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gutsby · 2 months

Text

Homemade

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: While your dad’s watching a movie downstairs, you and his best friend decide to make one of your own.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky sex tape fun with dbf!Joel ;-) Unprotected p-in-v. Age gap. Daddy kink. Facefucking. Joel being the world’s worst cameraman. Shower sex. Overstimulation via adjustable shower head. Dirty talk. Screaming ‘daddy’ too loud, and your father shows up.

Translations: In Chile, pico is slang for penis. Joel’s is big.

Part of the Waiting Game series

“If this ever ends up on PornHub, I’ll kill you, Miller.”

Joel knew you meant it, too.

The only reason you’d agreed to make this dumb little ‘home video’ at all was because you were headed back to college tomorrow and wouldn’t see him again until May. Doing long distance was tough, but doing long distance while simultaneously trying to keep a risqué, torrid, and totally-not-age-appropriate love affair with your father’s best friend under wraps was infinitely more difficult. This was the safest way to keep desire alive in the meantime.

Immortalized on a Sony CCD-TR70—because neither one of you trusted iCloud to keep a sex tape secret.

It had also been the only video camera you could find in the closet before your dad had plopped down on the couch just outside your room and announced he would be watching Oppenheimer for the third time. You’d had to scurry off fast before he could invite you to join him.

“I’ll be damned—this thing’s gotta be as old as I am,” Joel mused as he stood at the foot of the bed, camcorder pointed at your semi-nude form.

“I didn’t know they had cameras back in the Stone Age.”

Your smirk didn't flinch, even when Joel flipped you off.

You were lying on your side, head propped up on one hand while the other picked at a few loose strings from the comforter. The lacy, pastel pink bustier holding your tits in place was currently making breathing feel like a chore, and your skin was on fire from the warmth of the room, but you tried not to show it. Joel twisted a dial.

“Alright, now...flash ‘em for daddy,” he grinned as soon as the lens focused in where he wanted: your cleavage.

You rolled your eyes.

“A little closer, please,” you said, patting the space in front of you.

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. With one hand still cradling the camera, he clambered over the bed so fast he nearly tripped and took a nosedive in the headboard. You had to cover your mouth to contain a shriek of laughter—and terror—as his frame barreled into yours.

“JOEL!”

Fortunately, your cameraman was quick to recollect himself, planting a knee on either side of your chest once he’d knocked you onto your back. Then, from above, he angled the grey-black hunk of metal just a foot away:

“Anything you’d like to say to the folks watching at home, ma’am?” Joel inquired, suddenly assuming all the poise and matter-of-fact elocution of a news reporter.

You stuck your tongue out at the camera and blew the wettest, fattest raspberry you could muster in response.

Joel hummed, zoomed in on your lips, and nodded.

“Fascinating,” he said, pretending to make sense of the fart noise you’d just made with your mouth, “Have you ever given thought to maybe...sucking cock on camera?”

The swiftness with which he was able to dodge your kick was remarkable. He swayed the camera just out of reach before you could shove it away and say, ‘Joel, quit being GROSS’ and he promptly replied, ‘Ain’t that the whole point of a sex tape, sweet pea? Bein’ a little bit gross?’ And you playfully tried to kick him again, only this time, he caught your foot and yanked you closer to him. He turned the camcorder back to your face and grinned.

“That’s my little pornstar,” he murmured with affection. Then, zooming in again, this time to find your panty line, “Riiiiight there.”

You knew giving Joel Miller recording privileges for an occasion as momentous as this was a bad idea. At the rate you were going now, you’d be seeing the sunrise through the window before you ever got a glimpse of his dick. You needed to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

You crawled on all fours to get to Joel across the bed.

The man, kneeling with the camera pointed in your direction, looked up to cock a brow at you.

“Sweetheart, hey, can ya do that one more—”

“Hush,” you muttered, closing in on his crotch.

Your head was lowered so you could undo the front of his jeans. Because of this, your back was arched, and your ass was pointed up just the slightest bit. For a second, Joel seemed torn between tilting the lens to your lower half or your face, which was inching ever closer to the bulge in his trousers. In time, he landed on the latter.

He swallowed. That sight never got old—and seeing it displayed on the camcorder’s semi-grainy screen only made it that much hotter. Joel shifted on his knees while you worked him out of his boxers, watching the nimble movements of your fingers as you wrestled the fabric.

“Wanna—” Glancing to the side of the bed, “—maybe—”

“Yup.”

Both of you liked it better on the floor: you on your knees in front of Joel, chin tilted up to see his reactions as you sucked him off. You loved to sink between his legs and then see and feel nothing but him, brain going blank the moment his cock filled your mouth. Joel slid a pillow under your knees before widening his stance some.

“Is it on?” Your hand was wrapped firmly around the base of his cock and your lips were hovering an inch from the tip. You resisted the urge to lick the precum off just yet.

“Darlin’, it’s been on ever since you stepped outta the bathroom in that— that—” Joel seemed to be searching for a word when the head of his cock was enveloped in a kiss. You dragged your tongue across the slit of him and collected the hot, salty beads with a muffled moan.

Then you pulled off.

“Teddy,” you said, reminding him of the name for that pretty little tulle and lace getup you currently had on.

“Teddy,” Joel echoed, his mind a million miles away from any lingerie jargon at the moment. He held the camera tighter as you took him back into your mouth and sank deeper on his cock. He struggled to keep it steady.

It was strange, watching Joel and the rounded glass of the lens as you did this dirty thing that was only meant to be shared between you and him. Knowing it would be recorded, saved for future viewing, displayed on some dimly lit screen in Joel’s bedroom maybe one, twice, or more likely than not, several dozen times over the next three months. You wondered how you might look from this new point of view; though, you weren’t so sure you needed to know what sight Joel was made privy to while you sucked and hollowed your cheeks around his cock.

As it turned out, that uncertainty wasn’t meant to last you very long, because Joel flipped the camera’s screen around two seconds later. Some sepia-tinted, pixelated rendition of your face, framed by the date and time and a bright red flashing dot beside the word ‘REC’ were the first to greet you. You flinched back just a little.

“Joel,” you said, almost bashful, “Flip it back.”

Joel just grinned. Then he laced his fingers through your hair and tugged you closer to him, thumb stroking over your scalp, “C’mon, darlin’, don’t ya wanna see how goddamn pretty ya look on your knees for me?”

You didn’t think you looked pretty at all. In fact, you reckoned your features looked something more like an alien utility funnel than a real, human face as you tilted your chin inward and seemed to be nothing but eyes and a hollowed-out expression, but you let Joel guide you back onto him all the same. You heard a low rumble of pleasure take shape in his chest as your lips slid over his shaft. Your gaze remained glued to the screen as you did.

Wet with saliva and a few faint traces of precum, you continued to bob your head up and down. Joel’s groans grew louder, and your drive to take him further and further surged as well. By the time his hand was tightening into a white-knuckled fist in your hair, you’d nearly taken him all the way to the back of your throat, and your nose was no more than an inch from the soft tufts of hair on his belly. Joel let out a shuttering breath.

“Fuck me,” he heaved. You might’ve smiled if your lips weren’t otherwise occupied. Then he clenched his hand even harder and murmured, “Can you— can I, please—”

Again, you didn’t need him to finish the rest of the question to know what he wanted. You moved your head back just slightly to nod, a low, ‘Mhmm’ reverberating down the length of his dick as you gave him permission. Joel swallowed and set the camera aside immediately.

He placed it on the nightstand, perfectly level with your head, to the side. Then he rotated the device just a bit, took one glance at the screen, and shortly returned to where you were watching him with wide, glossy eyes.

“Ready?” he asked. His right hand now joined the left at the back of your head, but not before thumbing a quick touch over your cheek to get a feel for your approval.

You hummed once more. You watched Joel’s hips move forward, hands secure around your scalp all the while, and you felt a gentle nudge at the back of your throat. Then another. You couldn’t help the impulse to gag, but thankfully, it was short-lived. Joel peered down at you, eyes searching yours for any plea to stop or slow down, but he found nothing. He sheathed himself deeper until your lips were brushing the base of his dick. He groaned.

“That’s a good…fuckin’ girl,” he managed, voice strained, “Takin’ my cock so deep.”

He shifted his hips to move an inch or two out, then slid his cock forward again, bumping that spot at the top of your throat. This time, you were better adjusted to take him and felt your muscles expand and contract around him without activating your gag reflex. Your eyes stayed trained on his face while he dragged his cock back again.

“My pretty girl and her—” Joel stabbed back into you, somehow tender in the way he did it, “—pretty fuckin’ mouth…Sweet thing likes gettin’ facefucked, does she?”

With the increased pace of his thrusts and the grip he had on the sides of your head, you couldn’t quite answer, but Joel could tell from the glint in your eye that you loved when he manhandled and fucked your throat like this. Watched the light sear gently behind those irises as you swallowed every inch of his cock, back and forth, and let your brain break down to little more than a happy, mindless mush. Joel was always keen to oblige you on that front—aroused to no end at the sight of all your thoughts being fucked straight out of your head—and within the next few thrusts, his gut was giving a familiar clench. He pulled halfway out of your mouth, paused, felt the pinch again, then withdrew from your lips fully.

“Get on the bed.”

You straightened back up and made it over to the mattress, quickly. Before you could assume the position you’d been hoping to take on all fours, you felt yourself flipped on your back. Joel yanked your hips to the edge of the bed and kneeled down between your legs. Hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and had them shuffled down your thighs and past your ankles in no time at all. Then, when he lowered his lips to your wet, aching core, you pressed a touch to the crown of his head.

“Joel, wait,” you said. All of a sudden your chest felt tight.

In spite of the fact that your airways were open and completely free from any obstruction—namely, Joel’s big ol’ pico—you still found it difficult to inhale. Some murky, amorphous sense of anxiety weighed over your chest.

When your hand didn’t move from his head and instead pushed him further, Joel furrowed his brows, perplexed.

“What’s’a matter, darlin’?”

You shook your head, more to yourself than to him.

“I haven’t…just— haven’t washed down there today…o-or shaved,” you stammered, “Don’t want you to taste it.”

That was largely a lie. You’d bathed, shaved, and prepared for this just fine, but really were more concerned about the novel optics that loomed overhead. Being filmed in such a singularly vulnerable state without knowing how to act. You were fine when the attention was focused on Joel and his pleasure, but something about having your every whimper and moan laid bare before you on film felt daunting. Unnerving, in a way.

Joel frowned while rubbing your thigh. His brow pinched inward again, as if he were considering something.

Then he moved across your body, and your muscles eased with relief at the thought that he’d just let it go and get to fucking you exactly how you wanted. You reached for him, ready to wrap your legs around his waist, when a yelp clawed out of your throat. You found that you didn’t get to touch his chest, or his cheeks, or his big, broad, beefy shoulders, as you were promptly thrown over the latter of the three body parts and lifted when Joel stood up from the bed. He started carrying you across the room, heedless of the startled, ‘What the FUCK, Miller?’ you’d cried the second he took one step.

Hardwood floors transformed to tile before your eyes, and shortly, you realized you were being brought into your bathroom.

You heard the squeak of some metal knob being turned, then a brief sputter, then a spray of water raining down on your shower floor. You were still being held hostage over Joel’s shoulder, try as you might to bite at his lower back or smack his ass in an attempt to break loose.

He set you down a second later, seemingly unfazed.

“Get in.” He nodded toward the shower.

Before you had a chance to respond, he left. You stood back in disbelief—refusing to go into the shower and let Joel have his win—but just as you opened your mouth to call out and tell him as much, his form slipped back in through the door. Naked, now, and wielding that stupid, goddamned camcorder with a devious glint in his eye.

“Will you—” You held out a defensive hand in front of you, cheeks already heating, “—stop with that?!”

Secretly, the corners of your lips were fighting a smile as Joel drew closer with the camera held up to your face.

“There she is, folks,” he announced, as though speaking to a crowd, or else reading off of a script from the world’s most cheesy porno, “My dirty, dirty girl says she needs a shower—don’t ya, sweet pea?”

It sounded so ridiculous and dumb that neither one of you could keep from laughing. Even as you lifted your middle finger in response, Joel grinned and smacked your ass. Steadied the camera out in front, nudged you closer to the shower, and watched you somewhat begrudgingly obey his orders. Once you’d stripped what little remained on your body, you stepped into the tub.

Add to ‘ridiculous and dumb’ just wildly unsexy as well—who the hell needed a soapy interlude to a sex tape?

Joel Miller, apparently. He constricted his grip on the camera and followed you in, tongue already skimming the backs of his teeth in anticipation. You turned away to step under the shower’s stream, and he wasted no time getting a shot of your derrière. You leaned forward and sighed.

The water worked wonders to get your muscles to loosen some, but still, you were nervous. You could clean up now, stall a little longer, maybe even offer to give Joel head again—but what if he really wanted to eat you out on camera? You couldn’t put off the conversation forever.

Or another minute, it seemed.

You let out a shriek when you felt Joel’s fingers sneak up between your thighs. You hardly knew what he was doing, just folding limply when he spun you around to press your back against the shower wall. Your eyes widened to see him descending your body once more.

“I lied,” Joel said, smirk painted clear across his features, “You’re not dirty—I just wanted to eat your pussy in the shower ‘s’all.”

Chivalry was evidently alive and well in Austin, Texas.

No truer words could have been spoken, and yet, you felt wildly uncomfortable the second Joel’s head dipped between your legs and that big, dumb, handsome face started licking stripes up your sensitive core. You cast a glance to the side and saw the camcorder perched on the sink—just through the open slit in the shower curtain, you could see it pointed directly at you.

You shivered and started to push Joel away.

“Can we maybe just—”

“Sweetie?!”

Joel’s lips tore out of your cunt quicker than a sneeze through a screen door. His eyes were wide.

“Y-Yeah, dad?” you squeaked, tone almost fearful.

“Everything okay in here? I heard ya scream,” your dad returned shortly.

You could only imagine the expression of confusion and distress painting his every lineament in that moment. Probably just barely sticking his head through the crack in the door and blinking anxiously through the steam.

Your dad was caring like that.

He just never knew the right times to show up.

No, there were very few times where you would’ve liked to see him less—apart from that one time you’d sucked Joel’s dick under the table at your dad’s birthday dinner. Your heart was thudding a wild, erratic beat in your chest, and you could only imagine how Joel was feeling. Probably seeing visions of a Size 11 boot being shoved up his ass if his friend happened to slide the shower curtain to the side and see him nose-deep in his daughter’s box.

That would be bad. So very, very bad and probably ten times worse than when Tommy had caught you blowing his brother at the aforementioned birthday party. You just couldn’t seem to catch a break these days.

You sucked in a breath and answered anyway.

“I thought I saw a spider.”

“Really?” You could already sense the embittered tinge to your dad’s voice, harking back to the war he’d once declared on all wolf spiders in the home, “Want me to kill it?”

The next thing you heard was two boots thud on the bathroom floor outside the shower, and you could’ve sworn you saw Joel’s whole soul leap from his body. He shot a frantic look around him, spotted a window above, and seemed to wonder for half a second if he might be able to shimmy his 188-pound frame through a space that probably wasn’t big enough to fit a fat raccoon. He slumped his weight against the shower wall and winced.

“No! I— It wasn’t even a spider. Just a…roach.”

Shortly, Joel’s eyes widened even more and met yours, as if to ask, ‘Why the FUCK would you say that?’

“A roach?!” your dad cried simultaneously.

Apparently, you’d forgotten that any derivative of the word ‘cockroach’ was like a sleeper agent activation phrase for middle-aged fathers who wanted to keep their homes free of all household pests. The look on Joel’s haggard, world-weary face communicated as much to you, and for a second, you remembered that he, too, was built the same way as any other semi-old dude you knew.

Just bigger and beefier and…harder below the belt than you would’ve expected most men around his age to be.

You quickly chided yourself for ogling Joel’s dick at a time like this and replied to your father, shrill, “No!”

Then, slightly more composed, “No, no— I already took it out with some hairspray and told it to fuck off to hell.”

An attempt at humor was the last leg you had to stand on. Fortunately, it worked.

Outside the shower, your dad chuckled, and his footsteps started to shuffle off toward the door.

“Ah. Atta girl,” he beamed, ever the advocate for brutal cockroach killings, “If you see another, just holler, okay?”

“Okay.”

You heard the sound of the bathroom door closing, and you almost fell to the floor. Joel probably would’ve been facedown just as well—fear seeping out of his body along with every last ounce of willpower to stand—had he not made a dive for you as soon as your dad had left.

The force of his push sent you straight into the wall, legs forced to wrap around his waist as he buried his face in your neck.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed.

“You’re welcome,” you murmured, swiping the water out of your eyes with a grimace.

Then, just as you were about to request that Joel lower you back down to the floor and out of the shower’s spray, you felt a nudge between your legs. Luckily not a tongue this time—just Joel, or the tip of his leaking cock. The man below you grinned, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a wash of relief. Could it be?

“I’ll still eat you out if y’want,” he started, though speaking with a little less conviction this time around, “But after all that I, uh—kinda jus’ wanna fuck ya stupid.”

Well thank fuck for fake spiders and cockroaches, too; you’d just averted a dreaded tonguefuck, thanks to that detour.

You’d worry about your pornstar moans and on-camera charisma another time—now you could just sit back and let Joel do all the work while he took you against the wall.

Really, there was no need to concern yourself with anything at all from that point forward. Once you’d given Joel the green light, he was sinking you onto his cock with a grunt and making sure you felt nothing but him. His hands found your hips and held you firmly in place as he rutted into you from below, your own fingers latching onto his shoulders for some much-needed support. Both of you knew that you needed to be extra quiet now—seeing how sound seemed to carry in that tight, tiled space—so Joel snagged your lips in his for a kiss.

He was practically panting in your mouth by the time you started meeting his thrusts. His fingertips slid some and must’ve seared ten perfect crescents into the flesh of your ass as he fucked you into the wall.

“Look so pretty like this,” he whispered in between kisses and short, shallow breaths. His cock parted your insides with an excruciating welt of pleasure, and he hardly even seemed to realize it, “Look so damn pretty takin’ cock.”

Then, lips kicking up in a smile when it seemed he’d remembered something, he added, “Can’t wait to play this tape back home and watch us fuck all over again.”

Again. Again. And again. Shit, you could just see it now.

Your eyes traversed the compact shower space once more to find the video camera—still perched, still live, still perfectly implacable and silent atop the sink as it recorded your every grunt, groan, and shuddering moan. You were nearly as curious to know what Joel’s bare ass looked like rutting into you like this as you were to hear yourself getting railed against the shower wall. Maybe you’d beat this fear of secondhand embarrassment after all.

Maybe.

Joel’s teeth snagged your bottom lip and bit it, lightly.

“Every chance I get, you can bet I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout this…sweet pussy while you’re away,” he said, voice low and occasionally punctured by a groan, “Say one more thing f’me and I’ll…cum every time I watch this part.”

The kinks at the corners of his lips were endearing. You would’ve liked to supply them with just about anything they could’ve wanted, so when they leaned into your ear and murmured just what it was they needed to hear, you only hesitated a second.

Or maybe two or three, because, well…it was risky.

Moaning ‘daddy’ out loud at a time like this? It might get Joel off quick, but it might send your real dad running even faster. You weren’t crazy about the thought of anything that might draw the man’s attention again.

Joel seemed a little less risk-averse than you, notwithstanding the window-leaping fear he’d felt when your dad had rushed in before. Leave it to a criminally horny man to have the memory of a goldfish, though.

At present, Joel was blinking and gawking a bit like one, too, waiting for you to enunciate that one magic word.

You couldn’t deny he made a damn cute desperate sex fiend when he wanted to be. And you needed to cum.

You figured you could cut a deal with him just this once.

“Alright,” you mumbled against the top of his stubbled lip, “Make me cum and I’ll say anything you want, Miller.”

You weren’t sure if it was a chuckle or a strangled moan that jumped up in his throat when Joel squeezed your sides tighter. All you knew was that he was lowering you to the floor in the next instant, spinning you around, and walking you forward, swiftly and with purpose, toward the opposite end of the shower. Right where the crack in the curtain made you most visible to the camcorder.

Joel’s hand snaked around your front and gently eased between your legs. Then, pressing his chest to your back and nudging you to bend just slightly at the waist, he tipped your bodies closer to the camera’s line of vision and stilled. From the LED screen, you could see the ghost of a smile crossing his lips as he shifted his head beside your own. Next, they were kissing across your shoulder, your neck, that sensitive spot behind your ear, and finally the shell of it, brown eyes trained on the camera lens as he murmured to you, “Stay real still.”

You didn’t know if you could. But you tried. And you damn near cried when his fingers started working circles over your clit. Your body was raised on tip-toes, and your hand was bracing the wall as Joel fucked you from behind and made a mess of your wet, writhing body. In no more than three or four strokes, your fears of looking or sounding stupid on camera trickled away with all the rest of the silent, sizzling liquids circling the drain below. Your cheek pressed against Joel’s rougher one, and with the push of each new thrust, you came more unraveled.

When Joel’s hand closed over the front of your throat, you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move—couldn’t move, as the man was holding you still in such a taut, rigid grip.

“What do we say when we get fucked this nice, baby?” Joel whispered in your ear, words almost entirely masked by the sounds from the shower. You still heard it, though.

“T-Thank you,” you stuttered, cockdrunk and faint.

“Thank you, what?”

Your eyes were fluttering closed, but you could feel the smug expression just over your shoulder. You clenched around him and felt him snap his hips ahead even harder.

“Thank you, daddy,” you whimpered.

“Say it again.”

“Thank you, daddy!” you whined, still scared to be too loud.

Joel wasn’t scared. His hand ascended the column of your neck to pinch your chin between his fingers, jerking your head to the right.

To the crack in the curtain. To the camera.

You could’ve cried with how fast he was fucking you now. You opened your eyes and cast a pathetic look to the recorder. Joel made sure you maintained that gaze, too.

“Who’s makin’ ya feel this good?” he seethed, shaking your whole frame with the breakneck pace of his hips.

“You, daddy.”

“Who’s fuckin’ this sweet cunt like no one ever has?”

“You, daddy.”

Joel seemed sated and somehow not fully satisfied at all. Like he was pleased to see you falling apart for him like this, but needed to hear more. Feel more.

He withdrew from you, and you nearly collapsed with the absence of his arms holding you straight.

You pressed a shaky palm to the wall and almost moaned for him to get his ass back over here, you weren’t done, when Joel returned in a second. To your relief, his muscly arms found their way around your front once more, and his clock plunged back inside you, too—only this time, you sensed you were missing something else.

Water.

It wasn’t on your back anymore.

It was fanning between your legs.

Blasting the full force of its stream toward your most sensitive parts as Joel held the shower head up between your thighs. You would’ve jumped back and screamed were it not for his hand clamping tight over your mouth before you could, his lips grazing over your ear again.

“Try it one more time.”

You released a hoarse, muffled squeal into his palm when he lifted the stainless steel to your clit and started rolling his hips. The strokes themselves were relatively gentle, but paired with the ruthless spate of the water, your eyes were nearly rolling to the back of your head at the pulse.

You couldn’t breathe, much less speak. Joel hummed almost apologetically into your hair but didn’t seem sorry at all as he lowered his hand back down to your throat and squeezed. He continued rocking his hips into yours.

“You’ve said it dozens of times before—what’s’a matter?”

Joel Miller knew what the fuck was the matter. He just liked to see you desperate, fucked-out, and teetering on the brink of going feral before he let you reach your peak.

“D-D-D—”

Damn, you sounded stupid.

“D-D-Do you wanna cum? Is that it?” Joel said, mocking your struggle to articulate words as he fucked you.

In spite of your normal no-bullshit attitude toward him, you weren’t in quite the right frame of mind to be talking back to him. You just nodded and moaned, movements constricted by the grip of his fingers on your neck.

“Use those big girl words for me, honey. I know ya can.”

Again, you parted your lips and started to speak, but the oscillation of the water, the brush of his cock, the patently deprecating lilt in Joel’s string of praises, made it nearly impossible. You ended up sputtering again,

“D-D-ah-fuuuckfuckfuck.”

“That ain’t the word I’m looking for.”

But, just as you ventured to say it once more, he cut in,

“Here. Lemme help ya find it.”

Before you could blink, Joel was pistoning his hips against your ass like he had before, only this time, he held the shower head stationary between your legs as you seized and nearly fell to the floor with the force of all the pleasure coursing through you. Your body seemed to act of its own accord, head dropping to Joel’s shoulder and stomach giving an alarmingly fitful pinch as an orgasm tore through you. You couldn’t control how it came or where it went—or how your tongue jumped up and cried,

“Daddy!”

Joel nodded, fucking you through each violent spasm with all the composure and aplomb of a seasoned pro. While your eyes cycled back in the throes of delirium, he held firm and didn’t slow his hips—or the shower head.

You probably could’ve torn a hole through a cinder block if you’d happened to have one between your teeth just then. That was how fervid and merciless the aftershocks of your climax were pulsing through you, exacerbated to the nth degree by the continuity of Joel’s movements. You managed to grab the forearm that was holding the metal nozzle and plead a wild, slightly stifled, “JOEL!”

In truth, you didn’t really want him to stop. It felt too good. You could tell that Joel sensed this, too, because in the instant after that, his lips were sponging kisses to your shoulder, cock working steadily between your walls.

“One more, sweet pea.”

“Joel—”

“And say it louder this time.”

Were you in your right mind, you probably would’ve chided him for being so reckless and stupid about it all. How the fuck could he expect you to scream out loud when your dad was lounging right outside of your room? Did he really think the drone of Cillian Murphy’s smooth, American-ized tone would mask your unbridled moans? Honestly, you couldn’t be sure—and more importantly, you couldn’t be stopped to consider for much longer. With one last trembling vibration from the shower head and a thrust from Joel, you were cumming all over again.

Squeezing his arm, sinking into his sturdy frame, clenching over his cock in what felt like a hundred convulsions, and casting caution aside, you screamed:

“DADDY!”

You might’ve blacked out for a second or two.

Even a minute, as it was, because the next intelligible thing that reached your ears was the thunder of footfalls. And the thrum of Joel’s own hammering heart as he yanked you into his chest and stilled frozen inside you.

The door swung open on its hinges so hard it hit the wall.

“What is it, sweetie?!” your dad yelped.

“I—”

“Are you hurt?”

Just fucked raw by your best friend and shaking, Pops.

You sucked in a breath when Joel nudged your head with his nose and slowly pulled the shower curtain closed to move you out of view of the camera. But it was still there.

Your dad was still there.

The shower walls seemed to be closing in on you, but somehow, you managed, “No, dad, I’m fine! Just…coulda sworn I saw another spider in here, but it was nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Your dad sounded unconvinced, pacing closer. You could’ve screamed, but Joel was likely holding you too tight to make any such sounds possible in that moment. The two of you recoiled, still stuck chest-to-back, away from the edge of the plastic shower liner when a boot thudded just outside the crack between curtain and wall.

You swallowed. Joel squeezed. Neither of you breathed.

“If it’s another roach, I gotta call the extermin—”

“No! No, it wasn’t a roach. I’m just seein’ things, I think.”

That didn’t seem to make your father feel any better, because he didn’t retreat like he had before. A tense moment fell over the compact, fog-infested room, like the man was chewing away at some thought in his head.

Then he sighed.

“Alright.”

Blissful footsteps away from the shower. You smiled.

Unfortunately, the grin was destined to be short-lived, because in the next instant, you heard boots screech to a halt on the tile. Pivoted, then paused where they stood.

Another gut-wrenching dozen seconds passed, and for one short, chilling moment, you could’ve sworn you felt your father’s gaze sear through the curtain and see you.

But he didn’t see you. Or Joel. Or anyone.

Instead, his gaze was fixed someplace else.

Suddenly, his voice rose above all the awful noises of clamor and panic in your brain, and broke out, loudly,

“What’s my camera doin’ in here?”

#TO THE CREATIVE MINDS WHO BROUGHT THIS MAN’S BUSH TO TELEVISION…..I OWE Y’ALL MY LIFE #it took COURAGE and TENACITY to decide that showing the happy trail was essential to the narrative #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller

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lovelybrooke · 3 months

Note

in you drabble to the reader realizing they’re immortal charlie goes to call her dad. how did he react?

This is kinda short, but is based on these two works.

Lucifer meeting reader for the first time.

Hotels reaction to readers powers.

This messes with canon a little bit but I don't think ya'll really care that much.

masterlist

---

Lucifer always felt like he was a good dad.

He always tried his best to raise Charlie to be a great young woman, and while she wasn't never the epitome of a demon princess, she was great in her own way.

But, now that she's older, and now that Lilith is gone, he finds himself missing being a father. He misses when Charlie was small and he found himself spending all his time just holding her. Or when he'd read Charlie bedtime stories and watch her slowly fall asleep.

He misses being a family. He misses his daughter.

And on his worst days, he thinks of you. He thinks of holding you, listening to your cries slowly die down and feeling you snuggling up into his shoulder. He imagines what it would've been like if you didn't disappear, if you were still here with him. And he wonders where you are now, what you look like, what happened to you. He never told Charlie or Lilith what happened, a part of him wanted to keep you to himself.

His phone was ringing.

That was a surprise, but what was more strange was that it was his daughter. It was Charlie, and he felt his heart twist. Why was she calling, was there a problem, did something happen to here.

When he finally quit his worrying and picked up his phone, he was greeted with the nervous laugh of his daughter. "Dad! Hi..."

"Charlie---what's wrong?" He didn't know what else to say, he's to used to talking to his daughter, as sad as that sounds.

"Oh--nothing much..." She exclaims. He could hear her pacing, making him believe it was definitely not nothing much. "It's just--um--theres a human here...in the hotel." Charlie whispered the last part, but he heard it clearly. It was like he couldn't breathe, and everything around him stood still.

"---What...a-are you sure?" He muttered out quietly, unsure. HIs mind was racing with possibilities. How did a human get in hell? Was it you? Are you back? How old are you? Do you remember him?

Do you remember him? That made his stomach sink. Of course you had to remember him, why wouldn't you. But you were also so young, so there's a chance you know nothing about him, that he means nothing to you.

And that scares him, so he choses not to think about it.

"Yeah, I'm sure." Charlie said, louder this time. "--Dad, did you know about this?" Charlie asked, sounding almost guilty.

"...No." He partially lied. He couldn't tell Charlie he knew you, because then he'd have to tell Charlie how he met you, and everything would unravel in such an ugly way. He didn't know you were here though...

If he knew you were here...well he's not exactly sure what he would've done if he was being honest.

"No." He repeated, more sure of himself.

"Okay." Charlie responded. "--there's something else I need to talk to you about, could you come to the hotel?"

Charlie was inviting him somewhere, that was a surprise. "Of course! Yes." He answered excitedly. He'd get to see Charlie and he'd get to see you, hopefully. Hopefully it was you, and you'd remember him.

And if you didn't, then at least you'd still be here, back with him.

Lucifer always felt like he was a good dad.

But he misses being a father.

---

A/n: Sorry this was so short, I hope you enjoyed it.

#yandere x reader #soft yandere #platonic yandere #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #platonic yandere hazbin hotel #yandere hazbin hotel

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saetoru · 2 years

Text

[ 𝟐:𝟒𝟔 𝐀𝐌 ] 𝐌𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐎𝐍.

“mammon!” you shriek, soft giggles airing through the room.

“i told ya i’d eat ya,” he chuckles, nibbling on your cheeks as he hovers over you, hands pinning yours above your head to keep you caged. “‘m gonna devour ya if ya don’t take it back.”

it’s late, and mammon should be asleep if he wants to pass his exam tomorrow—and he really needs to if he doesn’t want to be held back—but he thinks he’ll take the extra grogginess in the morning if it means hearing the sweet sound of your laugh like this.

“not…gonna take it b-back!” you say between fits of laughter. he stares down at you, stares at the way your cheeks widen as you smile, as your eyes crinkle and your lashes cast a shadow over your skin.

and maybe if he had to pick, he’d say his favorite part about you is this—the human and fragile part that makes his heart ache, the part that makes him feel like you need him, the part that makes him realize every little moment means something when you don’t have centuries to live.

“oh yes ya are,” he scowls, “nobody insults the great mammon and gets away with it. ‘specially not some human,” he moves to bite at your other cheek, tongue swiping across your skin and making you gasp.

“ew, mammon,” you whine, “you’re gross.”

“bleh,” he twists his face, eyes glinting with playfulness, “ya taste rotten. ain’t no way anyone could eat ya.”

“how rude,” you huff, poking his chest with a pout on your lips. and for a second, he almost leans in to kiss it off. “i’m delicious. you have no idea what you’re saying.”

“i’ve tasted humans in my many years,” he says matter of factly, “i know plenty.”

“that’s why i said you’re old,” you snort, “you even have the white hair to prove it.” your fingers ruffle through the snowy locks atop his head, and he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed as his cheeks burn a little with heat.

“h-hey! i told ya to take it back, not say it again,” he grumbles, and this time, it’s his turn to pout. “the great mammon’s also the most handsome. a-admit it, go on.”

you smile, and he doesn’t meet your eyes. and he’s starting to realize this is a bit of a compromising position—he really hopes no one walks in or he’ll never live it down. his face is just inches above yours, and it wouldn’t be hard to close the gap between your lips, to feel your warmth and get a taste of you.

“you are handsome,” you murmur, no hints of teasing in your tone, just honeyed smiles laced with truth. he gulps, looking down, avoiding your gaze as your hands gently pry free from his grasp. and he’s almost certain you can feel the heat of his cheeks as you cup them.

“h-hey, what do ya think you’re d-doing,” he huffs, furrowing his brows and pretending to frown, “s-stop that, i ain’t a child.”

if you notice him lean into your palms despite his words, you say nothing—and he’s grateful.

“no, you’re an old man,” you giggle, squishing his cheeks together. mammon thinks if he weren’t immortal, you’d kill him right here—and it’s not the worst way to go, he thinks, basked in your touch as your scent floods his senses.

in fact, if he had to go, he thinks this would be how he’d want to.

“quit callin’ me tha—” you cut him off with the press of your lips, making his eyes widen before they flutter shut, pressing firmly against you as your thumb rubs his cheek.

and mammon’s lived a long life, he’s felt the familiar lull of hands over his skin, he’s tasted lips that mold against his over and over, but nothing’s quite ever felt like this. no one has ever left his skin warm like the sun resides in your fingertips, and no one’s lips have fit against his like they were meant for him.

and then he wonders if you were made for just him, if he was always meant to fall and meet you here, if being damned like this was his own way of being blessed. so he kisses you, cups your cheek right back and let’s out a shaky breath against your mouth before he all but devours you whole.

“i love you,” you murmur when you pull away, forehead pressed against his. because mammon, under dark wings and large horns, under tough words and a rough exterior, under heavy sins and a tainted past, is the closest to an angel you’ve ever seen.

and when his body sinks into the mattress beside you, arms wrapping around you and pulling you flush against him, you think you’ve found a heaven built just for you in his hold.

“course ya do,” he mumbles with a cheeky grin, eyes bright and face warm, “and i love ya too, ya rotten human.”

#teepods.writings #drabbles.#mammon x reader #mammon x you #mammon x mc #mammon fluff #obey me x reader #obey me x you #obey me x mc #obey me fluff

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apollosgiftofprophecy · 3 months

Note

So I was reading your Athena & Apollo headcanons and it made me think of a hc to help fill a (very mild but infinitely frustrating) plot hole in the books! (Well, plot hole is stretching it, it’s not even a plot dent, more like a detail inconsistency that affects Literally Nothing but it has driven me crazy since I read mcga)

The detail in question: Why are all of Athena’s kids blonde and (possibly) curly-haired, when Annabeth is said to get her hair from her dad and Athena has never actually appeared as a blonde? (Aside from that time in Sea of Monsters but tbf that was a hallucination so possibly not accurate). It’s bothered me for a while, because Athena doesn’t Do romance and therefore it wouldn’t really make sense for her to have a Type, right? Why would someone attracted to mortal’s intellect care about their hair color? I guess I just figured she’d been blonde for a while and decided to go brunette later, but the “dumb blonde” stereotype has been around for a long time, having been especially prevalent since the ‘50s, and I can’t imagine Athena to want to be seen as anything less than the smartest person in the room.

But then your hcs got me thinking… we know that Athena is very proud, but she’s also deeply insecure. Like, “she got made fun of for playing the flute One Time by two goddesses known to be bitchy that she already did not get along with and threw it into the woods with a curse and refused to pick it up again (until Apollo coaxed her to)” insecure. And she doesn’t have very many friends, does she? Apollo’s kind of all she has, other than mortals, but her relationship with mortals is that of a devotee and a god. Reverence is not the same thing as connection. But Apollo, who is in a similar boat to her, makes connections so easily! Even at his worst, he makes people like him against both his and their will. Even his relationships with his devotees were… well they were messy lbr but they were also very genuine, most of the time. There was something more, there.

So, all this rambling to say: what if the reason Athena’s kids all look so similar is because Athena chose to look like Apollo? I don’t think she chose to act like him, but. I dunno. Maybe she thought mortals would like her better if she looked more like her pretty, popular brother. She’s always had to listen to people, mortals and immortals alike, praise her brother for just about everything while she had to fight for even a scrap of respect. Maybe she thought she could absorb at least a little of that something that makes people genuinely like him. That something that draws her to him again and again. Maybe it’s like armor, pulling on her brother’s face. If they don’t like her, it’s not because it’s her, right? Apollo’s been driving everybody crazy lately, anyway… (and yet, he’s still more beloved than her…)

And that ALSO feeds into my preexisting headcanons about Apollo looking like a Chase, which is fun!! (I think his modern godly form looks more similar to Magnus but Lester has a face/hair texture that is really, really similar to annabeth’s! So when he bashes the two forms together he makes the two of them look even more like siblings because he’s basically a bridge between the two of them, lol. But his old godly form looked strikingly similar to Annabeth in a lot of ways… hmmmm.)

Anyway it’s kind of a convoluted hc and once again falls into the “Apollo is the specialist little guy in the WORLD” mindset but I!!! Just like it!!!! When siblings are weird and messy!!! And admiration gets mixed up with jealousy and genuine affection is twisted by circumstance and time!!! And identity issues!!! And loneliness!!! It’s latching on to someone and having them be your whole world when you know that you’re just a small part of theirs!!! AUGHHH. Weird fucked up Olympus dynamics my belovedddd

HELLO LONG ASK

I never noticed this before, but this explanation seems Interesting👀

And don't worry, this fandom basically goes "AND THIS IS WHY APOLLO IS [insert description here" ALL the time XD

BUT YES THE COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP EAT THEM UP WE ARE EATING THEM TOGETHER!!! :D

#the oracle speaks #the trials of apollo #apollo #athena #knowledge n wisdom #pjo apollo #pjo athena #magnus chase and the gods of asgard #magnus chase #annabeth chase #fredrick chase #natalie chase

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zaynsxsoul · 10 months

Text

Honey sunbathed summer | Eddie Munson x Reader

summary: sleepy summer afternoon at the trailer park, ice cream debates, and sloppy kisses with Eddie ♡

warnings: 1k words, fluff, curse words, established relationship, play fighting, teasing, just a short cozy summer drabble

my masterlist

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The heated rejoicing colors of purple, blue and coral red, light brightly the dozy sunday skies of Forest Hills Trailer park. The flushed summer sunset rises the glossy evening, which is only around two hours away until the moon begins its hike within the stars.

The four p.m. afternoon has a certain magical aura to it. The one when simpleness turns into mere worthy admiration. The start of summer at Hawkins usually has that effect.

Right in front of the limit that crosses the division between the quiet forest and the trailer park, lies a kiddy pool that’s being more than enjoyed by children whose voices reflect the excitement of the simpleness that water gives at any age.

A racing water slip slide is set right across Eddie’s trailer too. A hose sends the right amount of water and soap ratio for it to be slippery enough for the nine year olds who play some sort of made up secret coded game that only they understand. The watermist kisses the tip of your nose from time to time.

The thought of summer accompanied by fudgy banana splits, water, the smoky whiff of a deliciously glazed barbecue aroma coming from nearby, forest tree leaves transporting the warm heat, and the essence of freshly mowed lawn that vaporizes the smell of wet dirt and grass, never fails to spike a shot of serotonin.

And within the immortalized echo of the melody produced by the bustle from the neighbors, wind chimes, the evening honey whiff, water splashes and cicadas, your laughter fades into that chorus among Eddie’s voice.

Because although outside on his porch the heat is still unbearable, skin being sticky under your two piece playsuit, and every texture feeling fuzzy and icky, that doesn’t even come close to ruining spending time with him.

The smell of your coconut scented sunscreen feels like summer itself. Even more when you had applied it, –or more like bathed— Eddie’s reluctant scrunched face in it as well.

And how couldn’t you? after the awful experience of his almost burnt to shrimp-skin the other day at the pool. But as impossible as it seems, even with gooey sunscreen that draws a line from his cheeks and down his nose, he looks radiant, sitting just a few inches away from you.

With hair pulled back and a low pony from which some reluctant little hairs fall, he smiles. It’s hard not to think about how enchantingly adorable he is with that hairstyle. As adorable as you’d love to squish his little face and make him turn love sick out of kisses.

His torso is covered by a very thin black fabric shirt. Your bare leg brushes from time to time with his knee. And you can swear that his warmth adds even more heat to the afternoon. A certain type of heat that you probably don’t mind feeling.

He himself is in awe at the beautifully deified sight of your cheeks, plum red and glossy, at the way your legs sit crossed in front of his and move sporadically, how your shoulders shine and bathe golden under the toasty sun. And he can’t help but adore the way your eyebrows furrow, concentrating on the deck of twenty plus cards that you hold right below your face.

“You’ve had the worst luck today” He mocks. The cheshire cat-like grin teasing ever more when you’re taking your sweet time to pick a card.

“I can’t let you win again.” You pout, arms falling down as if you were mid-surrender. “It means you’d win over my Candy Center Crunch!” He chuckles boyishly, and you react with a mixture between an eye roll and a grin when you understand the reason why. “You’re being dirty”

“Funny Feet would be better though” The sight of his spread abdomen, glimmering with water and sweat when he leans back being supported by his hands is surely divine.

“Eddie! God, that sounds even worse” He can’t help but smile stupidly at the sight of your nose scrunch. “Do I honestly have to not just bear with you stealing my ice cream but also underestimating it for a Funny Feet popsicle?”

“Uh tut-tut, not stealing, winning, snippy” He reprimands playfully.

“Who even likes funny feet? I’d only let you undermine center crunch over a snoopy ice pop or choco taco”

“What?” And he sounds crushed. Like if you had said the most insultingly revolting thing ever. “The snoopy ice pop sucks, babe” He states mid chuckle. “It’s just fake marshmallow. Fuck, it’s not even an ice pop”

“It is an ice pop!”

“If there’s no fruit or water is not an ice pop” He states.“you only like it because it’s a dog” You shrug, playfully ticked.

“It’s not any dog, Eddie, it’s Snoopy” He pinches the doughy soft flesh of your thigh gently after the correction.

“Either way, I won”

By laying his last remaining card on the main deck, his victory is endured. Cheerful hands shake your shoulders back and forth in a celebratory motion until the palms also drum your legs gently.

And you still can't believe that he is walking over to the kitchen and taking your beloved crunchy ice cream out of the fridge, much less how he is mocking you by showing it and smiling like a child from where he stands.

“Fuck, this is so good”

Your eye almost twitches when he plops on the couch, and it doesn’t take more than a few seconds for you to follow and sit beside him. The coldness of the tin-like material is dripping water.

You’re staring deeply.

With the corner of his eye and a smile evoked from the edge of his lips, he looks at you in amusement while fidgeting with the crinkly bag. As if seeing you like this was the funniest thing he’d ever experienced.

And in the back of his mind, when the ice cream is already out of the wrapper, he actually feels bad by just the sight of the way your eyes reflect those of a puppy imploring for food.

“Here” He hands it over, although you don’t take it yet. “You can see it”

“Stop it!” His burlesque snort that mocks your plea turns into a gasp when you push his own hand when he leans for a bite.

The taste of revenge is sweet. Quite literally.

The expression on your face changes to a splendid smile, observing his vainilla covered cheek and reminiscing the way it landed there because of you.

“Give me a bite” You pout. mouth watering at the sight of his lips and teeth sinking into it

He nods. Unbothered by the cream that drips from his face. You wish you could seem more stern, but when he’s leaning near your face making a growling lion sound ready to bite into your cheek, It’s absurdly impossible to not break down to giggles.

“You know what I mean, Eds”

“No! you bet on this, you little cheater. Plus, look at what you just did” His finger points at his distressed cheek, as if you hadn’t noticed yet.

“I can fix that”

Your hand presses onto his thigh while scooting over. The tip of your tongue licks expertly the trace of the sweet chocolate iridescence that drips from his lip, right where the vainilla drop slides. His skin is soft against your tongue.

From the proximity he can feel the scent of your perfume, the reminiscences of wildflower shampoo mixed in with sunscreen, pool chlorine and your own aroma. It’s a bewilderment that makes him shiver even inside of the heat box that his trailer is.

And when your face leans a little closer, his own gesture drops once you’re swiftly biting into the ice cream very slightly. A cold bit of the peanut covered chocolate crust falls to his leg, instantly melting over his warmth.

“Stop it” He laughs. “Thief” But it’s pointless to make a fuss out of it when he has already surrendered.

“Whoops, sorry” You say, the tip of your tongue licking the trace of the chocolate on his leg. And shortly after, the trace that melts down his fingers and knuckles.

“You can’t do that” You raise your eyebrows innocently. “This! with the cute little face and big eyes.”

“Why not? Always seems to work” The silence of the stare is gratifying, and when he grins it feels like he’s trying to say ‘it really fucking does’.

“You know? It’s real sad you stole from me, cause’ I had something else for ya’”

With a covered face behind rebel brown locks of hair that escaped the pony, he looks over his shoulder and seems to stretch to grab something. Sparks rise when he’s pulling out a beautiful snoopy ice pop that crinkles like the sound of heavenly chants.

“You got it for me?” When your smile turns into a dazzling glare, and your eyes shoot flickering stars, he yearns for the magnificent instant to last a little longer.

“Of course I did, I said I despise the snoopy fake ice pop, or ice cream or whatever, but shit, how I love that smile of yours when you see it.”

Moved by burning excitement, your hand moves to grab it, but when he pulls it away, your face naturally lands near his. So taking advantage of the situation, the skin of your cheek purposely but flawlessly rests on his jaw.

“Not so fast. What am I getting in return?” The magical sound of his question ardently stirs the butterflies on your lower belly.

“A bite out of it?”

When his mouth puckers expectantly, the sweetness of your kiss mends the itch of his expecting lips. The chocolate taste that lingers on him is heavenly, dipped proudly, praising the feeling. Your mouth is cold from the ice cream. His is colder.

It’s gooey, and messy, and sticky. And that’s what makes it so special.

When you pull away, a love sick smile welcomes you back from the celestial trip. And with nothing more to say other than thinking ‘well deserved’, he hands over the ice pop.

“Thank you, Teddie” You coo, pulling the bag away to reveal snoopy’s cheeky smile.

He might adore the proximity of the defining moment once you sit on his lap more than anything else. The dear moment pains and soothes his heart in the most beautiful ways.

“You’re welcome, ice pop” His giggles come out like a mewl.

From honey sunbathed shoulders, Eddie pulls you in closer to his chest. Serenity steps into the moment when his jawline bobs with each bite lolling you towards tranquility, when his arms hug you close, when his proximity is intimately tender. And although you’re both sticky and sweaty, it couldn’t be more insignificant right about now.

The sun is finally fading. And the sky prepares to welcome the night, which you hope comes with faith of a cooler breeze. through the open front door and blowing curtains, you admire with heavy eyelids the way the golden evening glimmers his skin.

And when the warmth of his embrace makes you dizzy, the taste of vanilla takes a trip down your taste buds, and laughter and the conversations from not so far away make your heart swole, you think there’s nowhere in this world you’d aspire more to be, than here.

Because when summer makes it’s glorious entrance, it means afternoons being spent just like this in Eddie’s company. Which always makes it all better.

Even better than Snoopy Ice creams, Crunch Center, and Choco Tacos all merged into one.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson st4 #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson fluff #eddie stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things #eddie st4 #st4 vol2

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aromanticautiesworld · 3 months

Note

MARTINER PLS IM BEGGING FOR ANYTHING FERN X READER 😓

Specifically a gn!musician reader who's chill and easy going, (sort of balances fern out/similar to marshall lee) who teases fern sometimes and becomes friends with fern, fern develops a crush on them and gets jealousy of the friendship between finn and the reader and finally gets the guts to confess.

ADD ANYTHING TO THE PROMPT BC YOURE A GREAT WRITER <333

AHGJH THANK U!! i LOVE this req btw im gonna incorporate it into my belief system

////

fern with a musician gn!reader (art by mee!)

word count: 1789

The first time, he met you through Finn.

One lousy sunday evening Finn invited you over (he will often invite people over to the treehouse with no warning), the sky was halfway dark, and you looked like you walked all the way here.

You wore a large case on your back, hair tied up and a pencil slid behind your ear. Slung across your shoulder was a duffel bag which he would soon discover was full of paper (paper is weird to think about. It used to be trees, and he’s kinda related to trees now. It’s not cannibalism yet, but it’s close. Corpse desecration, maybe. He doesn’t feel that strongly about it anyways, nor does he feel very close to the trees, even if he technically is) with scrawled half-written lyrics all over them.

“Anyone home?” You half-yell from the bottom of the treehouse. Finn was out on the deck, doing who-the-hecking-gob-knows-what with Jake.

Fern sits perched from his up hiding spot (you could only see his glowing eyes, if you were looking up). He slithers down the ladder, remaining unseen (he doesn’t want to be. They’re a new person. New people are scary), tail flicking.

When you notice him, you quickly turn around. “Hey,” You squint. “Finn?”

There is a pause as he is torn between opting out of this conversation entirely and actually talking. “Fern, actually.”

“Oh. Cool name,”

“I picked it.”

“My parents gave me mine, but I’m considering changing it.”

“Why would you wanna change your name?”

You shrug, “I like to live my life on the edge. Me n’ your roommate got a jam sesh happening right now, you should join,”

There’s a beat of silence. “…I don’t think I’m invited. Grass boys can’t play the flute. Grass boys can’t even breathe.” Fern crosses his arms and looks down, frowning.

Worry flickers over your eyes, if you blink you’ll miss it. “Hmm…” You look to the side, in thought. “Well, now you are. ‘Grass boy’.” You smile ever so slightly when using the nickname he’s given for himself.

“Hey! Only I get to call myself that!”

“Sure, grass boy. C’mon, he’s probably out on the deck,” You walk to the ladder, gesturing for him to follow.

And, for no reason he can think of, he follows you. It’s like he wants to be around you, which is weird. He usually stops himself from being around people, they either treat him like he is Finn or like he’s the opposite. He’s not either, though.

He picks off a flower from his shoulder. Where did that come from?

The fourth time, you had a BFF sleepover. Fern had crawled onto the outside of the tree, to both not intrude and not do something wrong (it was the worst thing when Jake looked at him like that. He doesn’t want you to look at him like that too). The distant sounds of the Candy Kingdom and Jake lamenting at not winning card wars are all the sounds there are, up there.

Until the sounds of someone crawling onto the roof with him.

He sharply turns, ready to fight off whatever evil was trying to kidnap Finn or Jake (or both) this time. But no, it’s just you again.

“Was Jake too mean in card wars?”

“No, I just lost. They’re playing elimination, I don’t feel like watching the rest.”

You plop down right next to him.

“Y’ever been there?” You look up at the sky.

Fern squints, “That cloud?”

“No, pom-pom. The sky.” (This was a new nickname, made after the discovery of his dandelion tail).

“No. Wait! Yes. Magic man was doing some b-s with my bro, so I had to meet the immortal King of Mars.”

“Then what?”

“He died.”

You snort. It wasn’t an intentional joke, but he gets that weird buzzy feeling again.

“Whoa, poms. You’re like, covered in flowers.”

Finn groans. “Aghh! Again??” He sits up and rushes to brush the reds, yellows and oranges off himself.

He turns to you smiling at him in his flower frenzy, frown heavy upon his face.

“What?” He asks, accusatory, grass puffed up (the image reminds you of an angry cat).

“Nothing. Just you.”

Fern’s tail twitches, he de-puffs and he brings his knees to his chest.

It’s quiet again, you both sitting in comfortable silence.

“We may not have sunshine, or starlight, or weather,

But we've got each other, and that's even better.

You don't need the sun to keep you warm when you've got arms,

Wishes come from you and not a random shooting star.

We may not have storm clouds, but the sky's always blue,

We've got something special here

And what we have is you

What we have is you

What we have is you…”

You look over to grass-boy, asking if he liked it, but you stop yourself halfway. He was asleep.

You brush the stray hairs out of his face, before climbing back off the roof to probably lose card wars again. Such is the tragedy of sleepovers.

Fern would later wake up, and have an important realization.

Fern messes around with his…Finn’s old racecar track toy. He then drops it to the floor.

“I got a question for you, Finn.”

“What’s up, dude?”

“If I…hypothetically…liked…someone… how would I go about doin’ that?”

“You got a crush?”

“No! It’s hypothetical.”

Finn squints at him.

“Hypothetical.”

Finn continues to squint.

“Hy-po-the-ti--”

“No no, I got it.”

“Okay.”

“Well…I would say you tell them how you feel.”

Flowers cover his face again. “Noooooo!! What if they don’t like me back? What if they like someone else?”

Finn shrugs, “Then they don’t like you back. I had a crush on PB for years, she never liked me back and we’re still friends.”

“But what if…”

“Dude.” Finn stops him. “You got this.”

Fern would appreciate his cheering on, but he’s not so sure Finn would say the same thing had he known it was you, or that he’s got this. He knows you like spending time with Finn more than him.

The ???th time (he’s lost count), you invited him along again, with Finn, (and basically everyone else in Ooo, to be honest. It happens when you’re friends with Finn) to a TV night for your birthday. It was an old one you scavenged up, “My Little Pony” or something (his favorite character is Rainbow Dash).

After many weeks of toeing around the idea of asking you out (that time you guys made pancakes, when you went for a dip in the river He’s going to do it tonight.

You sat next to him (close. to him), singing along to the many, many songs over the noise of the crowd behind the couch.

“No, I do not love the groom, in my heart there is no room—” You lean into him and he mumbles along with the lyrics, small smile on his face.

“Finally the moment has arrived! For me, to be one lucky bride…” Finn is also singing. He pauses, staring off into space, before snapping up. “Oh yeah!”

“Hm?” You look across Fern to him.

“C’mere dude, I gotta show you something!”

You get up from his side, going with Finn, and leaving him disappointed.

He follows the duo, though the mild party and to the hallway where Finn was lugging a huge box.

“I got you a present!”

“Oh, awesome,”

“You wanna open it?”

“Hold on,” You pull a pair of scissors out of your pocket. Why it was in there, no one will ever know.

Fern then gets hit by the realization that he forgot to get you a present. How the heck did he think he could just /show up/ to your party without one?

“Oh, Finn, this is so cool! Thanks so much,” You admire the new guitar you’d window shopped for a few weeks ago, which Finn had apparently taken notice of.

“It’s NP, DW about it.”

“Why are you talking in acronyms?”

“It’s a new thing I’m trying out.”

Fern shuffles over to you. “Hey, um, [ ]? Can I talk to you about something?”

“What’s up?”

He lowers his head more. “Can I talk to you about it in private?”

You look back at Finn, then nod and gesture for him to follow into a more secluded hallway, the muffled sounds of dance music vibrating through the walls.

You don’t say anything, and instead are listening intently (terrifying). Fern has to take a deep breath to steady himself.

“I….um….” He begins to fidget with his hands, “I think you’re really cool. And…you’re one of the only people who doesn’t look at me like a monster. And I like hanging out with you and I wanna hang out more and…”

You nod, urging him to continue.

“…andddddd I—”

“AAAAAAAH!” A scream from the party interrupts him.

“GIANT WORM!”

You both immediately run out, to see a monster breaking through one of the walls of your house, jerking around violently as Finn already had his sword around its neck (?).

Fern rushes in, grass sword already whipped out.

He joins Finn on its head (? Again. It’s a worm) stabbing it, rapidly. Its pink blood drips down the side of its face, onto your floor. It begins jerking and twitching even more violently now, trying to shake Fern off.

Finn struggles, and tries to get a stable footing, before the force it’s using to try and get both him and Fern off plunges Finn’s sword right through its neck.

Its head falls right to the floor, Fern still on it, who is still stabbing.

Finn continues to fight the rest of the worm’s body, which has since retreated outside and is currently trying to spit acid at him, leaving barren spots in the grass with only mildly dissolved dirt.

You crouch in front of Fern, putting your hand on his shoulder.

“I think it’s had enough, grass boy,”

He looks up at you, then back down at the corpse-head, and re-sheathes the grass sword.

“What were you saying?”

Feen blinks. What was he saying?

You stare at him, intently.

Oh yeah, absolute fear. “I…..”

“……reallyreallylikeyou. Alotalot.” He snaps his eyes shut when he says it, only opening one a moment later to gauge your reaction.

You knew this already, but you wanted to wait until he was sure of his feelings.“Awww, I like you too! you little pom-pom.” You squish his (flower covered) face.

“Stop it!” He complains.

“Nope, we're partners. You can’t escape me now,”

‘Nooooooooooo…”

“Go Fern! Yeahhh!” Finn shouts from where he stood on the decapitated corpse on the worm, covered in pink blood.

You giggle, before it slowly subsides. “Wait a minute. How am I gonna pay for my house?”

#mariner writes #mariner art #adventure time x reader #fern the human #fern x reader #x reader #THIS TOOK TOO LONG IM SOOO SORRY

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gabessquishytum · 10 months

Note

Various beings are grumbling about the Endless. One family, too much power, too arrogant, too detached from all the other beings in the universe. It’s hardly a new complaint, one the Endless have either ignored or argued with over the centuries, but it’s increased recently, and now Destiny has announced it's time, here's the address, they’ll be having a family dinner in three months to welcome the new member.

Night and Time accept this and go to create a new Endless. They are surprised Destiny directed them to an immortal mortal, but don’t feel like arguing. Hob has a very confusing and painful few days and finally emerges as Determination of the Endless.

(A more accurate translation would be Sheer Pig-Headedness, but the English version keeps the alliteration)

It takes a bit of time for Hob to adjust, and Dream is supportive but distant. After all, Hob's meant to be an outsider providing balance. Hob though, is determined not to lose his friend and also take that chance he's always been too afraid to take.

Dream doesn’t stand a chance. In the end, he doesn’t mind. Although he does wish Hob hadn't chosen the family dinner to act.

(I love Hope of the Endless but I think it was stubbornness, not hope that kept him going.)

Yes!!! Determination!!!! I absolutely think this is Hob’s greatest quality. And definitely an interesting one to add to the Endless fam, since it does seem to encompass something that it intrinsic to the human psyche!

I love the idea of Night and Time rocking up at Hob’s flat one day like. “Hello. We have a proposition for you. You do not get to say no. Please do not resist.” And of course Hob’s immediate response is “no, absolutely not.” And literally slams the door in their faces??

Which only convinces them that Hob is totally perfect for the role.

He becomes Determination of the Endless despite is protestations, and it’s not a lot of fun. He has to build his entire realm from scratch with no guidance, plus he’s still not sure how his powers work. But he makes it work with, you guessed it, sheer determination. Dream comes to visit and he’s so sorry for what’s happened, he had no idea… Hob looks so damned beautiful seated on his throne (made of literal matchsticks, held up by??? Force of will???). Dream is obsessed with him.

So, family dinner time rolls around, and the rest of the fam are still getting used to their new… family member? The worst part is that Determination just WON’T stop flirting with Dream! Desire can’t work out why he’d pick Dream of all beings, but he seems pretty much set on it. And if there’s one thing the other Endless are learning about Determination, it’s that he doesn’t give up.

Getting under the table to give Dream a blowjob was maybe taking it a bit far though. Maybe.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft

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plasticfangtastic · 6 months

Text

American royalty Ch. 11

A Homelander x F! reader/dadlander fic

A/N I really have no excuse for such delay but I hope y'all like this chapter, i'm really sorry for the delay, there's only 2 chapters left + the epilogue-- if y'all like to get in the taglist plz drop a request.

tags: mild gore, angst, slow burn, fluff, oc characthers, child neglect, dadlander, romance.

Chapter Eleven

Planning

The cameras were everywhere, there wouldn’t be a second of this wedding that wasn’t being immortalized, every moment under intense scrutiny and bright lights, a trio of stylists following your every step, to ensure your hair, make-up and dress were in perfect condition at all times.

As you caught a breather you thought back to the build-up and the nonsense as you hid from a steamer.

The wedding planning had been an interesting endeavor from which you were almost entirely removed from the equation.

From the second he’d made his plans known to Ashley and the board, he had taken complete control of planning, there wasn’t an aspect of the early wedding stages that you took charge of… heck you hadn’t even been aware such plans were in motion even after moving in together, until a wedding planner’s assistant came over after being unable to get in contact with Homelander– He didn’t apologize, brushing it off as your failure to pay attention, as if he had mentioned it at all.

“I love you but you don’t have the best taste… and I can’t risk bad decisions ruining my wedding! What if your wine choice doesn't match the amuse-bouche? I can’t risk a disaster!”

“YOU DON’T EVEN DRINK!!” You shouted– and excuse me… why would you pick the menu!? I’m a chef! You barely eat!”

“I was gonna hire a sommelier… but… you can take care of the menu if it means so much to you” He says bitterly, trying to not sook– "I’ll pick the cake.”

“It’s my wedding too. We pick the cake, John.” You argued back.

“Our fake wedding.” He raised his eyebrow– "Why should you stress yourself…?”

“You…!” You bit your lip until it almost tore– whatever… I don’t want to talk about it today.”

He watched you walk out the terrace, angry at himself for wanting to chase after you but to him you were in the wrong and he had no need to apologize.

That night he woke you up– not that you had been sleeping much.

“Are you still mad at me?”

His weight sunk heavily on the soft mattress, you turned around slightly to meet his featureless shape.

“You have this incredible superpower to piss me off whenever things are going smoothly between us.” You growled almost– go back to bed, John. I don’t want to talk ‘bout it today.”

“It's tomorrow.”

You sighed loudly.

“You should’ve told me you were doing this… fake or not… is still my wedding too.”

“I’m sorry…” He sank next to you wrapping his thin arms around you– marrying you means more than you can ever imagine… is all I ever wanted… getting married… so I want it to be perfect.”

He mumbles against your back, god knows if he heard your heart rate spike and you don’t want him to tell you, if he heard the blood rushing towards your face as your whole body began to boil around him.

You let him hold you even after dawn came.

He promised to include you from that point on but from venues, to flowers, to the guess he continued to make most decisions without you.

This was his wedding and everything had to be perfect.

Leaving you feeling like you were gonna be just a special guest on his day.

Admittedly you’d never imagined you would get the opportunity to see him grieve over various shades of off-white, china plates and glassware that weren’t perfect but almost perfect so they were the worst thing on the whole planet– there was some karma in the universe left after all.

It’d taken a couple hours for the three wedding planners and Ashley when this whole thing began to accept that you might be the ‘bride’ but if he could be the one walking down the aisle– he fucking would. They almost felt sorry he hadn’t told you, but they had their hands fuller than yours… it had been a mercy to have been spared as much as you did, they thought.

Cursing as you came to inspect the tenth different flower arrangement suggestion for the ceremony seats on the table, a whole team of graphic designers were tasked with the wedding cards and such based on the spread around you– god knew how painful it was to look at the budget for wedding favors… now you wished he had been the one doing this whole thing alone, it was exhausting… more than anticipated.

Thank god Ashley had to arrange the televising… the words pay-per-view thrown out a couple times had you on edge…certainly people wouldn’t pay to watch you get married… well see Homelander get married, right?

During your contributions you learned jokes were deadly in this department, a single joke about getting japanese wagyu had him snapping his fingers to get Ashley to source enough of it for the rather extensive list of guests.

“Why is Prince William and Kate on the list?” You said rather bemused.

The wedding planners and other suits looked away from you, the Seven’s table was filled with pictures of guests and silverware samples.

“Same reason the president was invited.” He fiddled with some demitasse spoon samples.

“That answers nothing.” you looked at your side, it was small, just coworkers and the few friends that had clung past your misfortune, your parents had called you wishing to reconcile and meet the granddaughter they’ve abandoned, something you shut down quite easily– I understand why you would invite the president… but please tell me you’re joking about the Kardashian’s… Celine Dion…? What’s next, Blackpink?”

“Why don’t you give me some suggestions? Not that I can invite Jisoo… she would take the spotlight from me.” Between the politicians, A-list celebs and business men invited, you did come short, so he raised his eyebrow daring you to affect the feng-shui as you wrote down a name– William.”

Homelander grinded his teeth– It didn't sound like a joke.

“He’s not going to show up” You said casually trying to calm him down as he twisted a nice silver fork into a twig.

He expected you not to joke about it at all.

It hadn’t been difficult for Butcher to find Ryan… it was already online for the whole world to know– he watched the kid from afar showing up randomly after school to watch Ryan be picked up by his personal driver and security guard, somedays Ryan looked mopey, some others he looked cheery. He was alive and healthy, acting like any other kid as he always should’ve had, it would be for short minutes, but Butcher needed to make sure he was alright… that he was still that same sweet kid from before.

Driving back home, he moved to change the station, his mind thinking of his former stepson as he talked to a girl while waiting to be picked up, proud of the little guy.

“Are you a pedo?”

Butcher almost swerved into a group of pedestrians.

Helena snickered as the car steadied itself, she put her seatbelt as the man forced his breath still.

“Why do you like staring at little kids? Or are you staring at one kid in particular… a little boy called Ryan Gillman, perhaps?”

“Who the fuck are you!?” He screamed with an extra gruff voice, his car still moving– slower than his heartbeat.

“Helena. Nice to meet ya– now if you go down that street and then take a left we can go get something to eat– it’ll be a nice thing to do after all you kidnapped me.”

“Get out of my car!? How did you get in!?” Butcher stopped his car by the nearest sidewalk, as he reached for the door his hand clashed against a rippling pale blue wall.

“I could crush your skull against that window before you managed to open that door.” Her eyes glistened as the wall narrowed, she watched him with the same intensity a child sees an ant under a magnifying glass– now let’s talk ‘Candlestick maker’ preferably over a milkshake… I love me some malt vanilla.”

Butcher gasped as he felt the wind saturate his lungs, the kid watched him with detachment, briefly considering smashing his car and risking it but this was a little child, a little child asking about Ryan… not just any kid… as he had a clear look at her– this was Helena. The Homelander’s daughter. He swallowed, awaiting the familiar sonic boom to rock his car that never came.

“I thought you were a pedophile but I dunno if working for the feds is any better.” Her emotionless voice said as she dipped her chips on the ice cream– really creepy to be staring at school kids, dontcha think?”

Butcher had no appetite, just watching the kid trying to see if there were any blond threats lurking.

“I want to get rid of Ryan Butcher, or Ryan Gillman, who knows what to call him– you see he’s a bump in the road for me and the more I think about it… the more inconvenient he becomes. Honestly I can figure out a way to kill him and make it look like an accident (even if it takes me some time) and I got no qualms in doing so. If anything, the more time I spend with him the more I want to murder him… I understand that he’s your stepson, that he has an aunt named Racheal and two grandparents: Sam and Imogen Saunders… for all intents and purposes” She settles in her seat after taking a messy bite of her burger, wiping her cheeks as she spoke– he has options outside of Homelander… so killing him isn’t my only avenue of disposing of the worthless idiot.”

“Don’t think I won’t crush your head in this restaurant because they’re people ‘ere. What are you anyways… wha you did in the car was not something Homelander or Soldier Boy ev’r did”

“I’m just a super-abled kid…” She throws a chip at him– so threatening– go for it, murder me in broad daylight but I don’t think you’ll want that. I wanna help you Mr. Butcher… I need to monopolize my father’s affections in order for him to entrust the company to me– his shares, my future position set in stone, my inheritance… you know how much money we are talking about here? Enough to motivate a murder or a hundred.”

Butcher stared at the girl, dumbfounded, he could find very physical resemblance between the two but they sure had a way of talking.

“Look if you want the job… text me… no calls… don’t want Homelander to catch me lacking.”

“I don’t think you want to kill him… youse playing tough for somebody, otherwise you wouldn’t have come to me?” Butcher asked, killing the tense silence.

“Ryan's continuous existence is a direct threat to my future. I cannot afford to have the lingering notion that he would one day hold a higher position within the company than I do by virtue of being both male and the first born. I want him dead. But I’m merciful.”

Butcher was slid a sticky note with a phone number.

“So if you’re really his kid and not some weird PR… where the fuck did he kept you hidden?”

“I’m not privy to my parents' relationship history but I can tell you one thing and that’s that he didn’t know me by choice.” The kid pushed her food away, clearly losing appetite– by the way when you get around killing my old man please do so after we sort out the will situation… lots of paperwork y’know” She smiles with a playful tilt and a sudden glow in her eyes as he takes the note– "am not a very patient child, Mister Serial Killer.”

Butcher could only muster a dried disenhearted chuckle, thinking just how ridiculous this situation was.

“What do I get out of this?”

“It’s Ryan not enough?” She says with a puzzled look.

“It’s a lot of risk considering your old man it’s around.”

“If money it’s what you need… give me a couple days to sort that out… just give me a number… whatever might help you become somebody else… I dunno move to fucking New Zealand for all I care.”

“How much money can you steal without him noticing, little miss genius?”

“How much do you think a vial of compound V costs?” She took another bored bite of her meal– am sure that somebody with your reputation might find a buyer… they have already started some international distribution… Russia, China, Saudi, Turkey are not on the list tho– get creative. I’ll give you a dozen if you like… save me having to blackmail one of those lab rats to help me sell it.”

He smiled at the brat.

You on the other hand learned of her shenanigans after being inadvertently kidnapped while leaving work, after the initial trauma and shock dispelled– meeting these people after the posters with your face began circulating shouldn’t have surprised you, after all you had been panicking about this brit stealing your kids before you had the pleasure to meet him, never considering it be you.

“He isn’t going to rescue me… if anything if I die it's better for him” you remarked but they were confident this would work.

Homelander wouldn’t ‘rescue’ you until four days later when he just knocked on the hideout door– Butcher had had enough of you, exasperated by your terrible personality.

If somebody was going to kidnap you were under no obligation to let yourself be pleasant, so you let them know.

“You deserve each other. I hope you never divorce because living with her will be a nightmare.” Butcher dragged him inside the dingy hideout, growling and grumbling.

“What did she do?” Homelander scratched his hair, finding the whole scene rather awkward.

“She bit me!” He screamed towards the back- fucking psycho bitch!”

“Black eye too?” He grimaced at the wound– why didn’t you” He gestured a stabbing motion.

“You deserve her.” He snarled.

Between your busted lips and bruises, you had bitten a fair amount of people as payback, you had been kicking and screaming none stop, your thumbs broken as you used them to escape from the first pair of cuff they forced on you– you had nothing of use, whatever trap they had for Homelander was rendered pointless as they just wanted you out of the blacksite more than anything.

“Four days!!!?” Your raspy voice roared the moment he stepped in your sight.

“Maybe next time don’t hit me with a toilet plunger. '' before you could rip your chains off on your own to kill him– it's a blacksite baby… I couldn’t find you! We assume you ran away but after two days the kids did got worried. We thought you ran away… Helena was certain.” he mumbled.

“It was clean!!” you spat dried blood– you bastard!”

Your ears hadn’t picked up much of what he was saying after being a smartass– you only wanted him to take these chains off and go home, you wanted him to be a hero for once.

“Y/N please...” He moved behind you, pulverizing the three sets of chains holding you together in one swift swipe– lordy lord, what did you do for them to get this dramatic? She’s human you know, William?”

“She nearly ate my fucking finger, putain.” Hughie had to hold back the Frenchman as he came with a knife from the kitchen.

“I spat it back didn’t I?” You might as well been cursing– and I gave you my marinara recipe so I think we’re even– you bitch!”

“Calm down, honey.” He said with his nicest voice, stroking your bruised wrist– Why don’t we go get you a nice warm bath and some gelato, after we get a doctor.”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!!!” You screamed, ripping your hands away from him– I haven’t showered in 3 days!! They electrocuted me, hit me, called me ugly! and made me listen to shit 80’s music!!”

“Just take her!” Starlight shouted from the bathroom.

“It's a good recipe.” Frenchie said as he calmed down.

“What’s wrong with her?” He looked at Starlight’s direction, catching her reeking in the bathroom.

At this point you cried and clung to him, your arms wrapped around his shoulder babbling about ice creams, gelato and your kids, his cautious expression painted with anxiety, not knowing if you welcomed him, but as your legs gave up and you cried he gave himself permission to embrace you.

“She spat a loogie in Annie’s mouth.” Butcher said, handing Homelander your work bag, the Supe had lifted you and cradled you as you cried– "I better not see you ever again.” he hissed.

“…next time I’ll pick her up the same day.”

He looked embarrassed as a light blush creeped on his face, hearing the signs of relief as the group saw them leave.

Flying home with a bit of pride in his chest as he simmered on the sight– the destruction and wounds you left, his lips shivered at the sight of your fear and anguish laden tears slowly being made those of relief. He was proud of you, he was proud that you never gave up, that you didn’t let him think he could beat you… how strange that you were always so perfect for him, almost as strong as him– he thought.

Helena would apologize thinking the man wouldn’t kidnap you over their deal but you were too busy soaking in the bath while you waited for Homelander to bring a couple pints of gelato from italy, you told her not to tell you anything further until you had the energy to handle it, obviously she had been swindle by the brit… thinking of him a savage hooligan and not a smart devil.

“Please don’t tell anything that can be used against you, Helena… I don’t know why you decided to interact with that man– anybody who decides to make their life mission to destroy your father and other supes… is not some patsy you can use.”

“I… I don’t know what to say…” she said unable to stop crying.

“Why you thought I’d run away?” You pressed sinking into the bathtub covering your ears in warm water.

Her lips moved but you heard very little, looking at her face resting on the bathtub rim, she left as Homelander came back they left to have a talk re-entering a few minutes later.

For the first time since this whole thing began you found yourself letting him pamper you without complaint as he fed you gelato, both entertaining a sense of normalcy for your relationship despite everything, his touch more welcomed than those abusive gruff hands.

That night as you entered the bedchambers you asked him to move the beds together, something a light kick achieved. Homelander didn’t sleep much that night as he kept checking to see if you were still asleep, if you were okay, ogling with wet eyes the wounds of your hands– one dislocated and the other fractured, leaving you unable to work for at least 6 weeks.

“I thought you ran away… that I scared you away… I’ve been so manic lately.” he whispered close to you, his body just an inch away from feeling yours.

“The only way am running away from you guys is when I shoot my brains off… never… ever think I’ll leave where I can’t take my children.” Your voice almost broke as you tried to speak.

“Don’t leave me…” He sniffed loudly– Y/N please…”

“We’re stuck with each other, John… if anybody is gonna leave– it's you.”

He spoke very little after that, unsure if you were still upset, all he knew was that he wanted you to stay where he could see you, fearful that Butcher or some other force would tear you away from him once more– yet as you slept restlessly he found comfort on those wayward fingers clinging to his shirt.

You wrote the name down.

In return for the sick joke he turned your home into a bridal shop. The family room was stuffed to the brim with gowns of all shades of white and modernist choices– pale yellows and pinks, even daring blacks. Every shape of wedding dress available from exceedingly revealing and form fitting to something only an amish might wear.

“Homelander said if nothing here is up to standard he had a list of designers waiting for your call” Ashley muttered sipping on the champagne, you didn’t give her any grief for it despite being 10 am, Chrissie, Alessia and an old friend joined in the bubbly testing– he does want an answer by the end of the day.” She pressed.

“There’s like a thousand frocks in here.” You muttered– I might need a day.”

“This is what passed the first 3 rounds” She snorted looking at the lines and lines of stuff extending all the way into the hallway– "He has such good taste.”

You stared at her wondering if she was being sarcastic but it was hard to read her.

“With his ass he could wear these better than me” You chuckle.

Even she gave it a thought without disagreeing.

He would show up five hours in to check if you’ve made a decision, normal people would’ve asked him to leave but Ashley dragged your human friends out to safety instead.

You sat slouched on the arm chair wearing a dress worth two whole monthly paycheck, your back sore from looking at dresses and veils, foot throbbing from all the shoes and your eyes aching from staring at catalogs.

“You aren’t supposed to be here for this…” You said cracking your toes as you stretched your aching limbs.

“The lawyers said they had the prenup readied… as well as Ryan’s papers.”

He purposefully avoided gazing at your direction, his throat stuffed with cotton, he could hardly muster to swallow, his mouth arid as his eyes became red and wet.

“You could’ve texted me.”

He was more than jittery in his boots, you studied his posture trying to analyze him, rolling your eyes as you wrote your lines.

“John, do you want to help me pick the dress?” You relented standing up trying to flatten the newly form creases off the satin gown– I’ll be nice and not peek at your suit… altho there’s this really nice pantsuit over there—

“You don’t look good in tea-length” His words stiff, moving towards one of the racks to pick a pale mauve tulle gown– try this.

“Daring. I like it.” You humor him.

“I think if anybody is going to pull off a mauve and plum wedding dress that’s going to be you” the way he moved across those racks he might give Helena and run for her money in speed but instead of books it was silk and chiffon– this one is so pretty… vintage Dior… and this is a copy of Grace Kelly’s wedding dress.”

Decisions were made by day 2.

He was giddy and jovial, his mood only soured if things weren’t going smoothly with the wedding planning, hero work was secondary and Vought was even less important but overall he was happier, and the company could tell– this was him in his 20s before losing his mind.

He would come home and respect your boundaries avoid touching you without permission, hovering around in the kitchen with the sudden interested in learning how to make omelets, seeing him make and fail doing breakfast just so you could sleep-in was a rewarding experience, he liked being led by you even if there was no kink involved this time– you were afterall now stuck at home… you blushed as he asked you how to make those jiggly pancakes Ryan had seen online, he seemed so normal as he asked for your help to follow the youtube video while you made a strawberry compote by his side, he talked to you as if he was that young man once again so chirpy and friendly as he asked about your thoughts on an old TV show that he had started watching after an off-handed comment he overheard from Helena’s assistant, or discussed some old missing person’s case that came on his youtube feed– it was nice to talk like normal people.

While injured he had hired a private driver for you, to save you the stress on your hands not wanting your injuries to worsen before you could return to work, hiring a nanny to help you with the kids and an extra maid to help at home, while he spared no expenses making sure you were truly unburdened.

It made you feel as if you were some Victorian lady of high society with how little you had to do.

You blushed as you watched him slip into human clothes as he forced himself to unwind for the day, leaving the superhero drama behind as he tucked his suit in the closet– You must have been feeding him well for he seemed to look healthier, his body bigger and glowy, you thought.

You certainly liked looking at his thighs.

“I still don’t know why Elmo likes these…” Helena snuggled at her father’s side, she was cuddly on purpose but her feet were still touching you as you stretched on the couch, Ryan snuggling on the other side of him.

“I like the talking blue cat.” He says as a hand mindlessly plays with her hair– he’s funny.”

“I like the banana guy” Said Ryan, which made his dad giggled in agreement.

He seemed like the John you fell in love with a decade ago, like a weird dream playing live– just you four laughing at some kids cartoons.

Whatever sweetness you’d gathered since your kidnapping was now twisting the knife in your gut just to remind you it was there.

It went back to zero as you sat in a boardroom filled with heartless bastards.

It started easy enough– you been informed Rebecca Saunders-Butcher was declared legally dead before she was found by Homelander, no birth registration had ever been made for Ryan, as during Edgar’s tenure Ryan was categorized as a company asset, giving him the same legal rights as a beagle, it had been a hassle to have him recognize as a human being once he came out to the public… but it provided the opportunity of your name being put on his new birth certification– in the eyes of the law you would be Ryan’s biological mother. At first you assumed they were adoption papers until your eyes started swimming thru the lines, you could feel your whole body trembling, unable to muster a word as you tried to remain calm, this felt ludicrous, the idea of adopting Ryan didn’t bother you– it came off as sensible even.

But this felt dangerous, Homelander could smell the intoxicating and repulsive cocktail of visceral functions and hormones, he lifted his hand demanding the room to be cleared.

“Do you know what you’re asking me here?” Your voice was a nervous squeak as you pushed the paper towards his direction.

Homelander watches you shake like a leaf, offended at your sudden rejection his lip raised just enough for you to see some teeth.

“Suddenly getting cold feet after I spend all this money on you?”

Your brows crease.

“I never said I wasn’t going to be his mother… You’re asking me to lie about being pregnant 10 years ago, You’re asking me to pretend we share DNA! I’ll adopt him but this is– illegal… is amoral. What would he think if he ever finds this!?” You cried.

“He won’t.”

“What if he needs his birth certificate to get a driver's license!?”

“He can fly!” He argued back.

“Maybe his future wife would like him to drive her places! I dunno!” Glozing over the rest wasn’t any better– look… let’s think about this… this’s a lot and this… this shit isn’t helping.”

The calendar in front of you had only one thing written in it and that was Homelander’s birthday.

“I want you to have custody of Ryan.” He took the small calendar away, you froze watching him shrivel as he bit and chewed at his lips– if I die… Ryan has nobody to protect him. The government or Vought are no places for him… they’ll use him, abuse him, neglect him and he will come out of it broken– he isn’t strong like me. He’s my baby, but he’s delicate… he used to have people who cared about him but now he only has me. Nobody else in the whole world actually cares for him! But… but you’re his sister’s mother and his stepmother, you are family. The only one he has… so if I died then I’d rather my son stay with his only other family– than end up in a cell or a freezer…” He squeezed at his cape– I rather you have him than him ending up suffering like I did.” He let a couple tears fall, ashamed of his own reaction.

Whatever was happening outside your house, had him anxious, no doubt something involving Vought, Butcher or the FBSA.

“John. John… just give me a day… I’d rather adopt him… but if this is the best way to protect him…” Your stood up moving towards him to place a callous hand on his shoulder, you could tell this wasn’t easy to ask, it was definitely not timed correctly as the calendar you two had been fighting about twenty minutes ago was still in the room but here he was hurting– I just worry that he’ll hate me. That he’ll feel as if I erased his mother and forced myself into his life… we’re still a little awkward around each other.”

“He’ll understand when he’s older.” He said firmly but gently.

He kissed your knuckle, stroking your wrist looking up.

“I think before we do this together… we should ask Ryan if he wants to be adopted– then we can bring this up again.” You placed your spare hand atop of his, squeezing his fingers as you spoke– Ryan has gone through so much, and I don’t blame you for being nervous… you should… you have a tough job… and I’ve already been kidnapped… I’m just saying I don’t want to frighten him.”

“You mean that?” He asked, trying to rest his cheek on you, your hand lifting just before he could to grab him, not letting him rest on your hand but pushing his forehead onto your stomach, he turned limp, wrapping his arms around your legs once the blood returned to his brain, inhaling deeply– you would take good care of him.”

“I like the idea of him calling me ‘mom’ one day.”

You twisted the knife right back in.

He catches his reflection on the steel and the other one simply stares at him with a hint of doubt in his eyes.

taglist-- @fromforeigntofamiliarity @demodemo909 @immyowndefender @ghqstfqce

#homelander #homelander x reader #homelander x you #the boys oc #personal #my fic tag #I will try to post the next chapter soonish as i finished the first round of editing for that chapter #homelander x f!reader #thank u to all the readers i can't wait to deliver the finale

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lookinghalfacorpse · 11 months

Note

Hi! Doomsday trio prompt- The Most Hated Breakfast Food. Not the best. The worst.

this is SUCH a good prompt and i didn't do it correctly :') here's what my brain did instead. at least it was breakfast themed?

part of the doomsday preparation drabbles

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

Breakfasts Prepared in The Days Before Battle (aka how do you feed a young man, an immortal birdman, and a piglin in one meal?)

Day 1: Oatmeal and toast. A simple dish, but sincerely one of the most beautiful and put-together meals Dream has ever seen. He didn't expect them to feed him at all, much less prepare a bowl of well-arranged, colorful fruits in a vintage bowl. He stood in the kitchen, frozen. Eating in front of Techno and Phil might mean taking his mask off in front of them, and he was tempted to grab the food and eat in another room, like an anxious dog. He settled instead on tilting the mask up a bit. They saw his mouth, and they didn't make any indication that they even noticed. Techno had three bowls, Phil had one and a half, and Dream had one (he was too embarrassed to ask for more).

Day 2: Avocado toast with pico and eggs. Techno shyly admitted that they were trying to get through this loaf of bread before it went bad. Then, he went on some nonsensical ramble about how it was Dream's sacred mission to help them. "Forget the battle," he said, "we gotta get rid of this bread." Techno had four slices, Phil had two, and Dream had two.

Day 3: Omelettes and yogurt. There was something a bit comical about seeing Techno use silverware. His hands were too big for them, his shoulders hunched forward, and he used them so politely that you wouldn't expect him to be the most feared warrior this civilization has known. After breakfast, he absolutely dominated in a sparring session against Dream. Techno had two omelettes, Phil had half (but two bowls of yogurt. He was "in the mood for it."), and Dream had one.

Day 4: Breakfast sandwiches. Sausage, egg, and cheese, all in a biscuit-like bun. Dream nearly took his mask completely off at the table, and fumbled with the clip as he desperately tried to put it back on without showing more skin than he already has. Techno had his back turned as he was serving himself, thankfully, but Phil sat beside him. The old man didn't even look up from his plate, unbothered by Dream's dilemma. Techno had two sandwiches, Phil had one, Dream had one, and the dog whining softly under the table got two pieces of sausage from Dream's palm.

Day 5: Sausage soup. It was a piglin thing, apparently. Techno mentioned it and then grew quiet, enjoying the meal but never losing a distant, foggy look in his eyes. Dream watched, unable to think of a follow-up question. Between the three of them, he was not the only one with secrets. Techno had five bowls (the most Dream's ever seen him eat), Phil had one, and Dream had one.

Day 6: Pancakes and scrambled eggs. A classic breakfast. Phil seemed nervous about preparing the pancakes a way Dream would like, so he made them plain and provided a variety of toppings. Dream opted for a variety of fruit and the chocolate spread, but he said (with confidence) that he would've eaten whatever was prepared for him. Techno had four pancakes, Phil had two, and Dream had two.

Day 7: Bagels. Somewhere between preparations and trainings, Philza found time to pick up bagels. Dream found it odd to prioritize food with such a decisive battle on the horizon. He sat, he tilted his mask, he ate, and he talked to Techno about horses. Techno had two bagels, Phil had one, and Dream had one.

Day 8: Biscuits with Eggs. Or, as Techno called it, "Biscuit with guts." A poached egg was poured into a hole in the biscuit, making an interesting mix of textures and flavors. Dream wasn't the biggest fan of poached eggs, but true to his word, he ate whatever was served to him. Techno had four biscuits, Phil had two, and Dream had two.

Day 9: Creamy potato soup and sausages. Carbs and proteins for fuel. The battle loomed, and Dream was feeling anxious. He wasn't sure why; he wasn't afraid, per se, he was simply buzzing with energy that had no where to go (He wanted this to go perfectly). He asked Techno to spar with him again. He asked Phil for a refill of potato soup. "Remind me to get you the recipe, mate," Philza said, "If you can make mashed potatoes, you can make this. Good for travel, too." Dream replied stupidly with some comment about how much he liked potatoes. Techno had three bowls, Phil had one, and Dream lost count of how many times he made it while he traveled. Much later, he'd make it again within the prison walls, and he'd run to a nearby chest to vomit.

#lol sorry anon #i guess the 'worst' one would be the biscuits on day 8 #tfw you say you'd eat whatever phil makes and then two days later he makes POACHED EGGS #no offense to british ppl but i don't fuck with ur eggs #dreblr #doomsdaytrio #doomsday trio #doomsday prep #drabbles

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aita-blorbos · 7 months

Note

AITA for snitching on my brother?

Listen, my 19 brothers (all 200M) and I (200M) don't have the best relationship. After my Dad (over 50000M) and his buddy (3000M) created us in their lab, our mum stole us and passed us off to various adoptive parents on different planets, so we didn't even grow up together. As a consequence, some of us had it easier than others. Me, I had a great adoptive father. He put me through college and encouraged me until I became the actual second best wizard ever. By 18, I was pretty much the philosopher-king of our planet. I even had a relationship with my bio Dad longer than the rest of my brothers did because we found each other through magic and then used it to hang out. (He's the first best wizard. No biggie.)

Anyway, things were going great for me. Eventually, our bio Dad hosted a big family reunion and I got to meet my brothers. I was ready to make friends, but man, some of them were assholes. Well, that was fine. I stayed friends with the brothers I liked. I had a lot on my hands anyway, since Dad had taken the liberty of making 1000 sons for me, and none of them were freaking potty trained.

Did I use magic to potty train them? Yes. Did I maybe get the potty-training magic from a strange voice in my head? Well... Okay, yes, but consider that 1000 sons = a lot of potty training if you take the traditional route. I think it was a reasonable choice at the time.

Anyway, my sons were doing great, and the brothers I got on with and I began to set up this big magical training program so we could all teach our sons to be better and safer wizards. Sounds great, right?

Well, the asshole contingent of my brothers decided to haul us in front of Dad and point their fingers at us. "Wizards are bad and dangerous" they claimed, while one of them stood around surrounded by his own freaking wizards. ("They're not wizards, they're enchanters," my ass.)

I thought our bio Dad would side with us, him being the greatest wizard of all time and his buddy (I swear those two have something going on) being the third greatest after me. But no! He told us we needed to stop doing magic. Literally the one thing I'm good at. The one thing he made me good at. I'm the second best wizard in the galaxy, and he wanted me to sit on my ass.

Well, I tried. I mostly stopped. But come on, those assholes were definitely up to something. I started using my wizardry to surveil my brothers, and oh boy. The shit I found out. At first, I just sat back and ate popcorn, watching them pratfall their way through life. It was funny, what can I say? And I still stuck by the bros who had my back.

But then one of my bros, L, (unfortunately one of the ones I got on with) had the worst thing possible happen to him: He decided he had found God. By which I mean, he decided our bio Dad was literally God.

Seriously, our Dad. Sure, Dad is like 20 feet tall and glows with golden light, but when the glowing giant immortal wizard tells you he's not a god, you believe him. Unless you're L.

Dad's attempts to re educate him were... Misguided. As I said, he's not a god. But he went so hard that L flipped right the other way around and started to believe that our dad wasn't God. He was Satan, apparently.

And so, L went to our other brother H, who had a mad case of "first-child, I carry the whole family" syndrome, and started trying to convince him that our dad was Satan.

I tried to warn H that L was crazy. H just went "Lol okay" and went back to chugging L's koolaid.

H and L were definitely going to do something stupid, like murderously stupid. I needed to warn Dad, and it was urgent. I started calling, but Dad wouldn't pick up.

So I called him the way we used to talk, using magic. And what do you know, he had basically put up some sort of magical barrier which meant I couldn't call him that way either. I was pretty pissed off to see he had blocked me on so many levels.

And this is where I may be the AH.

See, that voice in my head that helped me work out how to potty-train the kids using magic? Yeah, it spoke up again. It suggested I break through the barrier. I figured Dad built it for a good reason, but I *was* strong enough and I was trying to save his life. So I broke in.

And then the voice's magical demons flowed into Dad's lab, ruining the amazing magical teleporter which he and his buddy had been building in secret. Turns out, the voice in my head was an ACTUAL god, the Lord of Change... And Dad had known all along. It was why he told my brothers and I that we had to stop doing magic. But he never thought to actually explain that to ME, so how the hell was I supposed to know I had a god in my head? He told us gods didn't exist!

Anyway, gods are real, but I still maintain that my Dad isn't Satan. He's just a really bad father.

He was understandably furious that I broke his experiment and let demons into his lab, but he yelled at me like he thought I did it on purpose. Plus, H was so mad that I snitched, he actually sent another brother (Mr. "They're not wizards") to burn down my planet. Like hell I was sticking around after that. After one last attempt to reach out to Dad, (which ended with my most gullible brother gaslighting me and then hitting me with a hammer) I went NC with pretty much my whole bio family.

I'm doing okay now. I actually ended up moving in with the Lord of Change for a while because at least he helped me potty train my kids and let me do wizardry in his spare room. Now I have my own planet and a sick wizard tower. It would be great if it weren't so dusty in here.

I still wonder if I was the asshole though. Don't get me wrong, I think the biggest assholes are my Dad, H, L, some other brothers I didn't mention, Mr. "They're not wizards", my oldest son who apparently can't keep the place clean, and a lot of my other sons who just kinda vanished one day. But maybe I could've done something else, like sending Dad a letter or warning my nicer brothers about H and L instead going straight to the top. So. AITA?

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality

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m0r1bund · 11 months

Text

No, you are right. I lied to you. I was not birthed, but expelled, like a malignant tumor being cut out of a body. The Tree deposited me here with her furthest root. I crawled out of the dirt and into the desert, alone.

When the Court finally found me, they said that they had created me, that they had finally inoculated the Tree with their nightmares. But I believe they were merely taking credit for what was a natural immune response—that is, ridding her body of trauma— in order to groom me.

Nonetheless I carry it inside of me. I am called every day by morbid visions that are mine, but which do not belong to me. The Court wants to use me to sow anguish and heartbreak among their kin, and the Wardens want me dead. Some believe this is why I was really created, so that this immortal and intangible evil could be made into something mortal and tangible… Something that could be killed.

But you are already familiar with such things, no, dragonslayer?

Why are you really here? Did the Pact send you? The Wardens? The Tree herself? Because I cannot imagine why someone like you would come to meet someone like me, except to do their dirty work.

◆◆◆

The Lastborn is a sylvari(?) pariah who mostly keeps to himself and fucks around in the desert. He is dry (pun intended) and emotionally austere, but insightful. People typically get a selfish and callous vibe over a thoughtful vibe, though, because of his rigid commitment to isolation and nonintervention. In truth, he feels that he must “go it alone” to protect himself and those around him.

Everyone knows that something went wrong during his creation… or maybe something went wrong long, long before his creation, and he was just collateral. Either way, the Lastborn emerged from the Pale Tree less like a daughter sprout and more like a root parasite. The Dream that he was fed is completely unrecognizable to most of his peers, a fever dream of great sadness, fear, and pain. The Court considers him to be the first son raised from their Nightmare, and whether or not this is actually true, this narrative has been compelling enough to estrange him from the Tree and the rest of her children. His apparent abandonment—coupled with his induction into the Court during his formative years—is the ultimate condemnation in the minds of his peers.

Worse still, he feels his Wyld Hunt calling him to return to these morbid memories, the way you might pick and scratch at a wound that won’t heal. The possibility that he’ll be called to do something terrible has frightened him into living in isolation—or at least, that’s what he tells those who have the grace to ask first, instead of attacking him on sight. Really, he’s a hermit by choice as much as he is by circumstances outside of his control. He’s not as desperate for belonging as he used to be, and it’s been years since he made his quiet exit from the Court… Though he’ll probably never be out of the shadow of (indicates generally) whatever that was.

Other schtuff:

Not in touch with the Dream, but constantly receives Visions And Nightmares against his will. You could probably consider him an oracle, but only for worst case scenarios, intrusive thoughts, and terrible ideas. And he can’t even tell you if they’re actually going to happen or not.

Not outwardly hung up about being estranged from the Pale Tree and her kids, but maybe a little bit on the inside. Un poquito. I think the two of them reach an understanding later that she did All That to try and protect him (for better or worse.)

Unsure if he emerged with a name or not. If he did, he has never spoken it to others. “The Lastborn” (sometimes “Lostborn”) is an epithet bestowed on him in lieu of a true name. Later on he learns from his friends that you can give yourself a name, or ask other people to name you, and you can change it as many times as you want, and he goes appropriately ham.

Ofc not actually a lastborn (others have come after him, albeit in a more normal way.) but my lot in life is that every couple of years I recreate the last firstborn

⠀

I just think it’s funny if the Court did all these awful things and put all this effort into making a fucked up and eeeevil treebaby. But in the end you fucked up a perfectly good sylvari is what you did. Look at him. He has anxiety.

#lastborn tag #guild wars 2 tag

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mrmxlemons · 1 year

Text

Funeral Cake (1/5)

Art the Clown x gn!Reader / Original Character | AO3 Link

EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY, this is a black comedy but it will feature heavy content. I would recommend checking the tags more thoroughly in ao3 if you want a forewarning of future tags to avoid triggers/squicks. Warnings at the beginnings of the chapter are only for that specific chapter.

Chapter 1: Wash, Rinse, Repeat

summary: Sometimes the best way to handle murderous demon clowns is to not handle them at all.

warnings: gore and blood, magical lore elements, demon Art the Clown, stalking, implied murder, minor wound kissing, minor sickness

It was Halloween, and you were dressed up as a clown. Albeit a sad one.

The frown on your face was exaggerated with blue finger paint, a tear immortalized on your left cheek in the same shade. The ensemble was the cheapest you could find at Party City, complete with Pom-Poms and a jester hat that jingled with every motion.

Not your best work, but by far from your worst. It was, however, one of those investments that you had to wear all day just to break even how much you paid, which meant picking up your clothes from the laundromat in full makeup and costume.

You’d had to throw a couple of things back in to cycle for a few more minutes, somehow still not dry despite having gone through a total of three times now. It was quiet except for the tumble of clothes and the soft pop music crackling through the speakers from the local radio station. Outside you could hear the bus taking off, the sound overshadowed by the soft gurgles of the child staring at you from over it’s mother’s shoulder.

The baby didn’t seem deterred by your appearance in its ogling. There was still a minute left on the timer. Bored, you look back to the kid and muster your best silly face, feeling as though you owe it a performance for attentively watching you, only for the chubby cheeks to screw up before a wail came pouring out.

The mother turned and affixed you with a scalding stare for destroying the peace as she pat the child, cooing to calm it down. You had enough dignity to turn away, blushing under the waxy white painted across your cheeks.

Sheepishly you shuffled to the machine, hastily swiping out your socks and throwing them in the basket you’d lugged with. Should’ve just hung them up back at your apartment. Now you have to walk two blocks with a bag full of laundry dressed like a clown, feeling like a clown. Whatever.

The makeup hides the way you mope after being silently tongue lashed, but it doesn’t stop you from staring abashedly at your shoes as you jerk for the door. Even when you see another pair enter your vision, black and huge, you can’t manage to stop yourself. It’s too late.

You collide with someone, and it’s like running into a brick wall. You make a sound of fear and shock and nearly collapse, barely managing to stay on your feet. The person you run into is oddly silent. If it weren’t for the sound of the plastic garbage bag in their hand shifting you wouldn’t be sure if you touched someone else at all.

The jester hat was akimbo on your head, you righted it. Luckily nothing had spilled onto the floor, but the person you’d run into sported an expression of annoyance that rivaled the scorned mother. He was, however, ironically enough, also dressed like a clown—just a far more menacing, creepy, and fucked up looking one.

He was a lot more committed to the look, edging equal parts into sinister mime territory with a cap that finished where makeup couldn’t reach, and a suit that glimmered as though it were made of silk. If you weren’t standing close enough to see the grit of the threads appearing in the basic cross stitch you might’ve thought he was a professional.

Even the makeup was clean. The eyebrows were penciled in, thin and looping in a tall arch, and on the tip of the long prosthetic nose was a single black dot. All of the lines were starkly separated, strong cuts of black and white that framed the whites of dark, soulless eyes.

The heavy gaze pinned you in place. For all of your attempts of quickly leaving, getting out of dodge had seemingly completely escaped you in that moment. You felt weighted down by the heavy, oppressive stare and the snarl on tar-black lips. And the teeth—

You really, really didn’t want to have to think about the teeth. You really, really just wanted to get home.

The words tumble out of you. You’re not even sure where they came from. “Nice clown costume,” you say, “lot funnier than mine.”

You don’t find anything about his costume funny. Somehow you’re sure he can tell, with the way his eyebrows raise and lips start to slowly curl in a spine-chilling, too wide smile. His shoulder opens, and you can see the door behind him.

It feels like permission, and while you don’t necessarily need express permission from a complete stranger that you can leave, you feel better hastily sweeping past him with it.

You don’t look back.

Your cheeks are red. But you don’t look back, and you forget it all happened before the night is over.

—

You head back to the laundromat three days later. You’d gone out Halloween night and lost your hat, spilled a drink down the back of your shifty Halloween costume. So much for returning it.

Figured you’d at least try and wash it out before throwing it in the donation bin. But the laundromat was closed, there was caution tape all around the front door and the inside had been torn up. Weird, it hadn’t looked like it was about to undergo construction when you’d been there, what, less than a week ago?

You also didn’t remember the tiles being red, but you also had a really shit memory these days.

The nearest laundromat is another ten minute walk in the opposite direction. Not ideal but you’re already out, so you resign your fate and start making your way there.

The place is actually cheaper than your old mat of choice, but only by twenty five cents. And it’s completely empty. You push the change in and wait until the clothes start tumbling before you head for outside. Might go get a pack from the corner Bodega. Might just get some candy. You should really, really quit smoking.

You don’t make it to the door, and thankfully you don’t run into him like last time. You’re not sure your stomach could’ve handled it.

He stands in the doorway steadily dripping a thick, miasmas liquid that was so dark and pungent you nearly mistook it for something else entirely. Something that wasn’t very clearly blood.

The smell was unmistakable. You could taste it in the back of your throat—the tang of iron rolling gently down your esophagus until you choked on it.

And there is—there is so, so much of it. An ungodly amount. The black and white suit that you had only glimpsed before shines a bright and lurid red, staining the front and up the side in a wide gash. An arc. You almost forget if he had truly ever been a black and white thing, or if you had somehow missed this when you’d run into him the other day.

You hadn’t. You would’ve noticed this. Red splatter on his cheek, turning his hands a muddy brown. You wouldn’t have been able to run away from the smell without noticing, wouldn’t have been able to forget such a distinct, awful smile.

You hadn’t forgotten about running into him, no matter how hard you’d tried. He hadn’t done anything besides weird you out, but it was Halloween. Weird shit happened on Halloween. You chalked it down as that and got plastered, pushing him from your mind (even though he kept swinging back, a steady pendulum of obsession).

And he appears in front of you so suddenly, so starkly, that you almost wonder if you’d somehow summoned him. As though he was a figment of your imagination, a manifestation of your paranoia drenched in all the gory possibilities of what hid behind that horrifyingly exaggerated expression.

Panic courses through you like lightning, but instead of pushing you away it pushes you towards. Your feet move until you are right in front of him, hand outstretching.

“That’s a lot of blood, man.” Your voice is quiet when you ask, almost besides yourself, “Are you alright?”

You reach out against your better judgement, against any judgement, and touch a particularly deep bruising of crimson on the white costume. It looks clotted, and it doesn’t occur to you until the tacky, cold red touches your fingertips that all of this blood might not actually be his.

The realization makes you freeze. The sheer amount of blood on him would be enough to make any grown man go into shock, if it was, in fact, his blood. Yet here he stands, unshaken, with quiet and even breaths that make your own rapidly speeding heart rate feel like a drum in your ears.

Your eyes flicker up. The point of contact between you harrows at the hooded, knowing stare the clown gives you, the grotesque menagerie of black and white twisting into an inhuman smile with too-dark gums. His eyes are black, eclipsed of their humanity as they pin you into place, dead and starless. A void that rivals the night.

You stifle the urge to run as you withdraw your hand. Somehow you know as you look at him that if you turn and high tail it you’re going to enact a chain of events with consequences you’re not ready to consider. Set yourself up to be the perfect unwilling prey to a waiting, hungry hunter.

“Are you hurt?” More words spoken out of thin air, these far enough that you wouldn’t be sure you said them if the other party wasn’t mute.

The dead smile falls into a considering look, the eyebrows furrowing as if to say, do you think I’m hurt?

You know he’s not. You’re shocked when he nods his head in ascent that he is.

‘Liar’ sits on your tongue. Instead you ask him where, waiting on baited breath in and out of your mouth when he raises a single, bloodied finger.

It’s almost funny. No—it is funny, and you laugh. Just a little bit. Not enough to be mocking, but enough to show that hey, you get it. You get the joke.

Beneath a layer of dirt and grime on the very tip of one of his fingers is a small cut, barely big enough to qualify as a paper cut. When he holds it up there is blood beading along the seem, welling and waiting to get enough viscosity to pour down his finger. Become another inconsequential marking on the canvas of horror that is the rest of him.

The implication is nauseating. If that is truly the only place he is hurt then the rest of the enormous amount of blood painting him really isn’t his, and that warrants so much more concern than you’re willing to offer. Willing to consider.

“Does it hurt?” He doesn’t give you a response, he just pokes his finger up again, pouting in a way that reminds you of the clown face you’d worn no less than a couple of days before. “What, do you want me to kiss it better?”

You try to swallow the sick feeling even as you ask. Maybe you shouldn’t have, because the clown’s face splits into an enormous grin, surprised but happy, and then he nods.

Of course he doesn’t know what a rhetorical question is. But also, of course you aren’t going to be the one to tell him. If he wants you to kiss his finger you’re very damn well going to do it.

You look at his finger again. Gross doesn’t even begin to describe it. There is a definite red-brownish hue to the skin that looks too deeply caked on to be anything less than revolting, and a stain of similarly haunting color clings to the palm of his gloves.

Apprehension swirls in your tightening chest. You feel as though you are toeing a very precarious line between playful and something else by making him wait, but you can’t help but stare at your fate and wonder if there’s some other way.

You force steel into your spine and, without thinking more of it, you take his hand and press a firm, solid kiss to the cut. You can feel his blood and whatever else smearing across your lip, and before you can stop your tongue’s reaction it flickers out and catches the rest.

It tastes like rust, and rot.

Regret is the acid rearing in the back of your throat. You can hardly muster the ability to keep yourself from gagging as your face screws up in disgust. “All better?”

You can’t hide the expression from him, as hard as you might try to. Thankfully he seems positively tickled by the way you play along, his shoulders shaking and mouth falling open in silent glee.

The clown nods enthusiastically. You mimic the nod in a much less enthusiastic manner. Fuck quitting smoking, you really needed a cigarette now.

“Well, I’m just going to—to go around the corner, get a sandwich and some cigarettes.” You clear your throat, hiding the urge to gag. “Do you want anything?”

You don’t expect an answer, you only ask so that you can sidle past him without cause for alarm. The clown let’s you, though the cheerful countenance withers as he watches you curb around him.

Something painfully snags at your leg, the sound of plastic shifting pulling your eyes down to the large trash bag plopped nonchalantly at the clown’s side. Somehow you hadn’t noticed it before but now that you look you cannot unsee all the possibilities it’s presence infers.

Blood rolls off the large black boots and onto the linoleum floor. You can’t imagine why a clown would be carrying around a plastic bag brimming with things that poke sharply and rattle eerily when moved, and, to be frank, you don’t want to know whys or whats. You don’t want to know what’s in the bag or what caught on your pants.

You tug yourself free, unable to hide the terror lancing up through your tensed shoulders and stiff neck. Why would a clown covered in blood carry such a mysterious bag of things that poke and prod in the most painful way? Better not to know.

You hope, at least, that the acquiescence shines through your eyes. The clown tilts his head, the amusement slipping for a slippery and prying emotion you can’t pinpoint, but you can feel it trying to pin you in place.

“I’ll be back.” You say.

The pencil-thin eyebrows pinch together, the eyes glinting sharply. You’d better, they respond.

You walk past him, but it’s a farce. You’re not escaping. He’s letting you get away.

Why is he letting you get away?

He knows that you’re aware of what he’s done. Even if you managed to keep your cool well enough not to break down in front of him there is no way he couldn’t detect the apprehension rolling off of you. The pure, rancid fear.

You feel like a ghost, his eyes hollowing you out from behind until you’re out of sight. Then you’re leaning on the nearest brick wall, knees shaking so badly you nearly cave to the ground.

It takes every ounce of strength in you not to break down right there, to not start sprinting in any direction and never look back. To get the fuck away—wherever that may be. But even the minimal distance you’ve put between yourself and the clown brings no relief, and miles would do no different. Because the fact remains that you haven’t gotten away.

You have to go back. There’s no choice. If you don’t go back to him he’ll come to you, and with him entails an entirely new set of rules to abide by. Rules that he sets.

Rules to live by. Rules to die by.

You don’t walk to the closest station, even though you know it’s less than two blocks away. You don’t try and dial the police. You definitely don’t look behind you.

Somehow you’re sure that if you change the course of your actions because of him then he will suddenly become real. Right now he is just something you’re encountering, but the moment he enters your world, the moment you let this shift from a chance meeting to a confrontation, is the moment you go under the knife.

Fuck, this is so fucked. You couldn’t even think of eating a sandwich anymore. How long did you have before you had to get back to the laundromat? How long before he’d come looking for you?

A part of you fantasizes about this being something you’ve deluded yourself into thinking is real; the clown is really just a harmless, if a bit creepy man that doesn’t see a reason leaving Halloween to be the only day to dress up. Who knows, he could be a professional clown.

Its the same part of you that fantasizes telling the lady at the counter what you’ve seen. ‘There’s a clown covered in blood at Al’s Laundromat, he’s got a bag of tricks and I don’t think it’s the fun kind. Yeah, Al’s, right down the road.’

You ask for cigarettes instead, the long ones. It’s a lot easier to say that, a lot less words. Besides, you know he’s expecting you. You know what will happen if you don’t show up.

Your hands tremble as you light the tip against the struggling wind and make your way back to the laundromat. You want the life of the cigarette to be lackadaisical, to last you longer than the walk back to the laundromat, but you chase the buzz with quick steps. Antsy to get back.

Not eager. You don’t want to go back, but you don’t want to keep him waiting. It makes the buzz fade quicker than you’d like, the numbness slipping through your fingers before it can fully set into your spine.

You can see the sign of the laundromat gleaming in the sun, dim and dusty and likely filled with mosquitoes. People were walking by the murky panes of glass. None of them looked in. You almost prayed they would, just so you wouldn’t have to go inside. Likely they’d be better people than you and call the cops after seeing a murderer drenched in blood sitting inside, but who knows these days.

The panic trapped in the rib-woven confinement of your chest doesn’t ease as you take the final drags of your cig. The moment you’re in the line of sight you feel the eyes back on you, and it makes the end almost burn brighter, as if the cigarette is also too impatient to wait for you to return to the clown.

“The fuck has my life come to,” you grumble, stepping on the lit butt until it dithers out.

When you look up he is, of course, staring straight through you. You wave pathetically as if to affirm ‘hey, I’m back. Just like I promised!’ but the clown doesn’t look like he feels any particular way about it. In fact, his gaze is cold enough to make your stomach curdle, the hot ball of anticipation inside your gut hardening into the choking weight of fear.

Your fingers are slick with sweat as they press on the door. The clown is sitting in a chair conveniently close to where your outfit is still tumbling away in the dryer, and leading to him is a grossly vibrant trail of blood in the shape of comically large footprints

His expression doesn’t change as you drag you feet over to where he’s lounging, the black trash bag lopsided at his feet. Decay drips off him and onto the plastic seats, pooling in the curved bottom before dripping down the backs.

You change the clothes from the washer to the dryer. Thirty five minutes. How the fuck are you supposed to survive thirty five minutes with this guy?

If you sit right next to him you’ll get a proper whiff of his sins, if you sit too far maybe it’ll be your blood spilling on the floor. Not great options either way. Maybe it’s better to butter him up, though it’s hard to tell which he wants with the way he’s staring at you like he wants to skin you.

You choose what you think is the lesser of two evils and sit next to him, casual. You try not to let the look he levels you with steal your voice, not with the way his brown gunk-covered fingers tap impatiently on his thigh. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for you to step over the line so he can do something.

The time left on your machine reads thirty two minutes. Fine.

“You got a name?” You ask after looking back at him.

He bats his eyelashes playfully, why, little ol’ me? The expression warms up as you enter the arena of the game again, his game, watching as he digs through the bag before pulling out a square piece of paper.

It’s a business card. Your breath stops in your chest when, for a moment, you wonder if you really had read this whole thing wrong—was he just a really convincing mime that you’d happened to run into twice, eager to share his business?

The thought is short lived. When you take the card you can see the printed text is scratched out sloppily with a crayon. In the margins is the scratch of sloppy, childish writing:

“Art the Clown,” you read out loud, voice quiet.

Art folds his hands in front of himself and presses them under his chin, once more batting his eyelashes at you as though to say, guilty as charged.

It’s a mockery of sweetness, especially with such disgusting yellow teeth baring themselves at you like a shark. At least he doesn’t seem angry anymore.

You hand the card back to him, careful not to touch where the blood soaks through his gloves, before sitting down next to him. You try not to make it too obvious that you’re sitting as far from him as possible on the seat, but Art seems completely unaware of personal space as he leans in, thigh touching yours.

Wetness seeps through the place of contact. Iron is rich and burning in your nose.

You dig through your pockets and start talking as soon as you have four quarters in your palm. “Well, Art—if I were you, I’d wash that. Otherwise all the red is going to stain.”

You place the quarters into his palm, lean back in your seat, and close your eyes. You’ve got thirty more minutes, might as well try and fit a nap in. It’s not like anyone is going to bother you while Art is here, though that thought doesn’t bring you much comfort.

You count backwards from ten, breathing out of your mouth, and try to let the vibrations of the machines lull you to sleep.

#Art the Clown #art the clown x reader #art the clown x you #slasher fandom #slasher x you #the terrifier #gore

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shirohige-pirates · 5 months

Text

Birds of a Feather

CisFem Reader x Marco

CW: Violence, blood, language, adult themes and scenes. 18+ only

Summary: Life has not been kind to you. After a string of bad relationships, you're a little jaded and a little depressed in all honestly. The worst day of your life seems to be the turning point, but the roller coaster ride that follows could either throw you soaring free, or have you caged forever?

Chapter 16: Frustrations

Tuesday you entered the garage once Marco brought the two of you back to your house for the day. Sure enough there was your car - you’re practically new car. Everything had either been machined, replaced, or refurbished, and you were certain the only miles on the new engine were however many Kid used to make sure everything was perfect before driving it from the shop to here.

“Wow.” Marco whistles. “It looks brand new.”

“Technically it practically is.” You admit, walking by the small work bench you had in the garage and picking the keys up before walking around it. “Man, Usopp did a phenomenal job.”

The 1978 phoenix design had been expertly recreated on the hood. Black lined the body, fading into blue, and then teal, and finally there was small golden area around where the bird’s heart would be. The wings were hollow like the original design, lined thinly in metallic gold with teal for the flames. Against the blue of the car’s body it really made the design pop.

The final touches were what you and Usopp had talked about the most. It was based off a design you’d seen of the mythological Phoenix in a book you’d read. One that, well, you weren’t sure anyone else had access to anymore.

Three sets of golden rings chained from the main body of the bird’s tail feathers. One wove its way down around the headlight assembly, the final orb painted behind the car’s manufacturer’s insignia. The other two chains slid off the hood and fluttered down the quarter panels of the car, ending just before the door handles.

“`What uh… what prompted these colors and this design?” Marco questions, walking around the car with you and admiring the work.

“It’s a little unorthodox right? Usually the phoenix is depicted with reds and golds. A powerful entity of life and rebirth and immortality.” You begin. “Timeless and mythological.”

Running your fingers over the last few chain links of golden tail feathers on the car’s door you pause for a moment before continuing.

“I read a book a long time ago, thanks to Ivan shoving books in my hands almost faster than I could read them, that had an illustration of the phoenix with colors like these.” You smile softly, a mix of the memory and your little white lie. Ivankov had shoved books into your hands as fast as you could read them when you were younger, but even so, most of the books you had read were contained within your library. A place no one could enter unless you let them.

A place that would get you executed on the spot, changed world or not, if anyone ever learned about it. You hadn’t even told Ivan about it, though you were pretty sure that he knew you had a devil fruit, even if you never used it or talked about it. Your surrogate guardian was dangerously observant.

“It was a book on Devil Fruits,” you say a little abruptly, pulling yourself out of your own memories. “That’s where I got the word tori too. The Tori Tori no Mi are a class of bird-related devil fruits, and besides, Tori-chan is just an absolutely adorable name for a car that’s probably going to sound like a demon if I rev the engine a little roughly.”

“Ah, I see. So you’re a, uh, fan of that devil fruit?” His words are a little awkward, but his expression is relaxed. He gives you an easy smile when you look over at him.

“I mean, it is a really cool fruit, but I don’t know that I’d say I was a fan.” You clarify. “No matter what a devil fruit is or does, the effectiveness of any of them is based on a ton of different variables. The stamina of the user, their capacity to mesh with the fruit, the creativity required to utilize it, and the control to keep from burning themselves out.”

You clear your throat a little, popping the trunk to see if Kid left you any surprises. “If I was a fan of any fruit, it’d be more like being a fan of the person who had it. You know, how well they could use it, and what they used it for.” You explain, pulling out a jumper kit, an emergency kit and a blanket from the trunk before lifting up the floor to see how the spare tire and jack were situated.

“I mean, who’d be a fan of someone who had like, a healing fruit and all they did was go around and kill people?” You start putting the kits back in the trunk and give Marco a smile. “It wouldn’t be the fruit’s fault, at least, but what a waste.”

“That makes sense.” He murmurs. Taking in a breath he smiles, focusing on you more than the car. “Want some company for your first drive?”

You grin. “You trust me enough to relinquish control like?” You tease.

Marco grins. “I like driving my car, yoi.” He begins. “It doesn’t mean I have trust issues.”

“Mmm, but you do like being in control.” You assert, giving him a pointed look as you unlock the car.

“You’re not talking about driving anymore.” He grins, getting into the passenger seat and setting it as far back as it will go.

“I was not,” you admit, settling in and hitting the garage door before you start up the car. The engine in your Firebird is a little louder than Marco’s SEL, but it rumbles smoothly, and the even though it’s amplified within the confines of the garage, it’s not so loud as to be a nuisance.

“It feels like it’s been months since I’ve gotten behind the wheel.” You run your hands over the steering wheel. “It’s a little surreal honestly.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, everything’s new, effectively. This isn’t my car, but it is most certainly my car.” You try to explain. “Kid did a solid job.”

“You’re not wrong, yoi. I might have to consider seeing if he’d be willing to be my primary mechanic.”

“If you actually let him work on that SEL he’d probably pay you for the privilege.” You laugh. “Next time we have a reason to go to the shop I’ll see if I can get him to show you Victoria.” You turn, looking over your shoulder as you back out of the garage. “It’s certainly one thing you two have in common, if nothing else.”

“Hm? He’s more into the older luxury cars?”

“Yeah, Vicky’s a 1957 Bel Air.”

You drove the two of you along a few back roads, hitting a long open stretch and really opening the motor for a couple of miles. You didn’t want to push your luck too much, but it was nice to be behind the wheel again. It was even nicer to have a car that wasn’t going to break down on you on the way to work, or well, anywhere within the island honestly.

You and Marco talked about cars while you drove. How he effectively inherited his from his Pops, and you admitted that your car had been a gift from Ivankov. It wasn’t in the greatest shape when you’d first gotten it, and you’re pretty sure Ivan had only meant for you to drive it for a couple of years before buying your own.

Before the car had given out, however, you’d ended up getting close to Kid. With his business it just made sense to let him keep the car running, and in the process you yourself had learned quite a bit about cars. It had worked out in the end, and even Kid had been trying to get you to replace the Firebird for the last couple of years.

He wasn’t sick of working on it, so much as he was probably worried the frame would just snap while you were in the middle of driving.

But now that wasn’t a concern. Tori-chan was as new and as safe as you could hope for, and in a way the entire process really had made her something of a phoenix.

After the drive it was dinner.

And then farewells.

The kiss in the foyer was gentle, long, sweet, and entirely too brief.

Your fingers had stayed entwined in his for as long as you could possibly manage, and you didn’t want him to leave.

He didn’t want to leave.

But there would be work in the morning, and you had your date plans set for Friday. Time that had danced around you and slipped through your fingers might deign to slow the next couple of days, but it would still move forward. It had no other choice.

Once you closed your front door, however, you had a problem you hadn’t really ever had before.

Your home was empty.

Empty hadn’t ever really been a word you had used to describe it before. It was, perhaps, a bit too big for a single person, but it had all that you needed and more. You had shelves of books, plenty of storage, and room enough to host parties occasionally. A little more than modest, decidedly less than ostentatious.

But it hadn’t ever felt empty before. Not like this.

You tried to tell yourself it was the rush of a new love, but you’d had “new” lovers before now, and even then your home had been comfort. The peace and quiet gave you time to recharge, or cool off. It never left you feeling almost hollow.

Almost cold.

It was frustrating! You were full-grown, not some teenager led around by your nose by your libido. There was no reason to be so dramatic about it.

Flopping onto the couch with a sigh, you already knew the problem wasn’t your libido. Sure there was a lot of chemistry between you, and a lot of tension, and a lot of tenderness too. You teased each other on near equal terms, and you were certain he was struggling as much as you were.

The flush in his cheeks, the red in his ears, the heat that rolled off his neck and the desire that slipped from his lips like silk. The way his fingers twitched and flexed, and the pleased sounds that rattled around in his chest.

The way he restrained himself even though you could tell he just wanted to completely take over.

In some ways you wanted to let him. Not to lose yourself in him completely, but a little. Enough that, at least in certain situations, you could happily let him lead. Let him decide.

Let him hunt you.

“-you’re going to end up that Vet’s pet, little mouse.” Kid’s words echo in your brain a little, and you scoff into the empty air of your home.

Empty.

Grumbling and muttering, you pull yourself off the couch and grab a shower before turning in early for the day. Time would pass because it had to, and if you were just going to be frustrated sitting on the couch, you might as well get a little extra rest.

If things went well this weekend you’d need the extra energy anyway.

#Birds of a Feather #Marco x reader #x reader #reader insert #marco the phoenix #marco the pinepple #modern au

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astrababyy · 1 year

Note

Ohhhhhhh let’s talk about the mating bond and how it doesn’t fit with SJM’s narrative of Rhysand giving Feyre choices or healthy relationships.

It’s laughably funny to me that Rhys said he was giving Feyre a choice to stay with Tamlin…… but every time he took her he was trying to make her fall for him because he knew she was his mate. So did she really have a choice at all? Because from the get, he was trying to turn her away from Tamlin. Telling her she’d be sidelined? (When even with his shitty self, he tried to include her in things so long as he didn’t deem them dangerous.) Telling her about their past and making Tamlin out to be the bad guy when she doesn’t even have the full story. And then of course, Tamlin’s PTSD-induced abuse (bc it is abuse no matter what) really made her believe it all. Really, what choice did she have, but be forced by a mating bond and faux-choice mate to fall for him and accept him? And even in context, apparently characters can choose to accept the bond, but when none of them reject it or are even allowed to reject it (because with the way it’s set up, I refuse to believe either Rhys or Cassian would allow for rejection), it is really a choice?

And it’s even funnier because SJM KNOWS they have nothing in common. That’s why she had to force Feyre and Nesta to become warriors and parrot whatever their mates think and say.

you’re so right, anon. the mating bond is THE most ridiculous thing in the acotar universe, and it kind of destroys all of sjm’s hounding on rhysand giving feyre a “choice”.

also, sorry anon, but this got kinda long lol.

firstly, rhysand didn’t even tell feyre that they were mates. that, in and of itself, is blatant manipulation.

i think rhysand’s focus on feyre choosing him would’ve been better off if feyre had known he was her mate from the get-go. that is one of the biggest flaws with how the entire thing was treated. true consent requires knowing all the facts, and feyre didn’t know a lot of them.

the most important fact that pretty much explains everything rhysand’s doing for her was knowledge she was never given because, let’s face it, rhysand wouldn’t seem HALF as romantic if feyre and the audience knew from the beginning that everything he did was based on some superficial bond the audience doesn’t care about.

every time he took her he was trying to make her fall for him because he knew she was his mate.

during all that time she was with him, rhysand manipulated and gaslit her to get her on his side and to make her fall for him, which is what makes it so fucked up. and then there’s that point you said, that rhysand did it because feyre’s his mate.

i think this scene is some of its worst because of how blatant it seems.

“I will say this once—and only once,” Rhysand purred, stalking to the map on the wall. “You can be a pawn, be someone’s reward, and spend the rest of your immortal life bowing and scraping and pretending you’re less than him, than Ianthe, than any of us.

this line was so weird to me because rhysand in the text has this tendency to reframe things to fit his narrative, and it doesn’t really correlate with what’s actually happening. this happens a lot, and you’ll notice how different things seem when he’s the one describing them. and even you, anon, added that tamlin literally doesn’t do this or treat her like this. at most, it’s ianthe. like, rhysand’s words don’t correlate at all, and the reader + feyre are just so angry that they follow along.

If you want to pick that road, then fine. A shame, but it’s your choice.”

y’all ever have those moments with your mother where you’d, like, pick something out at a store and she’d be like, “okayyyyy~ then,” with this judgy look like she’s rethinking all her life decisions up until that moment as she makes a face to push you to pick something else? no? just me? okay, anyway, that’s what this reminds me of.

also a bit like those schoolyard bullies that would shame you for your interests and make you feel like you had to hide them? kind of like that too.

The shadow of wings rippled again. “But I know you—more than you realize,

don’t even get me STARTED on this line. “I know you”??? that’s the most stereotypical, gaslighting-level line in the history of all dialogue. everyone knows how toxic this statement can be. and rhysand doesn’t even know feyre at all. he doesn’t know anything about her. he’s just appealing to her innermost desires to not be suffocated in her time of vulnerability and twisting it as he sees fit.

I think—and I don’t believe for one damn minute that you’re remotely fine with being a pretty trophy for someone who sat on his ass for nearly fifty years, then sat on his ass while you were shredded apart—”

🙂

Telling her about their past and making Tamlin out to be the bad guy when she doesn’t even have the full story.

personally, i think rhysand himself didn’t even know the full story. I think the memories are just so emotional for him that he crafted the rest of the story in his head, throwing out all reason and logic. that doesn’t change that we should’ve heard tamlin’s side, especially since the things we know about him don’t correlate with what rhysand claims he did.

And then of course, Tamlin’s PTSD-induced abuse (bc it is abuse no matter what) really made her believe it all.

this is the key factor, i think. feyre had already been through so much that when rhysand offered her a helping hand, no matter everything he did that came with it, she clung onto it because she needed someone in a time where she felt so alone. rhysand took advantage of her and manipulated her when she was at her lowest, and i think that’s what allowed her to become so different in acomaf and acowar.

Really, what choice did she have, but be forced by a mating bond and faux-choice mate to fall for him and accept him?

with how much rhysand hid from her, this is really a major one. feyre’s choices are limited and seem different without the full perspective, so is it really consent at that point?

And even in context, apparently characters can choose to accept the bond, but when none of them reject it or are even allowed to reject it (because with the way it’s set up, I refuse to believe either Rhys or Cassian would allow for rejection), it is really a choice?

cassian, I feel like, never would’ve let nesta go if she rejected their bond. and idk how the ic would react, but i doubt it’d be good. i think this is also why we had lucien with elain. he got the brunt of the side effects so there be that added tensions, that acknowledgement that rejecting the bond is entirely possible and something people have done before.

And it’s even funnier because SJM KNOWS they have nothing in common. That’s why she had to force Feyre and Nesta to become warriors and parrot whatever their mates think and say.

the gap between feyre and nesta and their mates truly makes this seem that much more terrible. everything about them seems so altered from their original characters, to the point that it’s actually sad.

#anti sjm #anti rhysand #anti feysand #anti cassian #astrababyy #astrababyy asks

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storiesundercandlelight · 1 month

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In The Eyes of Priwen - Chapter Four

Another chapter!

Geoffrey made quick work of his journey to Evelyn's house, he could see the two lads stationed outside for the night sitting on chairs out the front. A luxury he certainly hadn't awarded to them. They stood up to greet him when he got close enough for them to be able to make him out in the lamp lit street, the air felt damp, like any moment the heavens would open up and the rain would start to fall.

"Evening boss, everything alright?" Geoffrey was half ashamed that he couldn't remember the name of the guard who addressed him first, he was new.

"Yeah, anything here? I take it you're bein' treated as well as the lads last night?"

"Yeah Miss Evelyn had her man come out earlier with drinks and food" Geoffrey nodded before heading up the stairs, leaving the two men to sit back down. He knocked on the door expecting to be greeted by Sembene but it was Evelyn that opened the door.

"Hello, come in" She ushered Geoffrey in quickly, motioning for him to follow her into the living room and towards the desk at the back of the room.

"Your man not here tonight?"

"He was earlier but not now, I usually let him take time off, it's only me here now after all. Though he hasn't been taking any time since the attack. But now that your men are here I insisted" Geoffrey could already see an improvement, Evelyn was still dressed as casually as before, but her eyes seemed brighter, she'd clearly been sleeping these last couple of nights. "I found something"

"Yeah your note said"

"I don't actually know if it will be helpful to you but..." Evelyn leant over and picked up two brown leather journals from the desk. " My father was an explorer, hence the décor, he usually visited Egypt. Anyway before he died he became obsessed with immortality. Thomas and I just put it down to his love for Ancient Egyptian beliefs and their afterlife, but he wasn't the same in the last two years of his life" Geoffrey was beginning to wonder what any of this had to do with him, but he couldn't bring himself to interrupt her as he would have done with someone else like Edgar. Geoffrey realised he would probably sit and listen to her chat about anything as long as she kept her attention on him.

"Anyway it wasn't until I read his last two journals that I saw Priwen mentioned, and someone named Carl Eldridge?" Geoffrey's interest peaked at this.

"He was the former leader of Priwen, my mentor"

"My father seemed to have been meeting with him, about a weapon that can kill vampires. But later in the journal he begins talking about a club called Ascalon. They apparently reached out to him offering him immortality, I suppose I now know that means turning him into a vampire"

"Yeah it does, what weapon is mentioned?"

"Some sort of sword, the sword of a king" Geoffrey stilled for a moment. The only link to a king was the blood of Arthur that Carl had passed down to Geoffrey. Only in a time of great need was he to even consider using it to help him battle the worst of foes. But Geoffrey wasn't a fool, there was only one sword owned by a king that would be worth mentioning. "You can take them"

Geoffrey took the journals from Evelyn. "You sure?"

"Yes, you can bring them back after you're done with them and to let me know if there anything other than the ramblings of a mad man in there"

"Carl wouldn't have worked with your father if he were mad"

"My father was persuasive, even at the end he could probably talk his way out of the worst kinds of situations. Maybe he talked his way into gaining Carls help"

"You don't sound too fond of him. Your father I mean"

"I was, but he was away most of the time travelling. He'd never take me with him no matter how much I asked. My mother was determined to stick to the rules of the upper class, marry me off to someone suitable, my father knew I wouldn't have it. He used to let me get into all sorts of trouble" Evelyn smiled at the memory and now even more than before Geoffrey wanted her to keep talking.

"Your mother isn't around either?"

"No she passed first, she was sick. About 6 months later was when my father began to change. He died of a heart attack. Then it was me and Thomas. Now it's just me" She didn't say it with sadness but Geoffrey knew what it was like to be alone, you often hide the pain of it, well he certainly did.

"I know the feelin' of being the only one left" Geoffrey watched Evelyn look up at him in sympathy.

"You lost your family?"

"My father came back to Dublin a leech, killed my mother, Carl saved me and helped me hunt down Ian who was turned. That's how I ended up in Priwen" It wasn't a story Geoffrey often told, the short version was the only one he was comfortable with.

"I'm sorry"

"It was a long time ago now"

"Doesn't stop the memory from being there though" Evelyn shrugged to lighten the mood and stepped closer to Geoffrey, this close he could see the faint freckles that dotted across the bridge of her nose, the mix of greys and blues in her eyes. He realised after a moment she had been expecting him to move with her, he didn't and was now blocking her from moving away from the desk.

He cursed himself and went to move but Evelyn reached up, her hand ghosting over his jaw before gently pushing his face slightly to the side, her eyes fell on the faint scar that lined the side of his face. "How did this happen?"

"When I was younger, not so quick, leech scratched me" Evelyn met his gaze, a smile tugged at her lips. Geoffrey didn't want her hand to stop touching him, his own hand by it's own accord reached up to hold her arm in place. What was he doing? He wasn't sure himself. When Evelyn didn't react or pull away he wondered if he could lean in and kiss her, they were close enough.

But he didn't. Or he left it too long because Evelyn did move away from him, her eyes darting away from him in disappointment. Jesus he was a fool, he should have just done it.

"Thank you for coming, I hope the journals help" Her voice was quieter now, embarrassed perhaps. He didn't stop himself this time as he placed the journals back onto the desk and reached for Evelyn. He did it quick enough that he heard her take in a startled breath before he pushed his lips against hers.

Geoffrey would never claim to be the most experienced person when it came to romance but he didn't hold back from this kiss. Their lips moved easily against each other, as if this was a rhythm they had already learnt before. Evelyn's hands gripped Geoffrey's coat as they pushed closer together. He knew he could easily loose himself in this kiss, this moment, it could have perhaps been the only time in many year that Geoffrey would be willing to let himself get lost in something. For a man so devoted to Priwen and the cause, enough to be called a fanatic by many, Geoffrey in this moment wanted to be nothing more than the man kissing Evelyn.

This dance of their continued, building only more passion as they pulled and gripped at each other, Evelyn found herself backed up against the desk, Geoffrey leaning over her as their kiss grew deeper. If breathing wasn't vital Geoffrey knew he wouldn't have pulled away, but when he did they both let their heads rest against each other, their noses brushing gently as they both caught their breath.

They looked at each other then, both surprised as a small smirk pulled at both of their lips. "Lets hope your men haven't been watching through the windows" Evelyn whispered. Geoffrey hadn't even thought about it but now that he was he pulled back, his head snapping in the direction of the window, but all he could see were curtains pulled tightly across the glass.

His eyes rolled as Evelyn giggled at having tricked him. Geoffrey looked back at her, his eyes lingering on her lips a moment, wondering if he should kiss her again. God he wanted to, but the hour grew late and he knew he needed to get back to Priwen. "I want to stay but..."

"You have a job to do"

"Aye"

"Until next time then Geoffrey"

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

It was hard before keeping his mind off of Evelyn but now all he could think about was their kiss, the way she felt in his arms. He'd left Evelyn's house in a stupor almost missing the goodbyes from the guards outside.

By the time he'd made it back to Priwen most of the patrols were out or sleeping, only the men by the door were awake to greet him and Philip who was nursing a glass of whiskey in the entry hall which as it stands was the only space left with any room to relax in. "So...how'd it go?" The shir eating grin was back on his face but Geoffrey found himself in too good a mood to snap back.

"Fine, she gave me her fathers journals, seems he was working with Carl"

"I never heard of that happening"

"Nor I but sure it's there, I'll read over them and see what comes of it if anything" Geoffrey took Philips glass and took a swig himself before handing it back and muttering a good night.

"Hold on! Ye aren't going to entertain an ol' man?" Philip sat forward, a knowing look on his face but Geoffrey simply shrugged.

"You'll just have to find your entertainment elsewhere, I have nothin' to share"

"Oh aye, so that smile that was on yer face as ye came through the door was a coincidence then?" Geoffrey didn't even answer he simply turned and headed for a free bed. He would deal with Philips teasing tomorrow.

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