folks. And as always, Panem today, Panem tomorrow, and Panem forever.”

A pause and it was done. The lights went up, producers nodding, pulling out screens and wires. You looked to Coriolanus, but his attention was elsewhere.

“That was amazing.” Tigris greeted you with a warm smile. “You did not have to mention me as your designer. I told you to say the company-”

“-The company didn’t design my dress, you did.” You nodded, squeezing her arm affectionately. “And I’m not letting that bitter, miserable woman get the credit that you deserved, Tigris.”

Tigris beamed, hugging you briefly, before your father made his slow approach, your mother on his arm. He took slow, calculated steps, looking nearly bored, unimpressed. It made Corio’s heart race- he wanted to mimic it, perfect it to have the same reaction.

“My girl,” Your father gave a half smile, lips curling in nearly a snarl. “You did wonderful.”

“Thank you,” You nodded politely. “I was afraid I spoke too much.”

“Nonsense,” Your mother waved you off lightly, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You did marvelous.” Her eyes cut over to Coriolanus. “You as well, dear.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Duke.” Corio nodded, hands clasped behind his back respectfully.

“Are you happy, boy?” Your father looked at Corio, eyes beady and sharpened. “Excited for the wedding? The inauguration?” It was no secret your father and his pull were behind the election, Corio knew that.

“Of course,” Corio nodded, his hand finding yours gently, squeezing it. “I’m overjoyed, Mr. Duke. Moreso for the wedding, of course, but the inauguration as well. It will be hard to replace President Ravinstill but-”

Your father lifted his hand. “Save it, boy. This isn’t a political rally, you’ve already won.” He scoffed, shaking his head. You didn’t miss the way Coriolauns stiffened, his grip tightening on your hand. “As long as you keep my daughter happy, then you have my support.”

“Thank you, sir.” Corio forced out a smile through clenched teeth.

“The rehearsal dinner is tomorrow. At the Trinket Estate Gardens, dear.” Your mother nodded at you, like you’d forget.

“I’ll see you then.” You hugged her briefly. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, darling girl.” Your father hugged you, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

He shook Corio’s hand firmly, a shake and a head nod before they were both whisked off, chatting to his other friends who showed. Corio wished he would have introduced him to a few, helped him build a rapport that way. There would be time, he reminded himself.

“Tigris,” You held Corio’s arm, craning around him towards his cousin on his other arm. “The white rose was a lovely touch.” You smiled, looking down at your corsage.

“Oh, that was Coriolanus’ idea.” Tigris hummed, looking at the blonde next to her. “He wanted you to have that.”

You beamed, looking up at your fiance. “You wanted me to have it?”

“I thought it was a nice touch.” Corio hummed, glancing down at you. “Thought you would enjoy it.”

“I do,” You mutter, lifting his hand to yours, lips brushing across his knuckles. Normally, he’d scold you for doing it in public. He was against any signs of PDA, a sign of weakness, he said. But he allowed it, even blushing from underneath his stiff collar.

“Save the I do’s for tomorrow.” Tigris grinned playfully at you. “What are you doing on your last night as a Duke? Going to District Two?”

Coriolanus glared at her, jaw set firmly. You shook your head lightly. “Packing.” You sighed. “We leave from the reception straight to the train.”

“Oh, I can help you-”

“-That’s alright.” You shake your head politely. “It’s just a few things. Sleepwear, toiletries- minimal things. But thank you.”

Tigris nodded back, pulling from Coriolanus gently. “I’ll wait for you in the car?”

“Go ahead without us.” Corio nodded. “We have to speak to a few sponsors after.”

Tigris nodded, waving goodbye to the both of you politely. You stepped into Corio’s dressing room, smoothing out your skirt. “We have to speak to sponsors?” You hummed, reaching for your zipper. “I thought you already did that?”

“I did.” Corio’s tone was chilling, clicking the lock to the door behind you. You stilled, eyes catching his gaze through the mirror.

Coriolanus stepped towards you, slow, calculated, with heavy footsteps. He grinned, satisfied, at how you shivered. His hands moved yours, unzipping your dress slowly. You stayed still, watching him for any sign of what was to come. You knew he’d never hurt you, purposefully, never risk what would happen if he laid a hand on you. Still, Corio was unpredictable- you hated the way it excited you.

“I just wanted a moment alone with my wife.” Corio’s breath was hot on the shell of your ear, shuddering under his touch when he pushed the fabric off your shoulders, exposing you. Bruising love bites on your chest from the night before. You wondered if his back still bore your long scratches from where you’d clawed and raked at his skin.

“‘M not your wife yet, Corio.” You met his gaze, rounded eyes that had his cock twitching. “Still another two sleeps.” You repeated his words from earlier, the tiniest grin on your lips.

“How do you want to spend your last night as a Duke, my love?” Corio’s lips ghosted over the skin of your cheek, hands gripping your waist.

“With you.” You whispered, leaning back against him. “I want to spend it with you, Coriolanus.”

Corio grinned, salacious and satisfied, fingers splaying over your jaw, holding you while he kissed you, slowly, passionately. Your pristine dress was on the floor, his hands in your hair, legs tangled around his waist while he melted you with every hot kiss.

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cowgurrrl · 9 months

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Okay this is soooo very out there in actual probability of this being logical but the idea of a pool in Jackson or like people are allowed to go out to lake or something or they dig a lake like idek but something that involves reader in a swimsuit and Joel like 😳 in public so maybe a lil bit of jealous Joel in there, I just think it would be so cute and fun and spicy and idek if this makes sense hahaha, I’m so sorry for being awful at explaining ideassss🤦‍♀️🤣

The Snake River actually runs through Jackson so it’s entirely plausible (yes, I did do research for this)

Surprise

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: I didn’t go into this wanting to write smut but it happened and I don’t hate it?? Please be nice to me I’m just a girl

Summary: Joel has something planned for you [3.3k]

Warnings: language, murder jokes, Joel being a little insecure, Joel the Menace making a return, smut (18+ MINORS DNI), fingering, dirty talk, sex in a semi-public place??, almost getting caught, brief mention of a safe word

Joel Miller is not a spontaneous person. It was one of the first things you found out about him. He hates surprises almost as much as he hates planning them. He's someone who likes to know what's happening and when. He loves a plan. But he loves you more.

Everyone has gone back to school, and the seasons are in a neverending battle of when one begins and the other ends. The hazy August heat permeates the windows of your house as you lie in bed, hiding from the sun and the rest of your responsibilities. This time of year makes you especially grateful for your early morning patrol shifts. You get to finish up your work before the world has the opportunity to finish preheating, and then the town is quiet after that, with people shuffling off to work or school. Maybe that's why Joel wanders into your shared bedroom with your backpacks in hand.

"Are you doin' anythin' for the rest of the day?" He asks, and you give him a confused look.

"Besides waiting for our daughter to come home from school? No, I didn't have any major plans." You tease, and he rolls his eyes before tossing your bag at you.

"Meet me downstairs in five minutes." He says.

"For what?"

"It's a surprise."

"Are you finally going to kill me?" You ask, and he scoffs.

"Honey, if I was gonna kill you, I woulda done it a long time ago."

"Fair point. Suspicion always points to the spouse first," you say, sitting up in bed. "Where are we going?"

"Does the word 'surprise' mean nothin' to you?"

"Only when it's coming from your mouth."

"Downstairs. Five minutes." He says, effectively ending the conversation by turning on his heels and walking away. You groan in protest but get up anyways. If it's something he planned, it's probably worth getting out of bed for. Still, you shuffle your feet lazily as you put more distance between yourself and an afternoon nap.

He's almost giddy as you walk out of the house and into the blaring sunshine. Ellie still has a few more hours of school left, and even then, she's gotten over you and Joel walking her to and from class. She's becoming more independent as she gets older, which is fine, but seeing her not need you as much hurts. You talk about it on the way to wherever you're going. Joel says he's noticed the same thing but doesn't want to pry too much and risk being labeled "uncool." You have to literally bite your tongue to keep from asking when he was ever cool.

When you're far enough outside Jackson's walls, Joel grabs your hand and intertwines your fingers, swinging them a little as you walk through the fields. Rock jasmines and asters shake in the window around you, painting the world in shades of white, blue, pink, and yellow. Sometimes it's easy to forget just how beautiful Wyoming can be, but when vast meadows stretch out to the mountain slopes, and the sky is unbelievably clear, you remember. You look over at Joel with his long, graying hair and scruffy facial hair and smile. It's also easy to forget just how beautiful he can be with his gentle hands and crooked nose. He turns to meet your eyes, taking away your view of his side profile, and gives you a look.

"What?" He asks, and you shake your head. "You're starin'."

"I just like looking at you." You admit, making him scoff. Joel is probably the only person in this world who's unaware of how attractive he is.

"Needa get your eyes checked." He mumbles under his breath.

"Big talk coming from a man who refuses to wear his glasses even though he desperately needs them."

"I don't desperately need 'em."

"Really?" You ask, and he hums. You lift your free hand away from your body and hold up three fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?" He tugs on the hand he's holding and pulls you against him until your chest collides with his. The wind gets knocked out of you, either because of the impact or because you can see all his freckles when you get this close to him. He smirks as he stares at you, glancing between your eyes and fingers.

"Three." He says easily, leaning in to kiss you. You move back enough to make him huff in annoyance.

"That's cheating."

"Mm, I think it's called bein' resourceful."

"Is that right?" You ask, and he hums as he finally kisses you. You indulge him for a second or two before moving back again. "Could you really not see that far?" He sighs and mumbles your name, but you refuse to let it go. "Joel, if your vision's that bad, you need to be wearing them on patrol. I don't want you to make stupid mistakes because you can't see six feet in front of you."

"Look, I hear you. I do. I just..." he trails off, and you raise your eyebrows at him. "It's stupid."

"Stupider than not wearing them at all?" You ask, and he rolls his eyes—the drama.

"They make me look old, okay? That's why I don't wanna wear 'em," he says. Once again, you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from making a snide comment. "I'm already one of the oldest guys on patrol, and that's enough for the younger guys to make fun of me. If I start wearin' 'em on patrol, I'll never hear the end of it, especially from Tommy."

"You really care what they think about you?" You ask.

"No," he starts, but quickly shakes his head. "Yes. It didn't bother me, but then they started sayin' they didn't know what you see in an old buzzkill like me, and I just... I don't know." He says. You take a deep breath and wrap your arms around his neck.

"Does this have anything to do with you suddenly planning surprises for me?"

"I told you it was stupid." He avoids the question, but you still find an answer. He tries to hide his face in your shoulder, embarrassed, but your hands find his jaw and stop him.

"I don't think it's stupid. I think the other guys on patrol are stupid for saying that and making you think I'm anything but grossly in love with you. I think they don't know what the fuck they're talking about," you say, your thumb brushing against the patches in his beard. "And I think you don't realize just how hot you look wearing glasses," he scoffs, but you don't let him wiggle out of your grasp. "I'm being serious, Joel." You assert, and something behind his eyes shifts.

"Really?"

"Are you kidding me? It's, like, annoying how good they make you look," you say, and he smirks. "It's also sexy for you to try to stay alive. So, it's a win-win." He laughs, the sound making the sun shine a little brighter.

"I mean, who am I to argue with my wife?" He asks, relenting, and you hum.

"Exactly," you say as you kiss him. It was supposed to be quick, a passing kiss to remind him you love him, but when you try to pull away, he's back on you. His big hands snake their way into your hair as he kisses you like he's drowning and trying to pull the air from you. The buzzing bees and chirping birds of the field disappear, and all you can do is hold him. His body is firm against yours, and the soft flannel of his shirt feels perfect beneath your palms. "Was my surprise making out in a meadow? That's pretty romantic, even for you, Joel." You ask as you break away to take a breath that's not his. He groans and rolls his head back to look at the cloudless sky.

"Almost forgot bout the surprise," he says, looking back at you. "You're distractin' me."

"What did I do?" You ask. He grabs your hand and starts leading you through the flowers.

"You were tryna use your woman powers on me."

"Please, explain to me what 'woman powers' you think I possess."

"If you don't know, I can't tell you." He says like he's answering a riddle, and you laugh. The rest of the walk is spent hand-in-hand with his shoulder bumping yours occasionally as your feet walk over the summer grass. As soon as you hear water lapping over smooth rocks, you look at Joel, who pretends not to hear the same thing. He smiles when you hit the break in the trees, and the crystal water of the river sparkles in the sun.

You've heard rumors about the water being safe to swim in, but you didn't trust it. Not that it mattered. You and Joel have swum in way dirtier water than the winding blue river in front of you. Still, you were sure that it was a set-up by Raiders. But now, with Joel by your side, in the daylight, it's taking everything in you to not jump in the water. "I thought it might be nice. Just the two of us." Joel says. You nod and rest your head on his shoulder, looping an arm under his and holding his bicep.

"It is nice," you agree. "But we don't own swimsuits," you say, immediately clocking the excited expression on his face. "You're a menace."

"What? I planned a very nice day for us, and I just... forgot we needed swimsuits."

"Oh, you forgot?" You ask, and he nods.

"I told you, I'm an old man. I forget things easily."

"Give me a break." You roll your eyes before letting go of his arm and walking over to a big tree. You bend down to take off your boots and socks, and Joel quickly follows suit. His eyes stick to you as you pull your shirt off your head, faded scars catching the sunlight. Once you're left in your bra and underwear, you pause and look at Joel. He's stripped down to just his underwear, too, and you have a full view of his broad frame.

His muscular chest is littered with scars, some old and silver against his tan skin and others new and still raised and angry. Your favorite is from where he got caught under some fence a million years ago. It vaguely looks like a thunderbolt striking from his collarbone to his shoulder. You can see the goosebumps rising on his thick biceps from where you're standing. His hands are relaxed and open at his sides, visible veins thrumming blood through his body. His belly has rounded just a little since you've settled in Jackson, something he grew insecure about while you reminded him every day that you loved the softness of his body. His strong thighs are a little paler than the rest of him, considering his patrol schedule in the summer, but they're still freckled and scarred like the rest of him. Your breath catches in your throat when he pulls down his underwear and stands fully naked in front of you.

I guess we're actually doing this, you think as you unclasp your bra. You leave your clothes in a pile under the tree before darting into the cold water together. He ducks his entire head under while you tread, letting yourself get used to the temperature and laughing when Joel comes up with a sharp gasp. "Oh, you think that's funny?" He asks before shaking his head in your direction, frigid water droplets landing on your skin. You shriek and splash at him to get him to stop. He splashes back, making huge swells with his arms, and you have to dive under to swim away.

Once you call a truce on the water fight, you just swim together. You alternate between floating on your back, watching the clouds float by, and diving deep under the water to see what might be down there. After a few minutes, your bodies adjust to the water, and you can actually enjoy the river currents working against you. It reminds you of all the summers you spent in pools, the ocean, rivers, and lakes before the Outbreak. The memory presses on a familiar bruise in your chest, but it doesn't hurt. At least, not as much. Not when you're here with Joel, making new memories in a new world.

You swim over to where Joel is standing, his long curls touching the water as he looks up at the sky. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist once you're close enough, and he meets your eyes with a smile. His hands grip your thighs and trace patterns into your skin, the warmth of his touch a welcome relief in the cold. You play with the hair at the nape of his neck as you stare at him. "This a good surprise?" He asks, his voice low in his chest, and you nod.

"I like doing things like this with you," you say. "But I also don't want you to worry about keeping me interested in you," he sighs at your words but doesn't break away from you. "We've been together for years now. We went halfway across the country together. We have Ellie. You're it for me. I don't care what the younger guys on patrol have to say about it."

"You don't think I'm an old buzzkill?"

"Not all the time."

"Alright, smart ass."

"I mean, I don't know a lot of buzzkills who go skinny-dipping with their wives."

"See? Gimme a little credit here." He says, pinching your thigh, and you laugh. As the sound dies in your throat, his gaze hangs heavily on you. Suddenly, you're all too aware of his sturdy body under you and his hands on you. You get a little closer to him, and his stomach brushes against your core. A quiet, shaky breath leaves you, and Joel hears it. His lips ghost over yours as his hand dips down, a deft finger grazing your clit.

"Joel," you cry softly, clinging to him tighter when he presses a little harder. He shushes you as his middle finger ventures lower and just barely pushes into you. More. You need more, and he knows it. Asshole, you think to yourself, but your brain shuts off when he inches a digit into you so fucking slowly. You can feel his smirk when he leans down to mouth at the column of your throat.

"That good?" He rasps in your ear, and you nod as his hand adjusts to thumb at your clit. You jump a little at the molten pleasure pulsing through you. He chuckles lowly and nips at your earlobe. "I've barely touched you, honey, and I can already feel you squeezin' me." You can't even formulate a response once he starts moving. The slow drag of his finger against your walls is enough to drive any sane person insane. You whine when he pushes another into you and claw at his shoulders.

Your heart is fast against his chest. Everything you breathe, hear, and feel is Joel. You can't think about anything other than the weight of his hand working you over in the broad fucking daylight. You're close enough to the shore that anyone would be able to see you, but you hope you just look like a clingy couple enjoying a mid-day swim. It's a long shot, especially since he's mumbling absolutely filthy things to you. "You always sound so damn pretty." "Gonna let me fuck you like this?" "You're so good for me, baby." Every syllable makes you feel like you're burning from the inside out. His fingers languidly move in and out of you like he has nothing better to do before stopping completely, and you whine in protest.

"You're f," your sentence breaks off when he quickens suddenly.

"What was that, sweetheart? Where's that smart mouth now?" He asks. Your hips start moving in time with his ministrations, and he watches you like a man starved. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer as his fingers move faster inside you. You think your blood is thundering through your ears as bliss overtakes your senses, but you quickly realize it's hooves. You don't know if Joel hears it, but if he does, he doesn't stop.

"Joel, I think, fuck," he rubs at your clit with more fervor, making you see stars. "Someone's coming." You breathe, and his teeth scrape under your jaw. It's all too much. You moan and drop your head to his shoulder, losing all motivation to get him to stop.

"You gonna come for me?" He asks, and you nod. "C'mon, I know you can do it. Come for me." He hooks his fingers, nudging that spongy part inside you, and that's all it takes. Your mouth falls open, and fuzziness takes over your senses. You hold Joel closer as he works you through your orgasm with encouraging words and gentle strokes. Finally, you have to reach for his wrist to stop because you're so overstimulated, and he would live between your thighs if he could.

"Y'all alright?" A voice comes out of nowhere, and you jump. You and Joel turn to see one of the patrolmen from Jackson, James, on his horse a few hundred yards away. He's far enough away that he wouldn't be able to see you're both naked, but he can clearly see your clothes and backpacks on the shoreline.

"Yeah, we're alright. Just... havin' ourselves a date." Joel says, his voice annoyingly even. James looks confused, so you nod in agreement even though Joel still has two fingers knuckle-deep inside you. If he doesn't kill you, embarrassment just might.

"Well, then," James says awkwardly. "Y'all don't stay out too long. Maria'll have your ass if y'all come back hurt or somethin'." Joel shifts his hand as he nods, and you choke on a moan but try to play it off as a cough. Still, James gives you a look. "You good?"

"Yeah, are you alright, honey?" Joel asks in a mocking tone. You grit your teeth and dig your nails into his arm before nodding at James.

"All good. Just had a little tickle. We'll start heading back to town now. Thanks for checking on us." You quickly dismiss the patrolman, who is more than happy to get the hell out of Dodge. Even if he didn't suspect anything was happening, you know he's terrified of you and Joel. His ideal patrol is not having to deal with either of you and now he just got the whole package plus some. As soon as he's out of earshot, you smack Joel's arm.

"Are you fucking insane? He could've heard us!"

"Us? I'm not the one who was screamin'!"

"Okay, first of all," you start, holding up one finger. "I was not screaming. Second of all, I told you someone was coming, and you kept going!" He doesn't exactly look apologetic, but then again, you're not really mad.

"You know the safe word just as well as I do, sweetheart. I woulda stopped if you said it," he says, and you sigh. He's right. You hate it, but he's right. You try to hide your smile and shake your head as he kisses you. Slowly, he pulls his fingers from you, swallowing your over-sensitive whines down with gentle licks. A stupid thought wiggles its way into your brain, and you laugh against Joel's lips. Once you start, you can't stop, and Joel looks at you like you're a crazy person. "Now, what is so goddamn funny?" He asks, and you compose yourself enough to look at him.

"Think they'll still tease you over being old after you just made your wife come faster than they ever could?"

#can you tell I’m queer because all my smut is focused on female pleasure #mom June’s being a lesbian on the internet again #the last of us #the last of us fic #the last of request #joel miller requests #joel x reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller the last of us #joel miller #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel miller one shot #joel the last of us #the last of us fluff #the last of us smut #the last of us x reader #joel tlou

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vandaliatraveler · 9 months

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A hike in the Cheat River Canyon on a hazy, mid-summer day brings a great many rewards, both large and small.

From top: Fractured and pitted sandstone gives testimony to the canyon's ancient struggle with the elements; black cohosh (Actaea racemosa or Cimicifuga racemosa), whose towering flower spikes stalk the old woods like magical beings; the colorful rock harlequin (Corydalis sempervirens), an endangered fumitory that haunts the canyon's rocky outcrops; pinesap (Monotropa hypopitys), a parasitic plant closely related to Indian pipe; spotted St. John's wort (Hypericum punctatum), which is distinguished from the invasive St John's wort (Hypericum perforatum) by the numerous black dots on its flowers and leaves; downy rattlesnake plantain (Goodyera pubescens), a shade-tolerant terrestrial orchid that favors oak-hickory woods; shrubby St. John's wort (Hypericum prolificum), a mounding, deciduous shrub of open, sandy woods; orange-fringed orchid (Platanthera ciliaris), a stunning late summer beauty of Appalachia's moist meadows and open woods; a hummingbird clearwing moth (Hemaris thysbe) visiting a late-blooming milkweed; a silvery checkerspot (Chlosyne nycteis) drinking up the nectar of a butterfly milkweed (Asclepias tuberosa); an American green crab spider (Misumessus oblongus) stalking a black-eyed Susan for its next meal; a large milkweed bug (Oncopeltus fasciatus) being perfectly beautiful on a lazy summer day; and last but not least, a hulking patch of eastern Jack-0'-lanterns (Omphalotus illudens), which contrary to what field guides say have never glowed in the dark for me (I love the toxic little beauties nonetheless).

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nevadancitizen · 3 days

Text

-> FASCINATION WITH THE ORDINARY

synopsis: your world is vastly different from the nevada native to madness combat. after the main three + 2bdamned get transported to your world, they each find things that fascinate them.

word count: 2.5k

characters: hank, deimos, sanford, 2bdamned, player! reader

trigger warnings: ehh slight yandere/obsession but could also be read as super heavy pining if you're not into that lol

notes: madness combat fandom arise. madness combat fandom come back to me (also set in @/saltymongoose 's self-aware au)

For the sake of consistency, let’s imagine that the Player lives in a big, lonely, woodsy and plain-sy plot of land. There’s little to no outside human interaction, and lots of animals wandering through the area with a river running through it. For the wildlife, I’m basing it on the American South because I’ve lived here my entire life and know how they act.

SUNSETS & SUNRISES

2BDamned would be the most entranced, since he has the most memories from before the fall and before Hank killed the sun. He’s an early riser by nature (since his body has conditioned him so he’s mostly overworked and under-rested, as unhealthy as it is), so he leans more towards the beauty of a sunrise, towards the light that starts to paint the dark sky with hazy orange shades and rosy hues. He likes breathing in the crisp air and the way it almost sends a shock through his lungs.

But the sun stirs a lingering feeling of nostalgia, though, for the way things were before everything fell to madness. Doc tries his best not to let the thoughts get the better of him as you slip through the front door and out onto the front porch, carrying two steaming cups of coffee.

God, he could imagine staying like this forever: just you, him, a beautiful sunrise, and coffee. Surely the way you pay attention to him, the way you get up extra early to watch the sunrise, the way you doctor his coffee just right – they’re all examples of how you care for him, just as he cares for you. But for now, he’ll just bide his time, blowing the steam off the surface of his coffee and purring, soft and raspy, both at the taste and because of your company.

But that doesn’t stop the others from appreciating the astounding view at dusk, because Sanford and Deimos are more partial to sunsets after long days. They like lounging in the adirondack chairs set up around the fire pit, cracking open a few beers, and simply relaxing with you. (Don’t worry, Sanford will gather firewood and Deimos will set it alight if it’s a little too cold for your taste.)

They’re fresher clones, so they don’t remember the sun well, if at all. They both always go quiet when the sun starts to dip below the horizon. Sanford props his tea sunglasses on top of his head and Deimos sets his cigarette in the ashtray as they both stare at the way the light turns the clouds purple and paints the sky with pink streaks. It stirs something sad in your heart – both of these men are pushing and just over the cusp of thirty, yet they don’t know the simple sweetness of a sunset.��

But as soon as night overtakes the sky, they both turn their attention back to you. Deimos makes some suave comment about your beauty being nothing in the face of a sunset in that rumbling, smooth voice of his, and Sanford gives him a pointed glare. Sanford points out that your beauty and the beauty of nature are two whole different things, but keeps showering you with not-so-inadvertent compliments, leaving you flustered and blushing from both grunt’s words.

Hank is somewhat of an anomaly with this one. All of the grunt’s biological clocks are absolutely porked from their time without a sun, but Hank’s affected the worst by far. (That, and he doesn’t really care for the sun. He literally slaughtered it.) Therefore, he’s more privy to waking up in the middle of the night and dragging you onto the roof to look at the stars.

He likes laying on his back with you on his chest, pointing out the brightest stars and asking you questions about them. (He doesn’t really care, he just likes hearing your voice.) He loves your vivid descriptions of the constellations and how you describe them in intricate ways. To Hank, they’re just sparkly, unreachable dots in the sky, but it seems like, to you, they’re beautiful: like millions of silver nails driven into a dome of dark blue velvet.

He savors the moments like these the most, when you’re alone with him. There’s no sound except for the crickets and dog-day cicadas and spring peepers and your voice and Hank’s sputtering purring. Honestly, it’s as it should be – without those other pesky dipshits ruining your time together. (Well, he can tolerate Doc, but that annoying extraction team could go fuck themselves for all he cared.)

ENTERTAINMENT

Sanford hates being lazy. He hates feeling like he’s not doing anything useful, even if he’s being useful by resting. The only real way to make him sit down and stop moving is by trapping him on the couch, laying your head in his lap, and turning on the TV. (Even if, for the first thirty minutes, he’s too focused on you and your body heat and how fast his heart is beating to even consider looking at the TV.)

But the thing he loves watching the most isn’t any sort of movie with amazing cinematography or show with riveting writing – it’s infomercials. Specifically, infomercials from the 90’s to the late 2000’s. He likes seeing what things could’ve been like if there was no madness in Nevada, because things are oddly peaceful (at least, to him) in your world. Billy Mays and Cathy Mitchell make him wonder about domestic life with you (even if the Jupiter Jack and the Xpress Redi-Set-Go are completely obsolete by now), and how these little gadgets would make your life together supposedly go smoother.

He likes combing his claws carefully through your hair as you both watch these people play up how useful these obviously useless inventions are. He tries to avert his eyes and act interested in the TV as you look up at him and point out how the Red Devil Grill was recalled because it got so hot it collapsed and caused fires, but can’t. He just can’t keep his eyes off you when you look up at him so sweetly, and can you blame him? You just make his face so warm and his heart beat so fucking fast…

Deimos has always had a fascination with electronics, but it’s mostly been from a tactical and weaponized standpoint. But he’s discovered (well, really, you introduced him to) video games. He absolutely loves curling up into your side, purring and providing commentary as he watches you play. (Because, despite his trying, he hasn’t really gotten a hang of the controls yet.)

He loves more story-fueled games with characters he can really get attached to. He likes investing himself in things and people that don’t actually affect him, because seeing your favorite character go through dire straits or even die hurts for a little while, but it’s nothing compared to seeing someone get eviscerated right in front of you. And, yeah, he totally cried when Arthur Morgan died (and totally played it up so that you’d comfort him).

He also likes draping himself over you in the middle of a boss fight, wriggling and nuzzling into your cheek, causing you to giggle, lose focus, and, obviously, die. He strings together half-hearted apologies through his raspy purring, but he’s not really sorry. More deaths means more time spent with him, and internally, he’s completely and honestly unapologetic for his underhanded tactics.

Due to the nature of his administrative role, Doc spends a lot of time in front of screens. He likes to unplug and unwind by reading, no doubt with a straight-up hazardous amount of coffee by his side. He prefers reading with you with an arm wrapped around your shoulder, whether you’re also reading or working on something else. Though he’s inexperienced (and sometimes even shy) with these types of things, he’s more than happy to ease into affectionate touches and romance that kills his common sense with you.

His tastes are often cheap, but when he earns enough dough, he likes to splurge on second-hand college anatomy textbooks. No, he’s not planning on going to university, but he wants to know the inner workings of the human system (and, therefore, the inner workings of you). He also likes speculative biology and seeing what humans think about other intelligent species potentially being out there.

He would absolutely be elated (though he tries his best to hide it) if you took his interests seriously and discussed them with him. He tries to keep you in his makeshift office and away from the others so you can continue to spend this precious alone time with him, but that doesn’t stop the red-hot flare of jealousy as one of the others bursts in with a childish ask about something that should be obvious. (Of fucking course you wouldn’t want to go for a walk, Deimos, have you seen the weather out? Leave you and him alone!)

Obviously Hank would love gorefest and splatter film movies because of his all-encompassing and absolute love for carnage, and he’d love them even more if you got scared and hid yourself in his shoulder or chest. It’s clear that he’s your strongest and most capable vessel, so he clearly agrees with your choice to choose him as your protector (even if that choice is based on an instinctive need to hide).

He also loves WWE and MMA fighting. When given the choice, he opts for MMA because it’s real and bloody and he prefers seeing people push themselves to their absolute limit rather than some predetermined fight that serves a higher storyline. (But, then again, he really likes the clip of Undertaker breaking into Paul Bearer’s house during an interview and throwing a cabinet at him because, what the fuck? He’s never thought of that before! Using things from the environment when out of weapons instead of his fists could be an improvement. Maybe he can learn a thing or two from these fake fighters…)

And, yes, if you give him access to Twitter he will turn your entire timeline into those backyard fight videos and dashcam car crashes. He doesn’t mean to, it just happens.

ANIMALS

Being a natural night owl, Deimos loves keeping a lookout for what critters come out at night. When he’s on the front porch with you, smoking a cigarette and waving away mosquitoes, he makes sure to keep an eye out for weird and unusual wildlife. (While pressed against your side and purring loudly, no doubt.)

He likes watching the whip-poor-wills swoop down and catch the moths that swarm around the overhead porch lights. Yes, he will try to catch one, but backs off when you tell him to. Instead, he opts for digging in the dirt to find beetles and grubs to toss up in the air for the small birds to catch. He will kinda feel bad if the beetles hit the ground but will continue to throw them to the birds when you tell him insects are basically immune to fall damage, so… no harm, no foul.

He’s also absolutely enamored by raccoons. He likes throwing food to them from the safety of the porch and watching them eat with their little grabby hands. He’s very reckless so, despite your warnings, he’ll try to squirrel one away inside the house. (He does this multiple times and, without fail, gets bitten each time. 2B has given him multiple rabies shots after shooing the raccoons out with a broom.)

Speaking of Doc, he enjoys going out in nature and finding decaying things just to see how many buzzards arrive. He excuses it with something about wanting to see if decomposition works the same across both your world and his, but he secretly finds some relation with the birds – something about being deliverers and arbiters and negators of death. (Though the last one really only applies to him.)

He also likes the rare sightings of wild horses. He’ll go out of his way to (carefully, shyly) rouse you from whatever you’re doing to go take a look at the majestic beasts, and he’ll be even more excited if there’s a foal wandering between the stocky legs of the adults.

He just barely brushes his fingers against yours as you both stand on the edge of the treeline and watch them graze. Seeing the foal break from the herd, kick out and tumble and fall over and immediately get back up sparks… something in his heart. A vision. Just you, just him, linked pinkies, and a future together, with this warm feeling in his chest.

Hank really likes the more dangerous creatures. He gets along well with cottonmouth and other venomous snakes (and “gets along well” really means that they’re mean as can be and strike as often as possible while he just holds them and smiles at you).

If you don’t keep a close enough eye on him, he’ll wander off and try to provoke larger animals, like bobcats. To him, they’re just tiny little pussycats, even if they pose a real threat and could kill him. Please don’t let him go too far, because if he comes across a bear, he will try to wrestle it, and Doc doesn’t like having to do emergency surgery on the island countertop in your kitchen.

On multiple occasions, he’s come back to the house after being missing for hours, reeking of skunk spray. He just purrs happily as you tell him to strip and hold still as you spray him down with the hose.

Sanford is way calmer with his interactions with wildlife. He likes sitting on the dock with you and watching the fish swim by (because he’s impressed both by the fish and by the river – he’s never seen water in such great quantity!) Set him up with a hook, lure, and line and he’ll be entertained for hours. Though he struggles a bit with making streamers and fishing knots due to his big hands and claws, he’s more than patient when you teach him (mostly because he gets to spend time with you).

When he’s fishing, he likes to look around and observe – mostly because fishing is a waiting game. His favorite visitors are herds of whitetail deer, especially when summer is in full swing and the fawns are ready to start exploring. They remind him of his family, mainly because of the way the does don’t really care which fawn is theirs, just that each is getting enough milk. You point at them and discuss them with him in small whispers because you don’t want to spook them.

Again, it reminds him of his want for a domestic life with you. Just basking in the mottled sun that seeps through the trees, dipping your bare feet in the cool river water as a catfish tugs on the line – it’s all he wants, really. Now if he could just get the rest of the grunts to leave you alone… excluding Deimos, of course.

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 years

Text

We Tried The World CH2.

THE MASTERLIST THE OZARKS, MISSOURI, 602 MILES FROM HOME.

You woke up early the next day to the shrill, digital beep of the cheap motel alarm clock and Steve’s bare chest.

The day had hardly started, the morning bringing in a new kind of heat, an immediate warmth that only grew stronger when Steve pushed open the sage green curtains and let in the sun. It was already unforgiving, the blue sky hazy in the early morning hour, still tinged with the leftover colours from the sunrise.

You were both quiet as you moved around each other, comfortable but barely awake, last night’s secrets lingering in the air between you. There was the smell of coffee and toast coming in from under the motel door, Steve’s mint body wash riding on the steam from the bathroom after his shower and you were so very aware of the sound of his pyjama shorts hitting the tiles behind the privacy of the thin door.

His bruise was beginning to fade a little, turning shades of green instead, still mottled around his brow bone. After his admittance, you wanted to run your fingers over it, kiss it better, tell him that he didn’t deserve a father like that, that any man who could that to their son wasn’t really a father at all.

Instead, you turned to let him dress, facing the wall with warm cheeks because the boy had come out of the bathroom with wet skin and a towel around his waist, murmuring shly about forgetting his clothes. Steve tapped your shoulder once he was dressed, the same worn jeans from yesterday and a shirt that was yellow and white stripes.

His hair was still a little damp, messy across his eyes and he had a flush to his skin from the hot shower, the sun from yesterday. Steve Harrington looked like summer, bruises and all, and he quirked a brow at you as he headed for the motel door, asking:

“Coming?”

You crossed the Mississippi River with coffee in takeaway cups that burned your hands, a too big cinnamon roll that you shared with Steve, holding it between you both as he tore chunks off of it with his free hand whilst he drove.

The roads out of Illinois were just as long and empty as the way in, more green fields and farms, the smell of sunscreen, coffee and Steve trapped in the warm car with you. The Champ Clark Bridge took you into Louisiana, a small town with too many tobacco shops and roads that were a little uneven. Steve drove with one hand on the wheel, the other hanging out the open window to catch some fresh air, the music low, the day just starting.

Small towns rolled by like dollhouses, wooden framed homes and too big trucks in their driveways, green and gold pastures in between, blues skies above and muddy ponds on the sides of roads. Four hours in and lunch time had passed, stomachs rumbled and the day was getting too hot, so Steve rolled into a small parking lot, a tiny supermarket next to a dentist's office and an off-licence that was opened earlier than it should’ve been.

There was something so entirely domestic about the whole thing as you pushed a shopping cart around the aisles, Steve by your side, shoulder’s brushing, a hand on the cart to help you steer. You both loaded it up with snacks, stuff for sandwiches, a hummus dip that the boy wrinkled his nose at and when you got to the candy aisle, you argued with him until he relented and grudgingly put the extra two bags of red vines back on the shelf.

It felt familiar, like a scene from a movie, from a book you’d once read. Like something you should’ve done before now, with a friend at your side, a lover, a partner. It made your chest ache with a nostalgia for something you’d never had and suddenly you were overcome to know this boy a little bit better, to make him your friend, your something.

Steve Harrington deserved to be known as more than the boy from Maple Street.

“Hey,” you said, turning to Steve as you both lingered by the freezers, hoping to catch some cool air before walking back out into the Missouri heat. “What’s your favourite colour?”

You thought, for just a second, that the boy was going to laugh at you. But then Steve’s confused face smoothed out into a smile and he titled his head to appraise you, taking his time to think about your sudden question seriously.

“Yellow,” he said after some consideration, “but not like highlighter yellow, more like sunshine yellow, like when it starts to set and it goes all golden, y’know?”

You grinned, nodding, suddenly feeling so shy and Steve was blushing, cheeks a pretty pink as he coughed and waved a hand to you in return. “What about, uh, what about you?”

“Green, I think,” you mused, eyes set on the cart as you pushed it, wheels rattling, Steve just behind you. “Like forest green, a deep shade.”

“Oh,” Steve replied, and the surprise in his voice made you stop and turn.

“Oh?”

“Well,” Steve started, moving into your space for a second as a family passed by with an overflowing cart and two screaming kids. His hands were on your waist for just a second, but the skin he touched burned for so much longer. “I guess I thought you were gonna say blue, like the ocean? Carmel, y’know?”

It made you smile, the way he mentioned the town, your destination, some sort of shared goal. Like the ultimate show of the new found friendship. And you nodded again, understanding but you shrugged your shoulders, head tilted to him as you both started to walk again.

“I’ve never seen it, remember?”

Steve clicked his tongue and grabbed some bottles of water, throwing them into the cart. “Right.”

“But hey, maybe I’ll change my answer when I do.”

You gave Steve another smile then, all soft and warm, and he nodded, smiling back. Unbeknownst to you, the boy decided there and then that he wanted to give you every ocean you wanted. He’d flood the world to keep making you smile at him like that.

----------

The world got a little less flat as you drove further towards The Ozarks, the land around the roads lifting into small rock faces, dipping and rolling into green hills, valley’s of trees, raised land that was painted in red clay. Steve kept the windows down, the smell of pine and hot asphalt flying in with the unmistakable smell of fresh water, that clean, light feel in the air that made your stomach flutter.

And then the boy was rolling off of the highway, down winding roads that were smaller and less busy, framed with green and trees and startling blue skies. You couldn’t see a cloud above you and it made your chest thump, like something special was about to happen.

Water came into view when Steve took a sharp corner, the flash of navy blue between trees and road signs and you gasped, you actually gasped. The sound made Steve grin, no, beam, and he was driving a little faster, laughing when you did. He drove you over Bagnell Dam, the lake closer than ever, shimmering like something out of a movie, the sun dancing off of the surface until it hurt to look at it for too long.

The roads got smaller as they took you both through tiny towns and then patches of land, water on the edges and houses bigger than Steve’s scattered between bridges and beaches. Summer homes on the lake gave way to fish shacks and run down diners, a Taco Bell that Steve groaned at appreciatively but kept driving. Everything turned green and blue, trees and the sky, lakes turning bigger after every winding turn.

You passed summer camps and small marinas, docks lined with boats, leftover oars on the grass edges and then the road turned to gravel and dirt. Steve drove you into the forest and you would’ve cracked a joke if you weren’t perched restlessly on the edge of your seat, belt pulled tight across your chest as you desperately searched for that patch of sparkling blue through the woods.

You passed signs for lodges and campgrounds, wooden a-frames that had the smell of smoke lingering around them, burgers and something else that smelled sweet. Creeks broke between the shrubs and everything around you got a little wilder, but Steve kept driving, only grinning when you looked at him, puzzled. He took you through more trees, cedar and pine and oak and finally, eventually, the forest broke out into a clearing.

Sand and dirt lined the edges of the lake, that dazzling blue that made your eyes hurt, your chest swell, perfectly framed by tall, tall trees, flat rocks in the water that looked like makeshift floats. There wasn’t anyone else around and when Steve cut the engine, you could only hear birds, the soft buzz of a cricket or two nearby.

“Did you know this was here?” you whispered to the boy, already knowing the answer. The map was tucked into the front of your sketchbook, so far unused.

“Nah,” Steve murmured back, both of you too scared to disrupt the peace. “Someone just told me that I should always take the scenic route.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, flushing at hearing your own words parroted back to you. But it seemed so worth it. You both clambered out of the car together, into the heat and the sun, the slight breeze that came off of the lake and you couldn’t get over the sight of the lake before you, blue stretching for miles, the wooden huts and boats in the distance seeming toy sized.

Your head felt empty for the first time in years.

The quiet felt like a pillow, like someone had pulled a soft blanket around you and this part of the world. Your footsteps were even cushioned by fallen pine needles, the soft scrape of your shoes against the forest floor hardly heard.

But then Steve took a step forward and then another, and another and all of a sudden, he was running towards the watersedge, shedding his shirt as he went and letting out a whoop.

You laughed, taken aback at his sudden outburst, snorted when he tripped over his jeans that he was trying to climb out of, his shoes tangling in the denim as he toed them off at the same time. You burned, turning to stare at a tree trunk when you realised too late that the boy was only left in black boxers, the cotton tight and cut around the muscles of his thighs.

There was a splash, silence, a burst of water on the surface along with a gasp and then:

“You’re not gonna leave me hangin’, are you?”

You turned back, eyes a little wide at the sight of Steve a little ways out from the waters edge, arms circling the surface. His hair was a mess, soaked and darker than it was supposed to be, dripping water into his eyes, across his cheeks.

He glittered like the lake, like the sun was made just for him and god, he was grinning at you like this was the best day of his life. Maybe it was. Maybe it was yours too.

You shuffled your feet, nervous, hands hovering at the waistband of your shorts.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath and you tried your best to seem calm, collected. Fucking normal. “Hey, turn ‘round, would you?”

Steve obliged without any comment and you were greeted to the sight of his bare back, all strong lines of muscle, broad shoulders, tanned skin, a collection of freckles that you wanted to play join the dots with. You swore again, feeling stupid, feeling like you were sixteen and without overthinking it, you shucked off your clothes and left them in a patch of grass on top of your shoes.

Your underwear didn’t match, ‘cause Jesus, when did it ever? You were a clash of red and baby blue, tiny dots printed over a bra that turned scarlet in the water and you dove straight in, head under to avoid Steve’s gaze, just for a few seconds more.

You broke the surface a few feet away from him, gasping a little at the chill of the water as you slicked your hair back from your eyes. Steve was already watching, a small smile on his face. The world seemed to go quiet as you both tread water, staring at each other in the sun, like you were both waiting for something to happen.

It felt a little magic, floating out in the lake like that, under the sun, the cool water lapping at way too much bare skin. It left you exposed, like Steve could see right through you, the beam of sunshine you were swimming in left you translucent.

Maybe he could see your secrets like this, maybe you could see his. Maybe that’s why you dunked your head under the water to escape his gentle stare, swimming through the sun that broke though the surface, hands out in front of you like you could swim all the way to California.

It was a little later when Steve joined you on one of those flat rocks, the smooth surface of it big enough for both of you to stretch out on. It was warmed by the sun, drying you both on in little time and you lay there, your head by his toes and vice versa, until the sun started to dip and turn your little patch of world golden.

The heat lingered, like it always did in July, making the air sticky and sweet. Neither of you had been back to the car since you’d jumped out of it hours before and you have a fleeting image of the inside being overtaken by bugs, maybe a rogue squirrel, both windows still down.

“Hey,” Steve said, nudging a knee to yours and interrupting your thoughts. “What’s your favourite movie?”

You grinned, sudden and like you couldn’t help it, ‘cause the question made you feel like maybe Steve wanted to be your friend the way you wanted to be his. Like he was trying to work you out too.

You kept your eyes closed as you hummed, thinking his question over. You felt him fidget next to you, bare legs brushing your own in a way that felt deliberate. He felt warm like the sun, like the summer.

“Uh, The Princess Bride,” you told him, smiling to the sky. You heard him laugh softly, a little harder when you nudged at his shoulder with your toes and you sat up, leaning on your elbows. “What’s so funny?”

Steve peered up at you from behind messy hair, the strands a little wild from the lake. He was smiling, not unkind, eyes honey and soft. He patted at your knee in what you thought was meant to be a reassuring way but it set your heart thumping, blood racing full throttle and you hoped you could blame the heat on your cheeks on the sun.

“I’m not, sorry, I am,” he was grinning still, dimples on show, “it’s just that’s my friend Max’s favourite movie too. Except she won’t admit it ‘cause she likes everyone to think she’s tough.”

Steve sat up, mirroring your pose. “Even though she’s like, one of the most badass people I know.” He sniffed, looking off to the water. “Kinda miss her, all of them.”

You smiled, heart softening at his admission. Steve had made it clear that he wasn’t too concerned about leaving his parents behind as he jumped over state lines with you, but you hadn’t really thought to ask about his friends. It was hard to miss them around Hawkins, a mismatched bunch of kids and almost adults, a squadron of bikes and the crackle of walkie talkies following them wherever they went.

It was even more difficult to miss the way some of the kids looked at Steve, like a brother, like a lifeline. You cleared your throat, garnered his attention and twisted your lips in a sad display of sympathy for him. But he merely shook his head and smiled back.

“S’fine,” he told you, “I’m gonna call Robin soon, check in with them all. Make sure they haven’t killed each other.”

You snorted and nodded like you knew what he meant. You didn’t not really, because the ache of missing someone the way Steve missed his friends was foriegn to you. You spoke to Robin, sure, had even turned down a few invitations to a movie night you were sure was held at Steve’s house. But you’d always felt like you were intruding on something that didn’t belong to you.

So instead of telling him that you had no one to call, no one back ‘home’, you tapped your foot into his bare hip and set him with a questioning gaze.

“What’s your favourite movie, then?” You grinned, teasing, “Top Gun, right? No, no, wait, Die Hard?”

Steve rolled his eyes at you, good natured in the way he scoffed and leaned back into the lake to splash water on you. He smirked at your squeal, huffed out a laugh when you pushed at him and shook his head.

“No, actually, you presumptuous ass,” he licked his lips, shrugged his shoulders. “It’s Stand By Me.”

There was something about his choice that made you pause. That found-family feeling, the sense of leaving home and going on an adventure. You gazed at him, still smiling, knowing that your grin was softening on your lips, a sense of warmth and understanding washing over you.

But it seemed too heavy to talk about, to ask if he felt the same way as the characters in the movie. Did he feel scared of growing up like Gordie? Did he wanna run away from it all like Chris?

So you hummed a noise of approval, looked out to the sun that was setting over the lake, turning the sky shades of peach and red. “That’s, uh, that’s a good movie.”

It was over a dinner of turkey sandwiches and chips that you both decided that it was too late to drive back out to a town in order to find a motel. The day had quickly turned to evening, twilight making the forest look a little magic, the lake inky, the forest floor lit up with the yellow green glow of fireflies.

You stood by Steve’s side when he popped the trunk, faces set in matching expressions of concern when he managed to source his one pillow he’d taken from home, a bundle of crushed clothes and a blanket from underneath an old gym bag.

He held up his finds with a wary smile. “You can take the back, I’ll stretch out in the front.”

It seemed silly, the idea of his tall frame in one of the front seats. No matter how far back they reclined, you knew it wasn’t going to be a comfortable night for him. For either of you, probably. Which is why you wanted the ground to swallow you whole when you said:

“Just sleep in the back with me.”

The slow hoot of an owl was the only sound for a second or two. It seemed a little mocking, taunting, as if a tumbleweed should’ve rolled by your feet at the same time. But then Steve was scratching at the back of his neck, looking at you through his lashes. He didn’t say anything when he shrugged a hoodie on, the air finally dropping temperature now that the moon was in place of the sun.

You held your breath when he opened the back door, threw in the pillow and blanket and gestured to the back bench with a wave of his hand. He seemed nervous, a little shy but he cleared his throat and told you, “ladies first.”

The forest was even quieter at night, the dots of light from summer homes and camp sites a blur in the distance across the shore, and when Steve slid in behind you and shut the car door, it was fucking silent.

He followed your lead when you tugged off your shoes and dumped them in the front seat and there was a breath or two when no one said anything. But then the boy was shuffling around with the blanket, his shoulder brushing your own.

“How’d you wanna do this?”

You looked around, body burning as you stupidly realised there wasn’t that much room in the back either. Of course there wasn’t, it was a fucking car. A shiny BMW that hardly had any leg space but the leather of the seat was cool against your sunwarmed skin and you swallowed hard, turning to face the boy.

“Uh, I don’t know.” Another awkward cough, a flinch when his hand met your bare thigh by accident.

“Shit, sorry.”

“No, god, it’s fine, I-,” you waved a dismissive hand, grabbed the boy’s pillow and shoved it at him. God, it smelled like Steve. “Here.”

“No, no, you take it, m’fine.”

Steve was not fine, his head angled awkwardly against the hard wood of the door, neck crooked, eyes narrowed in discomfort.

“Jesus, Harrington,” you huffed, pushing the pillow under the boy’s head. “It’s yours.”

After a few more minutes of tense fumbling, hands pushing up against places they weren’t supposed to touch, you were a tangle of feet and legs, forearms pushed to ribs, the blanket a mess between you both. Tiredness made everything more difficult, patience wearing thin and the croak of one lone frog was making Steve’s eye twitch.

“Okay, right!” he didn’t yell, not really, but his sudden outburst in the small space made you jump and he looked apologetic as he lay himself back against the door, pillow fluffed underneath him. He seemed to take a second to gather himself, or maybe it was courage? “C’mere.”

He waved a hand at you, patted his chest like you were supposed to know what he meant and when you simply stared at him, still perched awkwardly on the edge of the seat, he curled a hand around your arm and tugged gently.

Steve didn’t stop until you got the hint and slid down the leather with him. It was a close squeeze for both of you to fit on the seats and your face was burning when he coaxed your knee between his own, legs slotting between legs and there was nowhere to put your head apart from on his chest.

You were practically on top of him.

Fucking Christ, you were practically on top of him.

The sounds of both you and Steve’s slow breaths mixed in with the noises of the forest, the night. Neither of you moved, not an inch, the tension making your shoulders hurt. But then Steve shifted just slightly, and you slipped further into his side, his arm coming round to rest across your back, keeping you on the seat and by default, holding you closer to him.

Your cheek was pressed to his hoodie, to his chest, breathing in Steve’s cologne, the mint body wash he’d used at the motel in Illinois just that morning. You’d only left Hawkins three days ago and now you were pressed against Steve Harrington in the back of his car like a pair of teenagers after a first date.

It took some time but you let yourself relax, body melting to Steve’s, bones lazy, sleep tugging at you, the sun and warmth from the day making you more tired than you have even realised. The boy’s breathing evened out underneath you, chest falling soft under your cheek and he mumbled sleepily when you turned and pushed your nose into his hoodie, curling into him in a way that you didn’t dare do when you were more awake.

You both slept like that through the night, no room to toss and turn. Steve kept hold of you, making sure you didn’t slip from the bench, the blanket shared between you both like it was the most natural thing in the world. At some point, Steve’s head grew heavy and he nodded to the side, shifting from his pillow to lean his cheek against your hair, lips breathing out soft puffs of air.

He stayed like that until dawn broke, when the sun and the sound of the world waking up stirred you both. Neither of you said anything as you untangled yourselves, stretching out arms and legs, rubbing at stiff necks as the lake and the inside of the car glowed pink.

The sky was lilac when Steve went to the trunk, pulled out some bottles of water and a few cereal bars, shuffling across the grass to join you at the edge of the lake. You ate breakfast shoulder to shoulder, suddenly not as shy as you’d been before when it came to touching.

It was in the burst of blue sky, that first proper shine of light from the sun that made the day seem new, that Steve turned to you and asked, “wanna tell me a secret?”

It seemed unfair to pull out something heavy like the last time you decided to swap something no one else knew. You didn’t want to sully the morning, the warmth of the sun over your skin. Steve’s eyes looked like honey in the light, pretty and soft and you wanted to keep that.

So with a small smile, somewhat self-deprecating, you told him, “I headbutted the first guy I kissed.”

Something told you that the boy wasn’t expecting that kind of secret, because he choked on his water, spraying his jeans with drops of it as he tried to quieten his laugh. When he looked at you, his eyes were sparkling, full of surprise and warmth.

“You what?” he gasped, wiping at his lips and chin with the back of his hand.

“It was an accident!” you exclaimed, indignant. “I didn’t mean to, it was all just really bad timing and like, sheer lack of experience.”

Steve stared at you until you cracked, lips pursing to hide your grin before you were laughing with him, the sounds of both of you mixing with bird calls, the water that lapped at the toes of your shoes.

“God,” he muttered, brushing his hair back from his face. “You’re trouble.” There was something about the way he said that that sounded like a compliment, like an affection. It made you warm.

“Your turn, Harrington,” you whispered, shoulder nudging him, your cereal bar forgotten in your hand. Who needed breakfast when a pretty boy was sharing secrets with you?

He decided to keep with the theme you noted, but he didn’t seem all that embarrassed when he told you, “I didn’t have my first kiss until I was sixteen.”

You tried not to let your surprise show, you didn’t want to be rude. But it still seemed like it was apparent on your face because Steve took in your wide eyed stare and parted lips with a shrug and smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“But you were King Steve,” you mock gasped, laughing when he scoffed and flipped you off.

“Let’s just say I made up for lost time,” he told you lowly, and it shouldn’t have been as hot as he made it, but he was looking at you from the side of his eyes, from beneath thick, dark lashes.

“Who was it?” you enquired, far too invested in knowing everything you could about this boy. “Your first kiss?”

Steve sighed, maybe a little wistfully, stretching his legs out across the dirt and sand as he leaned back onto his hands. “This girl that used to live on my street,” he told you, squinting at the sun. “She only lived there for the summer, I think her dad was in the army or something - she was called Ruby. She let me take her to the movies one night after I got my licence. Kissed me in the back row ‘cause I was too chicken shit to make the first move.”

You grinned, feeling a little warm from the heat of the sun and the boy beside you and you couldn’t help but think of the fourth of July, the kitchen, the kiss.

“Are you still?”

You remembered the way the boy had moved into you, all smooth and full of confidence, smelling like smoke and boy, tasting like alcohol and bad ideas. You’d liked the way he’d cupped your chin, held you with finger and thumb and moved you the way he wanted you. Steve was all soft lips and firm touches, it was hard to forget.

“Still what?” he asked you, brows furrowed, puzzled.

He’d looked a little dazed, you recalled, when he’d pulled back from you, just enough that his nose bumped yours and you could still feel his fingers ghosting over your jawline. It’d been so nice having him so close, a kiss in a stranger’s kitchen from a not so stranger, a boy you wished you knew better.

“Still chicken shit?”

Steve bit his lip at your words, maybe to hide his surprise, maybe to hide his grin. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t let on about remembering the same kiss that you thought about too much. But he scrunched his nose and shrugged all lazy, as if to say, ‘maybe we’ll find out.’

—————

You spent the next few days at the lake with the boy, neither of you ever very far from the other. It stayed quiet, the little spot that Steve had picked, just the two of you and the car, the lake, the sun, the stars and the trees.

When it got too hot, you shed your clothes, dipped back into the water with less shyness, almost daring Steve to look at all the bare skin you put on show. You liked it when he joined you, legs brushing under the water, the sun bouncing off the surface, reflecting rainbows onto both of your faces.

You liked it even better when he watched, shirtless and on the shore, sometimes sitting on the hood of the car, stretched out with his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, eyes hidden like he could get away with staring. You always felt his gaze, warm on you like the summer, a boy full of sunshine who was never far away.

And when it got colder at night, Steve lit fires, small things that burned on pine needles and twigs, bright flames that sent smoke to the sky and seeped into your clothes, your skin. You could still smell it on Steve when he let you clamber over him when it was time to sleep, the two of you curled in the backseat of the BMW, like you’d been having sleepovers together for years and years.

It was dizzying the way your head fit on his chest, cheek pressed to his collarbone, the mess of your hair tucked under his chin. Hands stayed safe, away from bare skin but there was a crackle in the air every time you moved into each other, bathed in darkness, chests tight with what ifs and remember when we kissed?

It went like that for the next day or two, a peaceful harmony between you, Steve and your part of the Ozarks. Something lingering, something unsaid, but it felt nice, it felt new, it felt like the beginning.

“What’re you drawing?”

Steve flung himself down on the grass across from you, sprawled out lazy in the patch of sun, letting it light him up in shades of gold and honey. You were crossed legged and barely dressed, unbuttoned shorts and a red bikini top you’d finally pulled from the depths of your bag.

Your pen stalled on the page, your hand covering the barely there lines as you tried to pretend your heart wasn’t hammering.

“Nothing,” you told him and you hated that you sounded like a petulant child, a little shy, a little scared of Steve seeing the ink on the paper.

“Is it me again?” He grinned, knowingly. His fingers threaded through the long grass, plucking a stem of a wildflower, a pretty violet thing with butter soft petals. The boy held it out to you, placed it on the page of your sketchbook like an offering. “Can I see? Please?”

You groaned, cheeks hot, chest flushed, but you didn’t protest when Steve curled his hand around your wrist and pulled gently. Your hand fell away with his, the pen trapped between your fingers as the black outline of Steve’s face appeared. You’d started when he’d been sitting on a rock in the lake, shorts wet, hair damp and messy, falling into his eyes.

You could feel his gaze on you, even as you stared at the grass by your knee, body feeling too heavy with the weight of his attention.

“S’really good,” he told you with a hushed voice, “no bruises?”

You glanced back at him at that, eyes flirting over the lines of his face, the skin at the corner of his eye, the high of his cheekbone. The marks were fading, barely there unless you stared, unless you caught him under the bright afternoon sun.

You shook your head, smiling. “Almost all gone.”

He seemed to like that, knowing that whatever was left with his father had disappeared, like the lake and the sun had washed it away. There was still a small cut on his lip though, thinner than ever and no longer angry looking. A paper cut split on his skin, nothing more. But he licked at it, whether he meant to or not, eyes darkening like he was remembering.

“Hey,” you nudged your bare foot to his thigh. “What’s your favourite song?”

It was a distraction, Steve knew that, one he was thankful for ‘cause he smiled and let his body fall back into the grass, his head dangerously close to laying in your lap. Your fingers itched to comb through his still damp hair, the strands around his forehead messy and untamed. It suited him, like the new tan on his skin, the freckles on his nose earned from a full afternoon in the water.

“Right now?” He asked you, lips pursed as he thought. “Probably ‘This Must Be The Place.’ You know it?”

“Talking Heads, right?” You asked him, and he smiled when he nodded. He hummed the opening bars, his voice a little rougher than the usual soft tune but it was just as nice, just as sweet.

An ironic choice you’d thought, singing the lyrics in your head, the very first line a stark contrast to where you and Steve were sitting now.

“Home is where I wanna be, pick me up and turn me ‘round.”

Steve must’ve known what you were thinking, cause he sang it, voice hushed, scratchy, eyes on yours with a sick smile on his lips. You huffed out a laugh, put your pen back to paper and wondered if he’d stay still enough for you to draw him like this.

“Where’s home?” You asked him, way too nonchalant, a coy smile on your face as you started to sketch out the strong arm he’d thrown behind his head.

“Are you drawing me again?” He answered instead, but he was still smiling, eyes closed, the sun on his bare chest and his face, more violet flowers clutched between his fingers.

“Maybe.” Steve hummed at your lie, a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “Stay still,” you ordered.

He whispered your name when you were sketching out the dip in his Cupid’s bow, eyes fluttering, just to see if you were listening.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t know why that made your stomach tumble, something inside of you dipping, rolling in nervousness. You swallowed, kept your eyes on your paper and said, “sure.”

“How old were you when your mom left?”

It should’ve been a punch to the gut, a slap to the face that left you with whiplash and the awful ache of having to remember the day your mom didn’t come back for you.

But Steve said it so softly, the sun turning his brown eyes into caramel as he looked at you from a line of thick lashes. He didn’t sugarcoat it, he didn’t apologise. He just looked at you with such genuine interest, a soft need to know about that part of you. It made your heart thump for a different reason.

“Um,” you tilted your head, recalling that time, remembering how small you were, barely to your aunt's knees. You were clumsy, all grabby hands and eyes that never seemed to stop tearing up. “Three I think, almost four.”

You scratched the nib of your pen to the paper, scored in the shadows underneath the boy’s jaw and your eyes flicked to him once, twice, memorising the cluster of freckles there. He was staring right back, gaze still soft, lips a little parted but he didn’t say anything, he just let you keep talking.

“She wasn’t good, you know? Not bad. Just… not made to be a mom, I think. She was young, all alone ‘cause my dad left before I was born.”

You sighed, dragged the ink across to make the slope of Steve’s nose, strong lines on the sun soaked page. “We lived somewhere in Virginia, I don’t even know what town, isn’t that sad?” The question was rhetorical, because you didn’t pause to let Steve answer.

“She didn’t do drugs or anything, nothing bad bad. I think she drank a lot though, left me with a neighbour on the weekends and I just remember always crying. All the time. Must’ve been a headache to take care of,” you laughed, humourless. “That’s what my aunt told me anyway, I was such a whiny baby. She told us she’d come back and don’t think either of us believed her but… it was nice to pretend for a while.”

Steve’s hand fell from where it rested in his chest, laying in the grass and the flowers, close to your ankle. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out, maybe curl them around your leg, a little bit of comfort. But he wasn’t brave enough, not yet.

“Have you seen her since?” Steve asked quietly, barely heard over the rush of the breeze across the lake, through the trees that sat behind you both.

You shook your head, kept your glassy eyes on the paper and kept drawing.

“Nah. She called once on my birthday, my seventh, I’m sure.” You shrugged, uncaring. “I didn’t even know who it was at first, I didn't recognise her voice. But I remember my aunt yelling at her after she sent me into the garden, tellin’ her that it wasn’t fair.”

The tips of Steve’s fingers touched your ankle then, just when your first tear rolled down off your cheek and onto the paper on your lap. It was soft, a gentle push of his pads to the bone, barely there warmth but it made you sniff.

You huffed, lips twisting as you watched the inky shadows on Steve’s neck blur and smudge but you just shrugged. “It’s fine, I knew she wasn’t coming back for me. Even then.”

And then - with a finality that told the boy you were done talking about it - you dropped your book into the grass and stretched yourself out alongside him.

You lay on your tummy, flowers pressed beneath your skin, sun warming your back and your head pillowed on folded arms. Your gaze met Steve’s and he smiled, warm and soft and a little sad. He mirrored you, head tilted to the side, resting on the arm he’d thrown behind his head, the tips of your noses not all that far away.

“Why did your dad hit you?”

If you weren’t already looking at him, you wouldn’t have caught the way Steve shrugged. He hadn’t told anyone, not really. Robin knew, Eddie knew. The kids were scared to ask, old enough now that they saw through his lies. No one had outright said the words so he’d never really had to confirm it.

It felt more freeing than he thought it would’ve been. “Why?” you didn’t mean to sound as angry as you did, your voice coming out a little biting, frustration and upset colouring your tone. “Why’d he do that?”

Steve sighed, eyes downcast and he didn’t answer, not for a second or five. He picked more wildflowers, let the petals fall onto the slope of your back, greens, whites and lavenders dotting along your spine. They settled in the dip above your shorts and the feeling made you smile, it made you feel warmer than the sun did.

And then:

“My dad doesn’t like me,” Steve told you, his gaze carefully focused on the flowers on your skin. “Doesn’t like who I am, who I wanna be, the way I turned out.”

God, that hurt. It hurt to hear, to listen to the way Steve sounded, tired and burnt out.

“He wanted me on the basketball team, so I did. Tried out and tried hard, made captain. Swim team, too, worked at the pool at the weekends. But then my grades weren’t good enough.” The boy scoffed, let his hand pick up a petal that was tumbling down to the denim of your shorts and he dropped it again, watching it roll down your shoulders.

“So I quit swimming, tried even harder. Got a tutor, got my marks up, managed to graduate without throwing myself off of the water tower.”

Steve sniffed and tilted his chin up to the sun, eyes clenched shut and jaw jutted. He looked like a Greek god, bathed in gold, too bright, like the boy who flew too close to the sun and fell from the clouds.

Fuck.

You wanted to catch him.

“Still wasn’t enough.” Steve told you with a grin that had the same sharp edges it did in the diner that first morning. “You should’ve seen him when I told him I didn’t wanna go to college. M’surprised he didn’t sock me then.”

“What about your mom?” You whispered, eyes frozen on Steve, the outline of his features, strong jaw, strong nose, full lips, all backlit by the sun bouncing off of the lake.

“She does what he says, agrees with him, stays quiet, walks away.” Steve frowned at the last part, like he was remembering something that hurt. “She’s never home, never really was. Neither of them were. Business, y’know? The same one I told my dad I wasn’t interested in that night.”

The boy cracked an eye, golden honey staring back at you, holding less sadness than you expected.

“Was the last straw for daddy dearest,” he snorted. “God forbid Michael Harrington’s son works at Family fuckin’ Video. He had me against the fridge before I could blink. Knew it was comin’ though, y’know? Like the way you know a storm is rolling in?”

You nodded.

“Figured I’d just get in the car and drive,” he whispered, looking at the sky, the white clouds that floated by. “Drive and try and find something that might feel like home.”

Your lip twitched at that, such a sweet sentiment off the back of a cruel story.

“Have you found it yet?”

The boy turned to you, gazed straight at you for almost a little too long, a little too soft before he looked back to the trees overhead, the blue above that. He shrugged, closed his eyes and smiled.

“Maybe.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington smut #steve harrington blub #stranger things fic

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picturesofthegoneworlds · 6 months

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Restless

Imogen can't concentrate.

(standard procedure for up to a couple weeks ago, now it wears a different guise.)

She fidgets, sits with her legs crossed on her bedroll, backpack in her lap, removes, itemises, arranges its contents, huffs stray hairs out of her face, hands still twitchy, mind still scrambled, organises it all again. Repeats.

It's early, the fact given away by the low-lying sun and crisp smell on the air that has not yet been burned away by its sustained and blistering presence.

The blisters on her ankles, the friction of leather that is still not fully broken in. Imogen delays in pulling on and lacing up her boots, calves restless but exhausted, thrumming if they remain still too long (too long being only a moment).

She falls back heavily onto the bedroll.

Overhead, in the weave of vines and branches, birds sing. They're mocking her, surely, the awkward and bound to the ground sack of flesh and fat and bones that she is, hair frizzed and sticky from the humidity, her inner thigh chaffed and perspiring where the contact of her dagger's harness coils around it like a constricting snake.

She loosens it a few notches

The pathetic and inconsistent touch of it frustrates her more, so she buckles it tight like a tourniquet.

She exhales, deflates, heavy as she is, runs the back of her forearm over her brow, spreading the salt and sweat, breathes in, feels the connective tissue holding together all of her joints, exhales, arm to ground, along with every other limb, the back of her knees, her spine, her shoulders (there's a rock digging into one through the mat, did she sleep on that last night?), her neck, her ass, wishes they were all gelatin, that she could become one with the floor and not collide with every edge and corner and texture of it, stop being so reactive.

She inhales, skin pulling away, wishing it would continue, peel, lift, blanket, canopy (closer than the trees), shade, but it would drip with blood, hot and sizzling as it rained back onto her exposed bones.

Shadow, the dark tatters, the veil. Molasses of ichor. Dull, hazy, sharp, thorns. Don't touch, don't approach. Space. Wail, scream, chorus, silence. That would chase the birds away, feathers dislodged from sudden movement re-lodged into black tar, carried off, away, down sluggish stream, no contact. Barbed like a briar.

The thread of the bed roll is itchy, the weave of it too thick and open, rough spun from fibrous burlap, it splinters bare skin where it makes contact, nape of her neck, backs of her forearms, thighs, knees, and calves.

Delicate, cool, billowing lace that accommodated to the pads of Imogen's fingers, to her palm, fractured by magic, calloused and freshly wounded, it dulled even the rows of needle teeth beneath. Imogen imagines it her bedsheets, the ground would not matter - could be rivers of lava jutted by shattered glass, it would not matter, sure, cool billowing lace, Imogen would sleep well.

Easier to tell now, how restless her hands are. They pluck at the gauzy linen that makes her dress, the more rigid weave of her waistcoat, following stitching as if it were pathways, movement, roads to get her somewhere, them, skin to skin contact barriered like the rock digging into her shoulder. Her touch meanders to her chest, unintentional, she swears, in promise and obscenity, a winding path with sides towered by hedges and trees that block the horizon, a shock carried from the point of touch to manifest as an ache between her legs and a weightless haze in her head, body rolling, shoulders leaving the mat, leaving the rock that digs, a breath to a sigh to a gravelly moan, sends a bird or two scattering away, a leaf or two falling behind them.

Fuckin' birds. Relax. More touch. Touch is good? Barbed. Thorns. Restraint. Maybe she should grow her nails, maybe then the touch won't feel her own. Laudna - fuck, the name gets a reaction from her again, the jolt in her core as she feels the heat pool at the surface of her face, her neck, her chest, crimson damming, damning, acid rising to her throat carried by the guilt of it.

She kicks and squirms, side of a fist like hammer to nail on the bedroll beside her, other covering her face from the shame of it, it being the burn, the rolling simmer, the violent boil of want and guilt and acid and sting and she is so restless, boiling over, she can't concentrate, the contact of the ground and the fabrics and the atmosphere all feels wrong, scalding, now she knows what to compare it to, how it could feel, what she could be touching.

Could be death calling, alluring, maybe, how long she flirted with it. Cold with head empty, sounded nice, still does, though the delivery and means maybe different now. A face to an end, ends her, finishes, acid in her throat again, hand bunching the rough fabric under her hips.

It moves of its own accord to her thigh, takes a fistful of cuff and flesh and she sobs, eyes scrunching shut so tightly that she starts to see colours in the dark, blotches of crimson in a grey dream, her body in the butcher's cart.

Dreamlike, hazy, drunk (this must be how it feels), she moves without thought, groping herself through the crotch of her shorts, writhing, the floor is too hot against her back, sweat gathering at her hairline and salt beading down into her eyes, again, breath short, short, when did it get so shallow, dizzy. How long could she hold it (hold herself), heat, radiating into the cup of her hand, squirming, a worm under boot, squashed before it gets to dine on the corpse. She pushes firmer against herself, shudders, the feel of the floor leaving, rolls her hips onto the press of her fingers, barriered, dulled, not enough, as they fumble, clutch at the shorts and wrangle the inseam of them in frantic pulls against uncomfortably undulating heat, heat, damp forced through from the close contact onto the pads of her fingers and Gods she's gonna have to prestidigitate that, what the hells is she doing, Laudna could return from her morning forage or whatever it is any moment and

fuck the thought doesn't quell the need at all, her hips spasming and knees shaking as she holds them suspended and trembling, working herself up, frantic, frantic and desperate. How did she get here? she followed the woman at the market, the woman followed the yellow bird, the birdsong silenced for pathetic needy moans, her hips raised so high her shoulders are pushed further into the cut of the offensive rock, princesses and mattresses and beans or whatever that fairytale was Laudna had mentioned about ladies and their proper behaviour.

Proper, right, she should stop, get it over with, fumbles with the fastening of her shorts, hand making its way beneath fabric before it's fully undone, now registering coarse curls, then slicked, heat, heat, heat, hot, wet, eager, soaked, soft, the glide of her intensity, betrayal, soaking. fuck. Touch is not enough, hers, fuck. Not right, the feel of callouses and scars and heat and a barely registrable thrum shit what happens if she gets away from herself, gets too excited. magic fried uncontrollable she is out of control fuck the heat of the bedroll on her back and the push of the rock imbedding imbedded scars wrapping tangled suffocating sinew silvered skin nightmares burden and guilt guilt guilt storming-

Imogen rolls over onto her front, the rock through the bedroll pushing into her chest, against her sternum, aiding to evacuate the bile that has been suspended in her oesophagus but the guilt won't leave her thighs slicked and hot and tacky and uncomfortable and the chaffe of the itchy fabric of the mat burning them, restless, as she removes her fingers from between her legs, wipes the evidence of a pathetic and failed and just and just wrong attempt onto her shorts, prestidigitates it all clean as if she can wash herself of her impurities and intentions, dares to think of the occasions the purple glow has evaporated the rain from Laudna's clothes and skin, now a selfish act, was then too, maybe, always selfish.

#Imodna #Imogen Temult #Laudna #Critical Role #Fanfic #Emma writes #My first foray of writing in my notes app #Rainy morning thing #Imogen is managing just fine.#Seeing Laudna's form of dread for the first time didn't awaken anything in her not at all #M rated fic that links to an E rated collection

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digipigichopshop · 2 years

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Twisted, Chapter 1 (feat. Miyeon of (G)I-DLE)

A/N: Oh look! Digi’s not dead!

This is part 1 of a multi-part series that I’m tearing out of my DM drafts and posting as an actual story.

I’ve split it up because (1) I’m too busy to write much and (2) I feel like this is much too overdue at this rate.

Thanks so much for sticking around and hopefully I’ll see y’all again somewhere in the next month or so!

2868 words

Tags/TW: Minor Degradation, Foot Fetish

Thanks to @sooyadelicacies and @midnightdancingsol for editing and ideation

Nothing good ever comes out of your mouth.

Especially after a gruelling work day of board meetings with people you’d much rather fuck mercilessly against the conference table than listen to droning on about sales reports and popularity ratings.

Don’t forget all the tiresome discussions with your secretary over why her pencil skirt isn’t already hiked up to her waist—she claims it’s because you’re too busy fucking the models to fuck her instead, but you know it’s really because she’s trying her best to hide that she’s not wearing anything else under her skirt. You swear she’s been fucking herself at the desk while nobody’s looking, but you’ll use that knowledge to blackmail her into something much more dubious later on.

God, it’s great to be your boss.

Your office is plenty spacious— you were paying one of the highest rates in Seoul to get such a picturesque view of the Han River with the sun setting over the horizon. Bathed in the yolky glow of the setting sun, it’s like a scene straight from a movie.

You throw open the door to your office, fully expecting to wrap things up and call it a night.

Until you see her.

Her main job isn’t as a model, but she sure as hell can pull off a look. A floral print long-sleeved blouse boasts shades of cream dotted with pastel pink as the woman swings her legs back and forth. A short, electric pink skirt accentuates her long, slender legs as she sits atop your wooden desk, gazing at the skyline through the ceiling-to-floor window. It’s as if her outfit was designed to outshine the hazy pink bleeding from beyond the cloud cover.

What catches your eye most, however, is the pair of red platform heels she’s swinging so nonchalantly. Other than giving her the much-needed height boost to meet your eyes, they’ve also got the added benefit of making her feet look like a delicately wrapped present, the laces of which snake up her ankle to just below her calf where they’re tied in an elegant butterfly knot. The soft, rhythmic thump of her heel knocking against the front of your wooden desk becomes the metronome that sets the beat of the coming hours.

“Hello, Miyeon. I didn’t expect to see you here.” You playfully tease.

“Just enjoying the view,” Miyeon shoots back, brushing strands of her ashy brown hair over her shoulder. She isn't even turned to face you, yet you can tell from her tone that she’s hiding a smirk under that guise.

“Likewise.” You close the door, leaving your coat by the couch near the door.

You loosen your collar and slide along the edge of the table, clipping your hand around Miyeon’s waist as you sit by her side, admiring the gradual roar of Seoul’s nightlife as it charges up right below your feet. Miyeon’s perfume matches her dress to a tee, with bold rosy notes that fade to accompanying undertones of musk and sandalwood. Both of you share a moment of silence, letting the moments pass by in each other’s company.

“I assume you’re not here to discuss business matters,” you say, running your hand along her waist. You rake your eyes over Miyeon’s slender figure, but you sense something off when your hand hits something cold.

Miyeon places her hand on yours, stopping just before her navel.

“Not strictly business matters,” Miyeon says as she slips out of your grip. She gets up and plops herself in your seat behind the desk. “Just, here to let off some steam after today’s photoshoot.”

“Oh, is there something on your mind?” you turn and say, admiring how casual Miyeon looks as she runs her fingers along the armrest of your chair.

“Hmm~ Nothing too much. I know how much you tire yourself from running this company, working overtime. Every. Single. Day.”

“And?”

“You’re always too busy to come over and say hi,” Miyeon says as she pouts and lolls about in her seat.

“Miyeon, it’s late. I need to go—”

Miyeon interrupts you by slamming her heels onto your table with a loud bang. Your eyes snap to attention at Miyeon’s feet wrapped up in her red heels in front of you before shooting back to her. Her angelic features have you feeling like someone spiked your drink, a mesmeric allure to them that clouds your thoughts and stammers your speech.

“Go where?” she retorts, crossing her arms. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Miyeon. I swear, if you don’t get your legs off this table I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna what?”

A devilish smile creeps its way along her lips. She’s got you right where she wants you.

“What’re you going to do to me, Daddy?”

Miyeon presses your buttons in just the right way and your animalistic instincts fly into first gear. You hastily fling yourself over to the opposite edge of the table, scooping Miyeon’s legs into your lap.

Before you can even get to unwrapping the present in front of you, Miyeon presses the tip of her heel into your chest, staining your white dress shirt with the outsole of her heel. You try to push her foot away, but wrapping your hands around her ankle is the most you manage to do as she has you pinned against the table.

“You know how feral those heels make me, baby girl?” Your breaths are heavy and stifled, but your arousal peaks with her additional pressure. You slide your hand down towards the knot keeping her straps on, but before you can undo anything Miyeon drives the tip of her heel even harder into your chest.

“Don’t be so aggressive, Daddy. I wore these heels as a present for you. It’s not nice to rip open your gifts. ” Her voice is sickly sweet, a honey-like consistency to it that contrasts heavily to the footwear dagger prepped to bore a hole through your sternum.

“Is this your tactic to —urk— keep me here?” you playfully shoot back, Miyeon comfortably shifting her body weight onto the pinpoint of her heel so you get a close-up view of her polish.

Her pedicure makes her toes shine like tiny pearls, specks of silver dust like bits of shattered glass that

Your eyes run under her skirt as you slowly undo the straps, watching the red fabric fall apart to give way to reddened skin underneath.

“Tsk, Tsk, Tsk. You should’ve told the stylist to get you a larger pair of shoes. I can’t keep having you scarring your delicate feet from these shoes that are just too tight,” you say, massaging away at the reddened marks on Miyeon’s feet.

“It’s the only size that fits me. The others were too big for my feet.” She wiggles her toes in your hand, the same sort of credulous innocence that made you fall for her time and time again. “I want to show my gratitude to Daddy for being so good to me, and I want Daddy to keep giving me what I want.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” you say, letting Miyeon’s heel drop to the carpeted floor with a thud. You move to begin undoing the laces of Miyeon’s other heel, but she catches you off guard by sliding her foot past your chin such that your nose is caught right between her big and second toe.

From scent alone, you can tell Miyeon has had a long day. Occasional hints of rose perfume find their way into your olfactory senses, but the majority is replaced by the telltale sour, leathery smell of dance practice and modelling shoots. Miyeon’s reward for your efforts today is trapping your nose

“I'm sorry if my feet smell, Daddy. I hope they don't put you off too much."

"Oh, you hope they don't put me off? I don't think that's it, baby girl. Why don't you tell Daddy the truth.” you say as you teasingly run a finger along the length of Miyeon’s sole, watching delightedly as she giggles at the touch.

“You shouldn’t lie to your Daddy. You wore those red heels, came all the way up to my office from the dance studio, sat on my chair and demanded that I give you a raise by scratching my beautifully varnished tabletop…” Your voice trails off as you trace your fingers over the gash in the wood left behind by her playful antics. “You walked around in them all day so they would hurt and smell. And now you’re here to ask for Daddy’s help in taking away the pain, hmmm?”

Miyeon giggles as she nods her head. "Can't say I don't enjoy getting caught red-handed, Daddy. I make them sore and stinky so Daddy's fingers can spend more time rubbing my feet and playing with my arches. And I also know that Daddy loves to take his time burying his nose between my toes to enjoy the wonderful smell."

Miyeon shows exactly what she means by shoving her foot right into your face, splaying her toes so your vision of her is obscured by her digits. The scent of her feet is unavoidably potent, flooding all your senses until all you can think of is nothing but Miyeon’s feet. You hastily slip off her other heel before tossing her shoe behind you, listening to it bouncing off the couch with a comedic boing before falling to the floor.

You grab both of Miyeon’s legs by the knees and pull her towards you, startling her. You take in a long, deep inhale of Miyeon’s feet, the sudden rush of air between her toes leaving her in a fit of laughter. Miyeon quickly composes herself as your tongue wraps its way around her toes, sliding in and out of the gaps between them. Your office fills with obscene slurps and pops, the animalistic desire to drench the entirety of Miyeon’s feet in your saliva blotting out all other thoughts of professionalism and office ethics. (Not like you even cared for them in the first place)

Miyeon’s soles have this slightly salty, ascorbic taste to them. Sucking on Miyeon’s toes is like popping one of those kid’s multivitamins in your mouth, her petite little digits are just the right size to squeeze three into your mouth in one go. The sensation of Miyeon’s toes brushing against your upper lip alongside the divine sight of a hot and flustered Miyeon is enough to have your cock straining against the fabric of your dress pants, a very obvious tent from your pent-up member.

"I love it when Daddy takes what he wants. Daddy gets so rough when he sees his little princess’s feet. But don't forget to give the rest of your little princess a bit of loving too~”

You’re so engrossed in letting your tongue study each and every wrinkle of her soles and toes that you fail to register Miyeon’s words. At least, not until you hear squelching noises that come from somewhere else that isn’t your tongue on Miyeon’s feet. You look over to see Miyeon’s fingers quietly pistoning in and out of their owner, keeping pace with your ministrations.

"Daddy will get to every part of you in a bit. Don't you worry baby girl." Between squelches and sucks, you brazenly attempt to fit all of Miyeon’s toes in your mouth, much to the amusement of Miyeon.

“I'm surprised Daddy's so hungry today. You’re drooling everywhere, all over my toes, my feet. I hope I'm enough to satisfy your appetite." You hum to acknowledge Miyeon’s lofty ambitions, before continuing your assault. You’ve practically sucked her toes clean, strands of saliva webbing their way between her toes.

"Don't forget my arches, Daddy. They miss the way your hands feel." Miyeon groans, the sounds of your slobbering on her toes accompanied by the squelches of fingers against slick as Miyeon leans further back in her chair.

You bring her feet out of your mouth and admire the saliva and drool coating them before deeply kissing her arches. You leave behind voids of space amidst the translucent sheen on Miyeon’s sole that catches the final fleeting moments of the sun’s ochre glory. The room dims and Miyeon’s natural radiance fills the room, beads of sweat on her forehead accompanying soft, gentle hums of pleasure as she ups the pace of her fingers diving in and out of her pussy.

"Awww, Now my little toes are the ones missing your touch. Daddy promised he'd give everything to please his little princess, right?" Miyeon wiggles her toes in your lap, playing with strands of your saliva. "Hmmm... I bet Daddy would like to see something else webbing between my toes too..."

The sun’s practically set, but your cock is miles away from achieving release. And your patience has long since worn out.

"Use your toes to unzip my pants and fucking get them on my cock already, baby girl."

“Awww… but teasing Daddy is the fun part!” she chirps, “Daddy should promise to finish rubbing my feet before he cums. They're just so sore." Miyeon's dexterous foot hovers over the zipper of your pants, but she takes her time in finding the pull tab, stretching the one moment into millions.

"Good things come to those who wait." She teases, scrunching her toes against the massive bulge in your underwear. Your cock stiffens upon every contact of her feet against the fabric, but being so close yet so far gets you even more riled up.

"Don't tease me baby girl, feet on my cock right fucking now. You want that massage? Then be a good girl for Daddy. My pleasure comes first, always."

Miyeon begrudgingly tugs down your pants, freeing your cock from the constraints of its fabric prison as it flops out at full attention. A string of precum connects the head of your cock to your underwear, and Miyeon knows you're eager to bust a nut all over her soles.

Maybe a little too eager.

Miyeon gently teases the head of your cock with her toes, playing with it like a joystick. The warmth of her foot coupled with the cold, slimy texture of your spit rolling down the side of her foot has you breathing unsteady, your cock twitching at every little movement she makes.

"Get my cock nice and hard baby girl. C’mon!"

"Daddy's so in a rush, he doesn't have time to play with his little princess's feet. I'll get Daddy hard for sure. But it's gonna take a while unless Daddy takes what he wants for himself." Miyeon presses her feet into the sides of your shaft, stroking at a painfully slow pace.

"I always take what I want."

You grab her ankles and start forcefully fucking her feet at the pace you want her to go. Her feet felt fucking amazing, but you didn't like the bratty attitude that came along with them. Oh, you'd get her back for this.

"That's much better, Daddy. I like it when your hands are all over my feet." Miyeon says, releasing the tension in her arches as you wrestle her feet up to your desired speed. The sensation of her slick arches running up and down the length of your cock while Miyeon teases the head of your cock with her toes has you raring to burst all over her feet.

You groan from the pleasure, maintaining momentum to match your thrusts with the motions of Miyeon feet sliding up and down your cock. "C’mon baby girl, toes on my tip, don't make Daddy do all the work. You want Daddy's cum, work for it."

Miyeon places her toes adjacent to the tip of your cock, baring her wrinkled sole for you as her arches squeeze and tug at your shaft. Miyeon could certainly hold this position for much longer (if her weekly pilates classes were anything to go by).

But she doesn't, opting to stop stroking when you let go of her arches to adjust yourself. You groan in displeasure, swiping Miyeon’s feet off your lap as you stand up to switch on the lights.

“Daddy… Why did you stop?” Miyeon’s tone carries a fairy-like playfulness to it that, while normally funny, now irritates you to no end.

You grab the office phone and punch in an extension number.

“Daddy… come back… I was only—”

"Enough teasing baby girl. If you don't start pleasuring and putting Daddy first, maybe I'll just call someone else who can."

"No! Daddy! I'm sorry! I-I'll be good." Miyeon removes her hand from her pussy to grab hold of your wrist, her two fingers drenched in slick.

"You know… there’s a certain coworker that you always seem to be competing with at the company, I wonder how she’ll be at pleasing Daddy."

A puzzled expression falls over Miyeon’s face as she’s clearly racking her brain thinking of such a competitor. Miyeon might be on friendly terms with most of the company, but someone who shares such an intimate relationship with you that isn’t her? That’s simply impossible.

Without waiting for Miyeon’s response, you hit the call button. Not long after, the dial tone cuts to reveal a familiar voice on the other side of the line.

"My office. Now."

#kpop fanfic #kpop #kpop fanfiction #kpop smut #cho miyeon #miyeon #gidle smut #gidle #gidle miyeon #male reader #male reader smut #reader x idol #idol smut #kpop girl group smut

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bonefall · 1 year

Note

CRIES AND SHAKES CRIES AND SHAKES TELL ME ABOUT STARCLAN AND THE DARK FOREST I WANNA KNOW ABOUT T-THE-THE SCARY HORSIES AND THE PRETTY CLOUD ABOOOVEE

QUICK 'N DIRTY GUIDE TO THE ENVIRONMENT OF THE AFTERLIFE LET'S GOOO

(also check out StarClan 101)

also also I do plan to put this in its own entry at some point

Meadow of Young Stars (Purgatory)

This is the space between the Dark Forest and StarClan. It is a great grassland of rolling hills and a hazy mist, full of sparkles like baby stars or fireflies. Its primary colors are pastel shades of purple and green.

When a cat dies and wakes up in the afterlife, this is where they come. While they either wait for their trial, or for their judgement, their deceased friends and family may meet them here and patch up any injuries they acquired in life.

As an example, though Brokenstar was going to go to the Dark Forest and knew it, Raggedstar still came to mend his son's eyes before he left.

It both surrounds StarClan and is also its border with the Dark Forest. There are no landmarks in the MoYS, making it seem endless if you are stuck wandering there. If you attempt to find StarClan from this place without being a StarClan cat yourself, you would find the Dark Forest through the mist. It's like a wall.

Silverpelt (StarClan's Hunting Grounds)

A powerful haven for the ancestral spirits of the Clans, and where the Clan's deities do their work. It's a paradise always in leaf-fall, with a meandering river, lots of rocks to sun on, and a deep forest with many Clan-appropriate areas. Its primary colors are light blue and white.

This place is strange; time moves quite differently here than on Earth, with some cats simply not-existing (but not fading) for stretches of time. Over time, distance with your mortal life and the worship of cats below begins to change you. Every cat who fades, though this is a peaceful process, seems to contribute to this bizarre land.

But enough thinking of that for now.

There are many amenities here, which helps StarClan do its work down below. Creamy clay is scooped right from the riverbank to craft new kittens and prey for the living, there is a great pool where the Clans can be watched, and the territory ends in a great cliff from which the nebulae beyond StarClan can be watched to unravel the future from its shine.

Skypelt (SkyClan's Heaven)

A smaller, but still powerful haven where SkyClan cats gather when not collaborating with the cats of Silverpelt. It's always dawn in Newleaf here, featuring a deep gorge and a lot of vertical movement, and ghostly human houses by its edges. Its primary colors are orange and cream.

When SkyClan rejoined the Forest Four, they brought their own StarClan with them. It's a point of pride to the ancestors of SkyClan that they are able to care for their descendants completely on their own; they have not forgotten that it was Firestar and Brokenstar who freed them from their earthly imprisonment as rats, not StarClan-Prime.

Skypelt cats and Silverpelt cats can freely mingle, there are no borders and visiting the other is as simple as walking there.

There is no unique Dark Forest equivalent. All five Clans share the same hell.

The Place of no Stars (Dark Forest)

A nightmare made manifest, which contains those cats who have turned or been cast away from StarClan's light. A shifting forest-like place influenced by the dreams of the living, with each resident's personal hell contributing to a patchwork territory. Its primary colors are red and brown-black.

One person's hell is another person's heaven. Though it's seen as a a horrible fate at first glance; it can be home if you let it be. By working together with other cats, it's possible to find the perfect places to rest and hang out. For example, Morningstar's worst memory is his memory of ThunderClan's camp when his Clan turned against him... but Ripplestar's was his death of the falling tree at Fourtrees.

It's also influenced by the dreams of the living, unlike StarClan itself. The Thunderpath is here, with Shrewpaw's Pheasant trying to lure cats onto the road. As long as cats fear the gigantic horses of the barn, the horseplace will be here. Even bizarre nightmares, like biting into a mouse and tasting fish, find their way here.

It's an edgy place, but, once you get past the fact that the moon is a giant eyeball which blinks sometimes, and that the willows bleed, you can start making bloodsyrup.

And, importantly, you may walk alone if you would like to. If you don't want to meet a person, you simply will not. Try as she might, Mapleshade can never find her victims to hurt them ever again. Frecklewish, Appledusk, and Ravenwing simply do not want to see her, so they don't.

The Dark Forest is supposed to contain these spirits so they can't interfere with the living... but as Mapleshade's haunting of Appledusk's bloodline shows, there is a way to do it. Figure it out on your own or ask the right questions.

How to Double Die

And, lastly, of ALL territories, no cat can die to their homeland. Because a Dark Forest cat is part of their homeland, they cannot kill each other. A Dark Forest cat who dies in the Dark Forest simply pops back up the next day, no matter if it was to a horse hoof, being hit with a car, or a fatal killing bite.

LEAVING the Dark Forest removes this protection... as well as introducing creatures that do not belong there. Ivypool practicing the killing move on Antpelt was a horrific shock to ALL involved, as it was not known that the living would be able to kill spirits.

Simple Chart:

Spirit vs Spirit = Safe

Dreaming Mortal vs Dreaming Mortal = Safe

Spirit vs Mortal = Unsafe

Spirit on Mortal Plane = Unsafe

#Dark Forest #StarClan #Spiritual Overhauls #Better Bones AU #Silverpelt #Skypelt #Place of No Stars

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veryace-ficrecs · 5 months

Text

It's the one year anniversary of me posting recs! How time flies!! So in honor of the day, another edition of the first list I ever published!

Hades Fic Recs

keepsakes hold power by dustandstatic - Rated E

To the naked eye they look no different from ordinary trinkets, lucky charms perhaps, simple objects the dead often keep on them in the grave. Maybe they are. Maybe it’s Zagreus that makes them hold power. (concept: god's keepsakes and blessings change zagreus' appearance and behavior during an escape. thanatos takes notice.)

Again and Again by SailorFish - Rated T

Achilles stood up. He had been expecting the stranger since Megaera had stalked past him, elegant despite the anger and blood dripping from her. An AU where Zagreus was raised by Demeter and ends up fighting his way through the Underworld regardless - just in the opposite direction. Guarding the entrance out is the terrifying monster Cerberus, but guarding the entrance in is Achilles, best of Greeks. And he has strict orders not to let anyone in.

The Great Beyond by vinetini - Rated T

Zagreus makes a possibly stupid, definitely reckless deal with Chaos but has to leave his physical form behind to explore the chaotic realm beyond. His body washes up in the House of Hades, completely lifeless. Whoops.

in the half light by harukatenoh - Rated T

You don't die over and over again without internalizing some shit, even if you are a god.

death and i by storyandsong - Rated T

He's late, he realizes. There's a lot of blood here, he realizes a moment later. Not the blackened stains of shades temporarily banished, but the dark-red and glistening of mortal blood, spattered in desperate arcs across the grass, staining the water where the River Lethe pools. Across the chamber, it shifts to a trail of blood, the imprint of bare footprints burned into the darkening liquid. There. There, slumped with his back against a green-glowing infernal trove, an ethereal sword buried in his chest, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath him—Zagreus, Prince of the Underworld, his warmth and light so faded that Thanatos didn't even realize he was still in the chamber.

There Will Be A Dawn by julomaiboulomai - Rated T

In the first days of Zagreus's tutelage, Achilles is still full of wrath more than anything. His bitterness toward the gods is untempered, and before him stands one of their scions, vulnerable and yet immortal, able to take however much he chooses to dish out. (Or, perhaps, not so immortal after all. And in the end, very vulnerable indeed.)

you're fire, but sweet by eggio - Rated T

Thanatos always remembers. How Zagreus’s touch is so warm against his skin, how just the brush of his fingertips over the flesh of his arm ignites his senses. He knows himself to be the opposite: cold, in more ways than one. There’s no warmth in his own arms, his fingers more like the ice Zagreus is just barely now experiencing. He’s cold, in the silence that he finds comfort in and how the way Zag so easily smiles isn’t something just as easy to him. And that he’s selfish; Thanatos wants everything that Zagreus is, every piece of him.

beasts and men by scatteringmyashes - Rated T

Patroclus has no interest in the arena, though he's been challenged many times. His fighting days are over and that is fine with him. The other occupants of Elysium are intent on changing that. Or: Five Times Patroclus Was Challenged And The One Time Someone Accepted

found a way to rise by renquise - Rated T

The river is high again. It laps up against the greaves of the statues in this chamber this time, the long grasses submerged and waving gently in the hazy waters. Last it took this chamber, it only rose to the top of the pedestals. He's learned to see the signs of when the river is about to rush out of its banks to take the chambers: the river grows wilder and the ground becomes soft and damp, water rising up between his toes and hissing into steam where it meets his feet. He’ll be glad when the water recedes again. — Or, the one with Lethe-induced amnesia.

embers by renquise - Rated M

Thanatos runs his fingers over the line of Zagreus's calf where flickers of flame recede into his skin, then pushes into the muscle with a firm touch. Zagreus jolts under his hands. “Ahh, how did you know that my legs are sore from all that running?” Zagreus laughs, a little breathless.

#veryace recs #hades game #hades game fic recs #one year!!#zagreus #thanatos #hades supergiant #ao3 fic recs #fanfic recs #ao3

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simple-seranade · 1 year

Note

hi hello I would like to present to you this silly little idea: seablings but Life series edition

Lizzie can't remember Jimmy, nor does she really remember Last Life, but she has this strong sense of needing to protect him. She doesn't realize that's her brother, that's the person she's been forced to abandon so many times because she can't remember why can't she remember anything what is wrong with her

Jimmy remembers her though. Jimmy remembers being loved unconditionally and having that torn away from him because tragedy must follow those who bare the canary's wings. Jimmy recognizes her and has to tell himself that this isn't Empires but void, does he wish he could run to his sister when he's too tired to care anymore

But it doesn't matter. Lizzie doesn't remember him. Jimmy is tired of listening.

So why is she trying so hard to team up with him now?

How did she manage to save him from the curse only for Them to strike him down moments later?

I will cry. I will become a Puddle Of Tears On The Floor

i don’t know if you meant this as limited life or what but i am placing this in Unnamed Life Series Game for a moment

I’ve Got You, Brother

Lizzie knows something is wrong. Somewhere deep in her blood, she knows.

It has something to do with that blonde boy, she’s sure of it.

TW: blood, death, all that fun Life Series stuff

not proofread because i’m writing this at like eleven but it’s f i n e

—————

The grass is green.

The grass is crumbled and black and dying, turning to ash under the force of the explosion.

The sky is blue, and then it isn’t, turning a dark inky black, then right back to blue again.

The sky is red and grey, filled with smoke as she coughs and cries out through the crumbling streets of the Grimlands for her brother, where is her brother, where is he?

The water of the river is blueish-green.

The water is disappearing and she knows she should care, but she doesn’t. It’s enough to scare her, but not enough to get her to say a thing as water gives way to dirt and stone and dry land and she wonders why she’s here, where this palace came from, why should she stay?

Lizzie knows these basic facts. She has eyes, thank you very much. They have reasoning and proof behind them, and they’re consistent in this bloody game of backstabbing and death. Some of the reliable truths she can ground herself in when she’s so confused, when Joel is shouting at the others and Pearl is telling her they have to run and Jimmy, Jimmy is quiet and she knows it’s wrong, that Jimmy is wrong, but-

Her mind hits the same block it’s hit for the entirety of the game. Something is off, just off enough that she knows it, but she doesn’t know why she knows it. Why she sees Jimmy’s smile twitch slightly and know the comments have gone to far. Why she feels such a genuine surge of remorse each time his death message pops up in chat.

Why she steps blindly between Joel’s axe and Jimmy’s chest, chuckling nervously that they should go find another topic.

The games usually have a memory block, sure, but- this is different. It’s not hazy recollections of an experience so distant it might be a dream. It’s something ingrained deep in her bones, crying out in words her mind has long forgotten.

She has the fleeting thought to go find Joel, but he’s snoring a few feet away. She doesn’t need to go find him, he’s right there. He’s right there.

He’s right there, standing at the altar with the most nervous look she’s ever seen on his face as the other emperors mingle.

He’s right there, holding her hand as the last of her memory fades before leaving her on the beach.

She doesn’t know why they’re fuzzy. Why Joel and Pearl and Scott and Jimmy all ignite that same ache deep inside her, like a part of her has been torn away and hastily stitched back together with thread that clashes horrible with the shades of her heart. She hates it, because she’s apathetic towards it. Her brain actively tries to ignore these signals, these alarm bells sounding in her soul, and she just wants to listen to them and find out what’s wrong, she’s so tired and scared and confused someone please just tell her where her brother is-

She needs to get out of this damned base, the air must be getting to her. Yeah. It’s the air.

It’s only a moment before the spruce door is shutting softly behind her, Joel and Pearl none the wiser. Wind blows her pink hair past her eyes, and she grumbles as she twists it back into a braid.

With her hair finally tamed, she sighs, tilting her head back as she listens to the night. Thankfully they’ve spawnproofed the area, so there are no nearby creeper hisses or rattling of bones. Just the quiet whistling of the wind, the occasional hum of an enderman, the soft sound of hiccuping sobs, the leaves rustling in the trees-

Wait.

It’s much more noticeable now that she’s noticed it, which she’s fully aware is redundant, but that’s the only way she can describe it. Like her brain was hoping she just… wouldn’t notice it if she didn’t think about it too hard.

Focus. Focus.

Focus because the crying sounds familiar. Focus because it has your feet moving and your heart pumping with no input from you at all. Focus because you already have a name on your lips as you round the corner, one that you have no business in guessing.

Focus because Jimmy is sitting by the riverbank, crying.

She doesn’t realize she’s beside him until he jolts under the touch of her fingers carding through his golden hair. He freezes, wings twitching and shoulders shuddering from the effort of suppressed sobs. “Sorry- I didn’t mean- I didn’t think you-“

“Do you need a hug?”

Silence.

Then he melts into the touch, turning and leaning his face into her shoulder as she plays with his hair, whispering quiet words in his ears. They’re drowned out by his own, ones she doesn’t understand.

“I jus’- I jus’ want you back. I jus’ want to be a brother again.” He murmurs, and she doesn’t think she’s supposed to hear this. “Please, please, whoever is listening, I just want to be a brother again. I- I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good, I’ll die first, I’ll do whatever you need, but please- please-“

“No.”

She doesn’t know why she says the word, where it comes from, but the words ‘I’ll die’ coming out of Jimmy’s mouth sends such a cold bolt of fear through her that she doesn’t care.

“Don’t- It’ll be ok, Jimmy. I promise.”

He laughs, wooden and hopeless against her shoulder. “Don’t make promises that can’t be kept. It’s fine, Lizzie. You don’t need to worry about me. You don’t worry about me, period. Not here.”

“Jimmy, I-“

“Can we just keep hugging? Please? I need to pretend everything is normal. Jus’ for a bit longer.”

“… yeah. Yeah, sure.”

She doesn’t know when she fell asleep. All she knows is one moment, Jimmy is in her arms, and the next, she’s shaken awake by Joel with no sign of the blond but the golden canary feather tucked behind her ear.

—————

The world is chaos.

That hasn’t changed.

There’s blood starting to stain the ground.

Just like back then.

Everyone is screaming, she’s at low hearts with broken armor and an arrow in her shoulder, Pearl has Cleo engaged in a swordfight that Lizzie suspects she isn’t fully trying to win- it’s still going on after all- and Joel is arming his axe with that look in his red eyes.

She loves Joel.

She doesn’t want anyone to die.

Please don’t let anyone have died.

Joel lunges forward, diving into the frenzy. The Reds have turned on each other faster than usual- there are still yellows. There are still yellows, and yet.

And yet.

No one has permadied, but there’s no doubt that won’t last for long, not when Joel is cackling, swinging his axe with wild abandon, completely blinded by bloodlust and not even noticing who he charges for as he swings at-

At-

At golden canary wings. At blonde hair and brown eyes as a heart of gold. At a man who already looks resigned to his fate.

He’ll hate himself for this, if he does it. She knows that much about Joel for sure.

“I’m gonna protect him, if it comes down to it. He- he gets so sad, Lizzie. I don’t like seeing him like that.”

She’ll hate herself for it, if she doesn’t stop it.

“I’m sorry I left. I won’t do it again, I swear it.”

The sound of the axe slicing through fabric and flesh fills the air. Joel laughs, throwing his head back before his comm buzzes. He looks down, expecting the message that means he’s winning.

His heart shatters.

LDShadowlady was slain by SmallishBeans

Lizzie is dead. He killed her. She’s gone.

It’s not long before he charges off again, considerably more unsteady on his feet and tears streaming down his face. Lizzie watches him run through the carnage.

It hurts more than you would expect, being a ghost. The sharp sting of an axe wound across her chest isn’t fading, and she can barely make heads or tails of what’s happening in the realm of the living. It’s thick, hazy, dripping down her vision like a cold sludge. She sees just enough to watch the arrow fly. To watch it find its mark, right in the back.

Then he’s in front of her, clutching his chest and heaving.

Jimmy.

Her brother.

Her eyes widen as she thinks it, no longer messy static covering the words.

Her brother.

She’s pulling him into a hug before he’s even aware she’s there, squeezing tight and trying not to cry.

“I’m not- I didn’t die first. I didn’t- Lizzie? Lizzie, you-“

“Jimmy,” is all she can say as tears fall from her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I- I forgot- I-“

“No, don’t apologize, never apologize. You- you saved me, Lizzie.” The words are spoken with no small amount of awe and wonder, and soon she feels tears hitting her shoulder.

She has a brother again. She’s a sister again.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

—————

that got mildly out of hand, but I hope you enjoyed lol

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