#might polish and put it on AO3 later but for now it's just for the hellsite <3

[redwinterroses]

There’s a cherry tree in the middle of the redwood forest.

False isn’t sure what to make of that. She shifts her grip on the staff in her hand, its pale glow reflecting faintly off the fresh snow. She’s come out here for resources—the vault altar is demanding logs, and these giant trees are an easy source—but the incongruous sight of an enormous, blossoming cherry tree sending pink petals wafting on the frozen wind…

She wonders if this is what fish feel like, when they see a lure.

“Hello?” she calls, her voice echoing off the trees. The world stands in permanent semi-twilight here, and the deeper shadows hide the mobs that will venture out come nightfall. A sneak of creepers is bedded down in a sweetberry bramble just on the other side of the clearing, and False tenses when the lead boar lifts his head, but he apparently doesn’t deem her worth stalking so early in the day. 

There is no other reaction to her call.

False is of half a mind just to head back home and farm her own dang trees. It’s not like the vaultar is picky about the kinds of logs—she could just as easily grow up a bunch of birch and throw those in there. But that will take so much longer… not to mention she’s not sure if there are even enough saplings in her storage.

She unhooks her enchantment-glittered axe from her belt and pauses to mentally poke at her mana reserves. Plenty high. Whatever’s lingering near this tree, it can hardly be worse than what she deals with on the daily in the vaults. Overworld dangers are barely a challenge anymore.

The logic of that doesn’t change the uneasy feeling that buzzes over her skin though. 

Venturing further into the clearing. False’s gaze traces up the trunk of the cherry tree, following its branches to where they terminate in lush bursts of pink and white blooms. A sweet smell drifts on the wind. She wrinkles her nose, reminded of compost piles and fermented spiders’ eyes. 

The tree’s branches stretch long and low—a canopy of their own, heavy with flowers and dark, glossy leaves. The space underneath is filled with falling flowers and a fog of pollen, the air moisture-thick like a lush cave.

Lifting one hand, False catches a falling petal on her fingertip.

It sizzles as it touches her skin, stinging and buzzing like live redstone.

She hisses through her teeth, shaking her hand and letting the petal fall to the forest floor. “What the heck?”

Another petal tumbles past her face, and she watches it with narrowed eyes—right until it fizzles out of existence a few pixels above the forest floor.

“Glitch,” she mutters. “That’s… not good.”

Iskall needs to know about this—it could be a bug from one of the new updates, or it could be something deeper in the code, but either way: this glitched tree is a problem. She’s probably lucky it just stung her.

She reaches for her communicator, raising it to take a pic of the cherry tree.

“Oh, hi there, False!”

False yelps, spinning around with her axe ready to swing.

Gem is standing behind her, a wreath of cherry blossoms tangled in her hair and antlers, leaning casually on a tall staff of blooming cherry wood. Her smile is wide, and sap flows over her fingers, pale golden, dripping down her arms to leave dark spots on the faded denim of her overalls.

“Gem!” False lowers her axe. “Oh my gosh, you scared me. I didn’t know you were doing Vault Hunters.”

“Hm?” Gem raises one eyebrow, and for a moment her eyes flicker to red and then purple before settling back on green. “Oh—I’m not doing Vault Hunters, False.” Her voice is amused, almost chiding.

“Oh.” False feels unexpectedly small—which is impressive, considering she’s nearly half a block taller than Gem. 

More of the glitched petals fall, resting on Gem’s hair and slowly melting into it like snowflakes. The brief moment of relief when False had seen Gem’s familiar grin is fading into something like the sensation of freefall. 

“What’cha up to?” Gem asks, and her face blinks from one expression to the next like a bad video message. Her clothes are blue—no, green—no, bloodstained and grey—no, blue. They’ve always been blue.

False takes a step back.

“Uh, not much…” she glances up at the redwoods. “Just doing some… resource gathering. You know.”

“Cool!” Gem giggles, and stands up straight. False tenses, but Gem only spins around her staff and waves a hand at the glitched tree. “I didn’t realize this was an occupied server—are there many people here?”

There’s a buzzing in False’s skull, and she blinks rapidly. A muscle twitches under her eye. 

“Um…”

“I guess it doesn’t really matter.” Gem lifts one hand and grabs one of the lowest branches of the cherry tree. She really should not have been able to reach that.

Swinging herself up with the lithe, effortless strength of a cat, she perches on the limb and stares down at False. The grin is gone from her face now, and she looks down at False with bright eyes.

“Etho’s not here, is he?”

False opens her mouth to answer, the words yes, of course he is, I can take you to him heavy on her lips… And with effort, she swallows them back. 

They taste of sweet rot.

“Why... why doesn’t what matter?” she asks instead.

Gem stares at her for a long moment, expressionless. The flowers woven through her antlers are growing of their own accord, twining up to caress their brethren in the branches overhead. 

Then she smiles broadly, flashing teeth that nearly glow white in the dappled shadows. “Oh!” she exclaims. “No reason! I’m only passing through, is all.”

“You’re not… you’re not sticking around?” False tries—and mostly fails—to sound disappointed.

“Naaaaah…” Gem stands and walks along the branch, as secure and balanced as if it were a stone floor. The flowers in her hair flow along behind her, sliding from the branches and falling like a cape down her back. “Worldhopping is easy. Staying in one spot is way harder.” 

False watches the flowers move and swirl, their smooth, strange motion ensnaring her attention. The buzzing is back, too. Like bees, drunk on honey and sleepy in their hive.

“World hopping…?” she manages. “With admin commands?”

Gem’s laugh is as brilliant as a knife and as sharp as a spark. “False!” she crows. “You say the funniest things.”

False laughs. It seems appropriate. She isn’t sure why.

“Anyway,” Gem continues, fading into one patch of blossoms and reappearing on the other side of it. Her eyes are sprays of cherry flowers now. Her antlers are branches. “Anyway, cherry trees are all the same. They make it easy to get around.”

“That…” doesn’t make sense, False wants to say. But her lips are heavy, and coated in sticky sap. Maybe it doesn’t really matter.

“Oops! Behind you, False!” 

Gem’s chirped warning is flaked in glee, and False turns around, as slow as if her feet are buried in soul sand.

The creepers she had seen—the entire sneak—are standing behind her, pink flowers blooming from their eyes. 

“Oh no.”

The boar’s blinded head snaps toward her voice, hissing. He starts to aggro, bioluminescent streaks flashing from his snout to flanks in increasingly-swift pulses of light.

“See ya in season ten, False!” Gem cries out cheerfully.

The axe drops from False’s nerveless fingers, trailing strings of sap. She smells the inescapable stench of burning gunpowder, overlaid with rot.

“...Dangit.”

[FalseSymmetry was blown up by a creeper]

~*~

Jerking upright in her own bed, False swipes wildly at her face, trying to smear away tree sap that isn’t there. 

“What the heck, Gem?” she exclaims at her empty base. Her voice falls flat, swallowed up by the sky that surrounds her builds. The clock above her head ticks impatiently, and she huffs in frustration, pushing up out of her bed. All her tools, gone—her levels, gone... and after all that she still needs those logs for the vault. 

Grumbling, she starts pulling backup gear from various chests, trying to cobble together something that can get her back to the redwood grove before her items despawn—assuming they hadn’t all been obliterated by a second or third creeper explosion. She glances at the vaulter, and freezes.

It’s been completed. The crystal floats gently atop the stone pedestal, gleaming with an inner light. 

And, tumbled at the base of the vaulter—abandoned, more than was needed to fill the crystal’s requirements:

Half a stack of cherry logs.

#falsesymmetry #geminitay #red said eldritch gem rights #let her be cheerful and scary too she deserves it #also there needs to be more Vault Hunter fic in the world. and more False content. #this was inspired by a post of some enormous redwood trees I saw the other day with teeny tiny people at the base of them #along with Gem's tree building -- the cherry trees in her hardcore and s9 builds #and the headcanon from hc8 and empires that she's a worldhopper #anyway this is the first thing I've really written in (over?) a year so... I'm quite happy about it. #might polish and put it on AO3 later but for now it's just for the hellsite <3 #redwinterwrites #oh also excuse for creeper/minecraft worldbuilding yaaay XD

[katiexpunk]

okay i’m feeling a little delulu and playing pool with the boys right now. ideas are rolling and i want a fic where joel fucks reader on a pool table (breeding kink maybe?!?) you’re the best

Run the Table | Pairing Joel and Tommy Miller X Fem!Reader

Summary: You're home for Christmas, only to find yourself there for the New Year. You decide to blow off some steam, only to end up at Joel's Place, your old local watering hole. Bits of your past get dredged up, and before you know it, Joel and Tommy have you bent over a pool table. Word Count: ~6K Warnings: Dubcon from the perspective that the reader is a little drunk, but she's definitely a willing participant. Family feuds. Alcohol. Age gap implied but not referenced explicitly. Flirting and bantering. Threesome with the Miller Bros. Betting. Pool. Oral (m and f receiving). Fingering. Praise. Use of daddy. Fucking on pool table. Pool. Suggestive use of a cue stick. Dom undertones from Joel. Hard core breeding kink. References to pregnancy. Cum kink. Cum swallowing. Praise kink. Unprotected p in v. Creampie. Use of pet names. Tommy and Joel are suave in this, but reader gives them a run for their money. Use of slut. No descriptions of reader, except that she has boobs and hair. Minimally edited. Filth, filth, filth. Authors Note: Thank you so much for the ask, Abby @javipispunk/@barzalmatty! This was such a treat to write. You naughty girl, I hope this inspires you, or at the very least, makes you O. Thanks for submitting this ask in babe, ily. This will be my last fic of 2023. Thank you all so much for your continued support.

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications

The living room, which was all holiday cozy a few days ago, now feels like a battleground in the weird liminal space between Christmas and the New Year. You can’t remember the last time you spent more than three consecutive days with your family, and now you remember why. 

The family drama has hit an all-time high, with arguments about the dumbest stuff echoing through the house – your mother yelling that someone put her Pyrex in the wrong cabinet, your father yelling at your brother for adjusting the settings on the remote. Hell, even the dog is over it; spending most of the day lounging in front of the LED fireplace that your mother picked up at Costco last winter. You never really understood that one, given your living room has an actual functioning fireplace. 

Of course, you all love each other, it’s just that the festive candle is now nearly snuffed out; not to be lit again until Thanksgiving. Or if your mother had it her way, Easter, but you haven’t cared much for Easter since that one year that your cousin Ron ate way too many hard-boiled eggs and couldn’t stop farting all night. Never again, you swore to yourself then, and still swear to yourself now. 

You come back to your hometown maybe once a year, twice if someone dies. You haven’t lived here in years, and yet the streets bear the weight of nostalgia, each corner holding echoes of memories that time has both polished and weathered. The town is a paradox, frozen in a bittersweet dance between familiarity and change. 

You’re cozied up under a blanket on the couch, a glass of red swirling in one hand, the Eve Babitz novel your roommate gifted to you in the other. Try as you might, you just can’t seem to relax; the words on the page are blending into a snarled blob of ink. The tension is too much; the heavy air in the house makes it difficult to concentrate. Fuck this. 

You throw on your coat and slip out of the house. I’m going out, be back later, you call out but you don’t wait for your words to be acknowledged before the front door slams shut, not that anyone was listening in the first place. 

You pause on your front stoop in the cool night air and take a deep inhale, tilting your head up to the sky, the moonlight coating your face like a veil. The winter air that fills your lungs makes you feel alive, and it’s then that you realize how close you were to suffocating mere moments ago. 

You stand under the stars and consider your options before eventually landing on the best of them. Your old watering hole from college; the one with the heavy pours and the best pool tables in the town – Joel’s Place. 

The snow crunches under your feet as you make your way there. In the silence, it’s easy to let your let your mind wander. You haven’t been back in years, and yet, your mind still drifts to thoughts of dimples and salt-and-pepper curls. You wonder if he’ll remember you – not likely, you think. 

Your stomach flutters at the thought anyway.

++++ 

The door to Joel’s Place creaks open, releasing a gust of frigid winter air that clings to your coat. Note to self, bring a scarf next time. The warmth inside is a welcome contrast, and the familiar scent of the aged wood and whiskey acts like a time machine and transports you back in time to your early 20s. It’s just the same; the mahogany bar, stools with cracked leather seats, and vintage beer signs adorning the walls. 

While aspects of the town may have changed, you’re pleased to find that Joel’s Place has not. 

As the door swings shut behind you, you find yourself in a familiar dimly lit space, except – it’s not – it’s quiet. A little too quiet. The pool tables in the distance stand untouched, their felt surfaces waiting for the familiar crack of balls colliding. The hanging lights above them cast a warm, dim glow, illuminating the emptiness that seems to linger. It starkly contrasts the energy you were surrounded by earlier in the night. 

The place is empty, except for one customer at the bar. The bartender – Joel, you hope – is nowhere to be seen. You hesitate for a moment, taking in the scene before deciding to sit an appropriate two stools away from the man, not wanting to be awkward. You don’t think he would mind, not really, but you suppose the rule in a situation like this is similar to public transport etiquette. If there’s more than one open seat, you never sit directly next to anyone. 

“Excuse me, sir – is this seat taken?” You ask, a hint of sweetness and formality behind your voice. You know it’s not, but the manners that were hammered into you from your tidy upbringing are hard to shake.

The man looks at you, the neck of the beer he’s nursing parting from his lips as he does. Now that you have a full look at him, he’s quite gorgeous. Olive sunkissed skin, dark curls, deep brown eyes that all but scream trouble. 

“All yours, sugar,” he responds. And oh, he’s southern to boot, with a hint of a twang behind his inflection. 

You slip your puffy coat off your shoulders, revealing your ensemble for the night; a simple pair of jeans and a tight long-sleeve cashmere sweater that cups the curve of your breasts and lifts them just right, a lovely slit down the middle that exposes just enough. You hook your coat under the bar and pull out the stool, its metal legs scratching against the floor as you do. 

“So, the producers didn’t have enough to pay for some extras for this show, or what?” you joke, a slight smirk on your face as you settle yourself onto the stool. 

“‘Spose not,” he responds, a hint of a smile on his face as he brings the bottle back to his lips, his eyes locking with yours as he does. 

“And the uh–bartender, Joel, if I remember correctly,” you say, a questioning tone behind your voice, “he here, or is this just a one-man show?” 

And wouldn’t that be something, you here all alone with just him. 

“Can’t be a one-man show with you here, darlin',” he responds, his dark eyes drinking you down like the beer in his hand. “He’s here, just in the back hooking up a new keg,” he adds. 

“Oh,” you respond, your voice a smidge too high – like you’re some fucking school girl about to see her crush in 3rd period. “Good, that’s good. Can’t have all of our friends here go thirsty,” you retort, making a vague gesture with your palm to the empty space in the bar in an attempt to recover yourself from your very obvious interest in the bartender being here. So stupid. 

“Can’t have that, they’re a rowdy bunch” he responds with a wink and you flash him a warm smile. “You’re funny, I like you,” he adds, “name’s Tommy, by the way, and you are?” 

You give him yours with an extension of your hand. His swallows yours, but he’s gentle and discerning with the shake he gives it. He holds you there, just looking, and you feel a warmth creep up to your face. With your hands still interlocked, a broad figure pushes through the door from the kitchen with a resounding thud. 

You turn to face him, and his amber eyes immediately find yours. Your breath hitches in your throat, your pulse quickens, and you’re now acutely aware of the fact that you’re still linked with Tommy. 

“Well, I’ll be damned. Either ‘m getting old and my eyes are deceiving me, or it’s little Miss Shark sitting at my bar, chatting up my brother,” Joel lets out, his voice low and even. The corners of his mouth lift and you think he might smile, but his face goes just as unreadable as always as he grabs for a bottle behind the bar. “Been a long time since I’ve seen you around here, sweetheart. Good thing, too. You ran out some of my best-paying customers."

You don’t dwell on the comment, your mind is too absorbed, drunk off the fact that he remembers you. It’s been years, but you swear he hasn’t aged a day. You can’t help but eye fuck him as he slides a glass in front of you, and pours you a finger of whiskey. Not only does he remember you, but he remembers your go-to drink, as well. 

As you lift the edge of the glass to your lips, you see Tommy shift his gaze from Joel and back to you, his face twisted in an expression of disbelief. 

“Wait, little Miss Shark,” he begins, tipping the bottle in his hands in your direction as if to point at you, “Yo–you’re the one who ran the tables here for years? Shit, darlin’,” he says, dropping his gaze to the bartop for a moment, trying to hide the fact that he’s impressed, before looking back at you under his lashes. 

“That so hard to believe?” you respond, your voice coated in the warmth of the alcohol. Your cheeks are hot, but you’re not confident it’s just from the liquor; more than likely it’s a result of Joel’s eyes, heavy like boulders, that haven’t left you since he walked in.

Tommy doesn’t answer you. 

“Not my fault they underestimated me,” you retort, nursing down the amber liquid in your glass. 

Joel laughs. 

You and Tommy both turn to face him. 

“Bullshit, sweetheart. You knew exactly what the hell you were doin’,” he adds, nodding his head slightly to you, the bottle hovering in his hand, signaling you for a refill. He pours a glass for him and Tommy this time, too. 

You look at him, mouth slightly agape like you’re waiting for him to finish his side of the story. He turns to face Tommy, one hand resting on the edge of the bartop, his knuckles bleaching under his weight. The other grips the glass in front of him. 

“This one used to sit at my bar, let men buy her free drinks, and then she’d work pool into the conversation,” he says, pausing to take a sip. “She’d be all, ‘I’ve never played, maybe you could teach me blah, blah’ batting her pretty little eyes until they’d cave. By the end of the night, she’d have them makin’ bets and melting like putty in her hands.” 

You try to hide your embarrassment behind your glass. He’s not wrong. You used to do that. You’re not sure if you did it because you were bored, not like there’s much else to do in this shit town anyway, or because you liked the attention, but whatever the reason you have to admit it was fun. 

Besides, most of them deserved it anyway. If losing a few hundred dollars was the biggest price they’d have to pay for flirting with a young college girl while their wives sat at home waiting for them to come home and half satisfy them, well then, you were okay with that. Plus it kept your rent paid.

But that was a long time ago; it’s been ages since you’ve even picked up a pool stick. You just hope that the old idiomatic expression, old habits die hard, rings true for you now. 

The alcohol that courses through your veins gives you a sense of confidence to be a bit bold. You prop your elbows on the sticky bartop and gaze up at Joel. “You gonna kick me out then, Joel? Punish me for all of my wrong-doings?” you flirt, testing, teasing. You flint your eyes over your shoulder to look back at Tommy, and can’t help the surge of arousal that you feel when you notice his eyes are already on your backside. You look at Joel and see the clench in his jaw, the furrow in his brow, his pupils blown wide open. 

“No, ‘m not gonna kick you out, sweetheart,” he says, filling the glasses once more. Between that and the wine from earlier this afternoon, you’re already feeling quite buzzed, and more than a little reckless. You watch him complete the pours before reaching for your glass. 

“But you are gonna have to make it up to me somehow,” he adds. Your pulse doubles and there’s a familiar tug at your navel when you think of what he might mean. Before you have time to respond, he adds “Tell you what, I’ll make you a bet this time. You see Tommy here is a bit of a pool shark himself, and well, baby you already know what I am.” Both of them look at you with dark, hungry eyes. “You beat us, you can have whatever you want,” he adds. 

Your skin feels hot, and you suddenly wish you opted for something cooler than a sweater. “And if either of you wins?” you ask. 

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and find out,” Joel responds, downing the last of his drink, shooting Tommy a knowing look. 

It’s a trap, you know it is. 

And yet you agree.

++++ 

Joel rounds out from behind the bar and leads the way. He walks past the front door and locks it before pulling the plug on the neon open sign that hands in the nearby window. As you three approach the pool table, Tommy picks up a cue stick leaning against the nearby wall – he twirls it in his hands and hands it to you. He picks up another and passes it to Joel, before finally grabbing a third for himself. 

“Hope you’re not a sore loser, Darlin’,” Tommy says with a wink. 

You playfully roll your eyes. “We’ll see,” you cheekily respond, toying with the end of the cue stick and rubbing chalk on the tip end of it, being a little suggestive with your movements. Both Tommy and Joel notice.

You gather around the table, and Joel sets up the balls. “Alright, break time. You’re up first, sweetheart,” Joel says. You lock eyes with Joel for a moment and fuck, this is gonna be rough. He has you so flustered and you haven’t even started. 

You refocus your gaze on the triangular arrangement of balls. You steady your feet and bend over the table, smiling a little when you feel both of them look at your ass. With a swift motion, you strike the cue ball, scattering the rest across the table, sinking a solid and a stripe into two adjacent pockets. Not so bad for being a little rusty, you think. 

Joel lets out a low whistle and looks at Tommy. “Shit, brother, we might be in trouble here,” he says. You smile at the compliment, and round around the table so you’re directly in front of Tommy. You look at Joel as you bend over the table, lining yourself up to hit the solid ball with a clear path to the pocket in front of it.

Your ass skirts against the front of Tommy’s crotch and his breath hitches in his throat. As you’re about to take your shot, a large palm ghosts over the curve of your hip, and the sensation causes you to miss the shot. Fuck. 

“Aw, what’s the matter sweetheart, you a little distracted?” Tommy coos.

They wanna play dirty. You can play dirty.  

Joel’s up next. His broad frame rounds around the table, and his shoulder brushes against you as he does. He finds his best angle and deftly lines the cue stick up, his biceps straining under the cloth of his shirt at the new position. You walk over to the line of his shot and bend over on the opposite end of the table, your tits spilling out of the slit in your shirt, effectively distracting him. He takes his shot and misses.

They wanna play dirty. You can play dirty.  

“Ooo, good effort on that one,” you tell Joel, placating him, “better luck next time,” you conclude with a wink. Joel clears his throat and steps back from the table. 

Tommy circles the table next, attempting to find an easy shot. “So I’ve been thinking, we should make this game a bit more interesting,” you say. You watch as Tommy bends over and lines up his turn. He pulls the cue stick back, and just as he’s about to knock it against the ball, you finish “For every shot we miss, we have to strip a piece of clothing." The shock of your words causes Tommy to miss his shot. 

“Guess that means you’re starting us off,” you tell Tommy. He shoots you a look. His hands find the buckle of his belt and he undoes it, discarding it on a nearby chair. 

The three of you play like that until both Joel and Tommy are clad in nothing but their boxers and socks. You, on the other hand, are still mostly clothed, except for your sweater. Your game started rough, but despite their best efforts to distract you, you’re running the table. 

With only one ball left on the table, you walk up to where both of them stand side-by-side. You stand there facing both of them, and they allow their eyes to linger on your chest. Tommy is standing with his hands cupped in front of his crotch, in an attempt to hide his growing bulge. Joel, however, is unreadable as ever.

You lock eyes with him as you snake your arms behind your back, fiddling with the clasp of your bra. You unhook it, your nipples stiffening in response to air. He casts a quick gaze down to your breasts but doesn’t allow them to linger before he looks at you. His jaw is stiff, and he looks at you like you’re something to eat. Keeping your eyes peered into his, you hold the bra out and give it to Tommy. The moment is so charged. So many things being said with no words, all body language discussion. 

You take a few steps back before turning around to grab your cue stick that’s resting against the edge of the pool table. You walk over to the other end of the table and line up the final shot of the game. “So I’ve been thinking about what I want as my prize,” you say, bending down far enough that your tits smush against the felt on the table. “And what’s that, sweetheart?” Joel asks.  You let out a little hum of satisfaction, dragging the cue stick back. “Want you both to fuck me, right here on this table,” you add, punctuating your statement with your final shot. You watch with bated breath, releasing it when you see the last ball on the table fall into the pocket. 

The three of you stand there in silence, waiting for someone to make the first move.

“You heard her, brother,” Tommy says, advancing towards you. “A bet’s a bet.” His hands find your hips from behind, and he pulls your backside against his firm body, dropping his head to nip at your neck. His lips trail up the side of the sensitive skin there and you let out a little purr as his tongue darts out to lick your pulse. 

Your lusty gaze watches as Joel closes the gap between your bodies, and he pauses inches from you. He lifts his palm and uses the backside of it, trailing his knuckles down your cheek, over the soft swell of your chest, until his hand opens up and cups your breast. 

It’s all dizzying touch, your vision already a little fuzzy from your buzz, and with Joel’s hand on your body in addition to Tommy’s mouth, you’re the one who’s putty in their hands this time. Joel brings your nipple to a stiff peak using his thumb and forefinger, before he lifts them back up to your face. He hooks two fingers under your jaw, tilting you up to face him.

“You’re such a fucking tease, you know that?” Joel says, voice low. You look up at him with doe eyes.

“I know. Now what are you going to do about it?” you taunt. 

Tommy stops his affections on your neck and looks up to lock eyes with Joel. He gives a knowing smirk and Tommy reaches his arms around your body and begins to undo the button on your jeans, the zipper following, before he's pulling them down far enough for you to step out of them. 

“Oh, sweetheart. We’re going to fucking ruin you. Right here on this table, just like you asked,” Joel says. 

“Think you can handle that, hmm? Want both of your daddy’s to stuff that pretty little cunt of yours until you can’t think straight?” And fuck, he’s filthy. His words go straight to your core and you feel slick pooling in your panties, your pussy just begging to be touched.

Before giving you time to respond, his large hand comes down to cup your sex. 

“Shit, baby. All this for us?” Joel asks. Your eyes close when you feel Tommy continue his assault on your neck. You’re pinned between both of their bodies, their hard cocks pressing up against you from both angles. It’s already so intense. The want, the sheer desire you feel for both of them is almost overwhelming. 

“Use your words, Darlin’, we wanna hear it,” Tommy rasps against your skin.

“Ye–yes, all for you both, want you so bad,” you respond with a moan. A groan reverberates through Joel’s chest, and he gives Tommy the same knowing look they’ve shared all night. 

Tommy steps back and comes to stand by Joel’s side. “You’re gonna have to earn it. On your knees, baby,” Joel commands. 

You fall to your knees and feel the hard, wooden floor against your bare calves. You position yourself in front of both of them and fold your hands in your lap, waiting for one of them to give you further instructions, practically worshipping at the altar of the two gorgeous men above you. Joel reaches down and brings his pointer finger to lift your chin to face him. He runs his thumb over your lips.

“So pretty like this,” he rasps. As he releases you, they both nod and you take that as permission to release both of them from the confines of their fabric prison. 

You start with Tommy, dipping your fingers beneath the band of his boxers. Instinctively, your eyes find Joel’s and you glance at him as if to ask for permission again. He nods once more, and you drag them down to the middle of Tommy’s thighs. The cock that springs free is fucking delectable; a perfect width and a sizable length. The tip is prominent and there’s a thick vein bulging along the side of it. He’s well endowed, and thank fuck for that. Your hands reach up to grasp the base of it, and your tongue darts out to lick the bead of pre-cum that’s welled at the tip. It’s salty and delicious, leaving you wanting more, more, more. 

You pull your mouth away from Tommy and replace it with your hand, slowly and firmly stroking the length of him, his skin smooth like butter under your palm. He starts to protest when he realizes what your next move is. You use your free hand to release Joel from his fabric confines and moan at the sight of his cock. Of course, they both would be blessed below the belt. As delicious as Tommy’s cock is, his older brother has a bit of a lead on him.

Truthfully, you’re not surprised in the slightest. Joel’s cock is well above average in length, but the main attraction is the thickness. Just from the looks of it, your fingers probably wouldn’t meet if you wrapped your fingers around him. His girthiness intimidates you, but you don’t scare easily. You were hungry before, but now you’re positively ravenous. You kitten lick Joel’s tip then fully suck on it, eliciting a throaty groan from him. You smile around it, pleased at yourself for being able to affect him like that.

You want to please the pair of dangerously handsome brothers, but you’re aching for praise from Joel. 

“Lay back, baby,” Tommy commands, guiding your hips up to rest against the grain of the pool table. And you do, the texture of the felt rubbing against your back in a soft embrace. Both of their hands find your chest with flat palms, and they drag them down over the expanse of your breasts and stomach. They pause, both of them face-to-face with your cunt. ‘Go ‘head brother, all yours,” Joel says to Tommy. 

And shit, the hot mouth that greets your wet core is inviting in more ways than one. His lips lock around your waiting clit and you moan in response to the sensation. As Tommy sucks at your center, his tongue making perfect rotations on your clit, you can’t help but let go.

“Shit, that’s so good – need more,” you beg, and Joel can tell the ask you’re making is for him. He slips his middle finger into your pussy, and your wall clenches around him. The pressure that Tommy applies to your clit is so good, you could probably come just from him, but the added drag of Joel’s finger sawing in and out of you reminds you that you want more, need more, need him. 

“Joel, yes – fuck, yes, please don’t stop,” you beg. Tommy continues tracing patterns over your clit and Joel adds a second, then a third finger, which you greedily accept. “More!” you beg, and Joel obliges, slipping a fourth finger into you. “Such a tight fucking cunt, not sure how I could fit another, but happy to stretch you out baby, gotta get you ready f'us,” Joel says. Tommy purrs as he laps up your release, and Joel groans, wishing he was the one at your chef’s table, sampling all of your flavors.

With the way both of them work at you, you feel like a helpless fish, caught on their hook. They dropped the bait and you were quick to bite, now having to pay the price for your decision. The both of them reel in their line, pulling you closer and closer to your orgasm. They drag you to the water line of your orgasm, and you give up any hope of staying below the shoreline.

Your release washes over you like a wake from a boat, an inevitable. You let the waters fall from your shore before you open your eyes and see both of them, their hard cocks staring you in the eyes. Giving you a moment to come up for air, Joel gently strokes your cheek, an act of tenderness amongst the debauchery taking place. 

Tommy gives Joel a knowing look and lifts his right leg to help hoist him onto the pool table. With you spread out underneath both of them, he positions himself right above your head. You all but drool at the sight of him stroking his cock from this vantage point, Tommy looking down at you as if he were seeing his reflection in a pond for the first time. His jaw hangs slack as he works himself from base to tip.

Meanwhile, Joel’s hands find your hips and he deftly tugs you down, so your waiting pussy is just barely hanging over the edge of the pool table. He puts your legs over his brawny forearms, bearing the weight of your lower half, and spreads your legs wide, fully exposing your glistening cunt to him.

You’re almost shivering with how badly you want his cock inside you. He grabs the base of it in one hand, the tip of him barely ghosting against your wet and dripping seam. He collects some of your arousal on him, before using his thumb to drag it over the length of his member. 

He knows he could fuck you just like this, lord knows you’re wet enough, and he's done his due diligence to stretch you, but he knows he’s a lot to take. He leans his head down and spits, his saliva falls onto the tip of him, partially covering himself and your clit. He taps the mushroom head of his cock on your clit a few times, a thin string of saliva connecting both of your bodies as he pulls it back. 

As much as you would love to focus on Tommy’s length in your face, your sole attention is on Joel, who’s about to fill you to the hilt. “Mouth wide open, baby,” Tommy begs above you, calling you back to his attention. You feign your hardest to listen. You open your jaw wide, and he places the tip of his cock on the tip of your tongue, dragging the heaviness of it over the expanse of it.

Just as he slides in deeper into your wet and waiting mouth, Joel bunts his hips forward, pressing half of him into your tight hole. It’s so much, and they’re both not even halfway in yet. 

They lock eyes with each other and synchronize their thrusts. Joel pulls back and thrusts into your cunt, and Tommy pulls back momentarily before your mouth welcomes him deeper into your throat, so deep in fact that the tip of him bumps up against the back of it, nearly causing you to gag. The corners of your eyes prick with tears, and whether it’s from the stretch of Joel’s cock, or the head of Tommy’s knocking on the back door of your throat, you’ll never know. 

“Shit, brother. She’s taking this cock so well, Jesus fuck,” Tommy mutters, thrusting his member in and out of you with a relentless pace, his hands now tangled in your hair like a bird's nest in a tree.

“God damn, you’re telling me. Little cunt is taking me so well,” and his words cause you to clench harder around him. 

“Gotta ease up baby, or both of your daddy’s are gonna fill you sooner than we both want to,” Tommy rasps behind a breathless voice, “so good, so fucking good, my god.” You revel in their doubled praise and you can’t help but clench tighter, and Joel notices. 

“Ah fuck, brother. I think that’s what she wants. Little slut wants us to pump her full of our cum,” Joel rasps, continuing his relentless pace, dragging his cock in and out of you. You moan in response, your words muffled around the expanse of Tommy, “Fuck, want you to fill me up so bad, both of you.” 

“You hear that,” Tommy says in a breathless voice. “You heard her, give the girl what she wants,” Tommy encourages Joel. And fuck. These two are going to be the death of you. 

“That what you want, sweetheart? Want Daddy Joel and Daddy Tommy to pump you full of all of our seed, want us to leave you dripping with both of us,” Joel says, his pace quickening, his grip on your hips strong enough to bruise. “Yes, fuck, fill me up, want every last drop of both of my daddy’s cum.” 

Joel looks up at Tommy.

“Wouldn’t that be quite the fucking sight? Her all round from your baby, her pretty tits engorged with milk, me fucking dribbling out of her mouth," Tommy says.

"Such a dirty little slut, so good for us,” Tommy praises. Had anyone else uttered those words your skin would crawl, but it’s different coming from the pair of them. You’d let them spread you open wide and fuck you full of their come any day. 

“Fuck, I think she likes the thought of that, I can feel her clamping down on me, gripping me so goddamn tight, brother,” Joel rasps. Your lips tighten around Tommy, and they both continue to use you, fucking you like they want, like how you know you need. They abuse both of your holes in their relentless chase for their own orgasm. 

“Shit brother, ‘m close, not gonna last much longer,” Tommy groans, and you can tell. His cock stiffens and his pulses become more and more erratic.  

“Not yet, need her to come again for us first,” Joel demands, dropping his thumb to your clit, beginning to drag slow and near-perfect circles over your sensitive bud. 

“Need you to give us one more. C’mon, you can do it,” Joel continues to egg you on. “You’re so pretty when you come, give us one more, baby. Our perfect girl, let us feel it.”

With that, your whole body convulses and your vision goes white. You can’t help the shakes that follow, your entire body trembling like an earthquake. “Fuckfuckfuck, yesssss,” you cry out, your release taking over you like watercolor paint spilling onto paper, blurring the lines your pleasure has always been confined to – until now. 

Joel and Tommy continue their movements, slowing as they reach their own peaks. “So close, baby, gonna come down this pretty fucking throat, gonna be a good girl and swallow your daddy’s thick load,” Tommy grunts out before he stills and shoots his spend down your throat. It’s so much, some dribbles out the corners of your mouth and down your chin. 

Joel watches as you greedily swallow his brother's load. “Such a good girl. You gonna tell your pretty little cunt to swallow all of me too, hmm? Gonna flood that little pussy with my load, fill you so full,” he raps. “Gonna plug you so good after ‘m done, not drop is gonna go to waste, baby.” 

You gulp, swallowing the rest of Tommy’s spend before answering, “Yes, Joel, p-please fill me up with your come, daddy,” you squawk out, voice hoarse from Tommy’s crusade on your mouth. 

“As you wish, pretty girl,” Joel teases, as if he wasn’t the one to come up with the idea. 

He thrusts once, twice and he’s filling you with his cum, just as he promised. He stills inside of you, and his forehead comes to rest on your chest. The sticky sweat on his skin makes it tacky, clinging to you in a way that parallels how you’re clinging to this moment. Both of your chests are heaving, ragged breaths coming out almost in sync. 

After a few long moments, Joel reluctantly lifts his head up and slowly pulls out, but before any of his load drips out he uses a finger to plug your hole. You gasp and your body jolts from the oversensitivity. “Makin’ sure it sticks, darlin’,” Joel coos in your ear and gently moves the stray strands of hair from your face.  

Thoroughly fucked out, you ask the pair of them, “So just out of curiosity, what would you have asked for if either of you had won?” 

They both look at each other as if to decide if they want to tell you the truth or not. 

“Come back next year for a rematch and we’ll tell you,” Tommy says. 

With the way both of them look at you, how could you not? 

It’s not even January and yet, here you are – excited for Easter. 

What a fucking plot twist that is. 

END

Tagging moots and those who I think might like this: @endlessthxxghts @sydneyinacoma @bastardmandennis @untamedheart81@lavema @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @dugiioh @nervoushottee @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings@josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @peachmy @survivingandenduring@darkheartgatita @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro @amyispxnk @paleidiot @brittmb115 @ghostwritesthings @kulekehe @darkheartgatita @goldenhxurs @javiscigarette @morallyinept @tobesolovelysstuff @notsosecretspy @alokaerza @ro-nahime-things @gwendibleywrites @morgaussy @missladym1981 @pedrostories

As always, feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list, or removed (even if we're moots, no hard feelings). I'll still be using my tag list for now, but I just started a notifs blog, so will be transitioning to that eventually. Please follow @katiexpunkupdates to get notified when I post fics.xx

Happy New Year!

#joel and tommy #joel miller smut #tommy miller smut #threes0me #joel miller x female reader #tommy miller x female reader #joel miller fanfic #tommy miller fanfic #pedrohub #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #tlou fanfiction

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍: Sweat Kink w/ Daryl Dixon

a/n: i think this one turned out better than i thought it would. i kind of didn't know what i wanted to write but had a loose idea, and i decided i might as well throw in husband!daryl because why not?

masterlist | kinktober masterlist | AO3

When it came to the apocalypse, you would undoubtedly be covered head to toe in sweat a majority of the time, but there was no reason to be now; as you lived in Alexandria where there were showers and other foreign luxuries such as that. Yes, if you had been given an outdoor job, then of course you would be, but you weren't forced to sit in it as if you were still on the road, and it just felt like Daryl hadn't gotten the memo.

It wasn't like you were complaining, seeing your husband sweat while working on the bike that Aaron had graciously gifted him to work on had arousal pooling in your underwear as you watched him. Maybe the domesticity of it all was what set you off, or maybe it was the fact that you were able to walk out into your garage, steaming cup of coffee in your hand as you watched your lover tinkering with the thing early in the morning, greeting you with a very oily surprise.

It was strange that you had become so family oriented in such a short amount of time, the thought of being married had never been one of your main concerns back when the world was normal, but after meeting Daryl at the quarry and an impromptu wedding at the prison later, it was as though all you wanted was to be around him all the time. You began to think of what it would be like to have children with him, what kind of dad would he be?

So yeah, you were most definitely craving Daryl in a way where you wanted to have his kids.

Another morning, another day of watching him polishing his precious bike, garage door closed as it allowed him to work with just a plain black under shirt that helped him handle the humidity. You ate him up with your eyes, devouring the poor man like blood in shark infested waters. You willingly sat in the hot box that was his workshop, watching him closely, staring at his muscly arms as they strained under the work he was putting in.

“How am I supposed’ta focus when ya keep starin’ at me.” You heard him grumble. “I’m sorry, you're just like—” You blew out a whistle. “You know?” He flushed, his face becoming increasingly redder to the point where you knew it wasn't just the heat. “Stop.” You got up from the little stool he setup for you, getting down on the floor with him as you tugged his chin close to your face.

“You are just so gorgeous, hun.” You complimented him. Bringing your lips together in a heated kiss, your hands buried themselves in his damp locs, Daryl's hands settling on your face as he tugged you closer to him. You pushed him back as you forced yourself to catch your breath, quickly having a seat on his extended legs that were once crossed.

Your make out session didn't cease as you grinded down on him, a heavy groan left him as you tugged his head back so that you could pursue his neck, licking a long stripe from his neck up to the shell of his ear. You could've sworn the man almost whimpered as you placed a peck there.

Your skin stuck together like glue as you dry humped each other before your hands fell to the button of his pants where eagerly undid it, pulling down the fly of them with sudden urgency as you tugged him out of his underwear. Lifting yourself up onto your knees, you hiked up your sundress, pulling your underwear to the side so that you could sink down on him.

You both moaned in sync, your head falling back as Daryl nibbled on your neck as well, sharing the same kind of attention that you gave him. The pain was quick to subside as you moved, your ecstasy falling on deaf ears as you took what you wanted for Daryl. It had been so long, too long, so you knew you weren't going to last, and Daryl seemed to be in the same boat as you.

“Yer so tight, shit!” He exclaimed as he fucked into you, your walls clenching down on him at the praise. “Daryl, you're so big, please.” You breathed, desperately following his erratic rhythm as you pulled him into a sloppy kiss. Tongues buried inside each other's mouths, your teeth clashed and saliva dripped down your chins in a messy waterfall.

When it came to sex with Daryl, it was never this messy. He always made sure that you were comfortable, that the atmosphere was loving and sensual as he praised your body. Now, he used you as he pleased and you would be lying if you said your body didn't preen at the feeling, the noises coming out of you similar to a purr.

“Inside,” You heaved onto his lips, “Inside me, please.” He quietly obliged, brain fogged by the pure need for his release. As he pulsed, a shiver racked your body before a loud moan falling suit, triggering your orgasm, which triggered his, like a domino affect.

Pulling away from him, you gingerly wiped a droplet of sweat from his brow.

“We really need a shower.” You couldn't help but laugh.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02

#♡ ― nsfmeau ! #kinktober #kinktober 2022 #daryl dixon kinktober #daryl x reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x plus size reader #plus size reader #plus size!reader #x plus size reader #chubby reader #x chubby reader #smut #mechanic!daryl #fanfiction #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon drabble #daryl the walking dead #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

Untitled Roxy x Reader fic (hurt/comfort)

EDIT: A more polished version is now up on ao3. If you're re-reading it or sending it to someone, then the ao3 version is preferred, but it's not changed enough that I would necessarily suggest re-reading it again if you weren't already going to. <3

For some reason, last night, I decided that it was imperative I write and release a Roxy x Reader oneshot before Ruin. (ETA: To be clear I mean I wrote this before Ruin released, therefore it contains NO SPOILERS. <3) It's an idea I've had for awhile and was going to do as a comic but decided to expand it and write it out instead. I may post a more polished version to ao3 at a later date.

Fun fact: Roxy was my first FNAF crush, before SB even came out. So Ruin will have many chances to break my heart.

Word count: ~3200

----

When the Pizzaplex burned down, none of your colleagues had seemed particularly interested in returning to the ruins. You could understand…some of the techs arriving for the morning shift had been caught in the blaze, and while there were no casualties, there had been some injuries. Yourself included.

After a few weeks in the hospital, the burn mark across your face was just an angry red scar, and the singed hair you’d had to cut off had regrown enough for you to wear a slightly uneven pixie cut.

The other techs said you were crazy to want to go back. The future of Fazbear Inc was uncertain, and the animatronics themselves were just that. Animatronics. Machines. Not worth putting yourself in danger for.

But you’d come to consider Roxy a friend. Sometimes you thought she considered you one, too. She didn’t seem like she would readily admit such a thing even if it were true.

She had at least liked you as a tech, if not as a person. You were the only one who could do her pre-show checks and weekly maintenance without ruining her hair, at least according to her. According to the other techs, Roxanne’s hair was always fine.

You quickly learned that to Roxy, “fine” was equivalent to a reprehensible failure. A disaster. A complete horrific mess. 

You didn’t think your experience with costuming (specifically wigs) in your college’s theater club would ever be something you used after you graduated, but life is full of surprises.

You wander through the corridors of your ruined, burned out workplace, flashlight in hand. You have a few guesses as to where Roxy might be. You desperately hope she’s okay. The structure is mostly intact, but there are a few collapsed portions and fallen bits of decor. You think as long as Roxy had been able to avoid the worst of the heat, she’d be mostly alright.

You make your way to Rockstar Row, your workboots crunching on the debris as you walk.

As you approach Roxy’s room, you hear something that makes you freeze.

Crying.

For a moment you wonder if another tech, or perhaps some urban explorer or rubbernecker is in here with you. Then you recognize the voice behind the sobs.

Roxanne is crying? You’re more surprised than you probably should be. But you’d seen behind her mask a couple times. Behind the vanity, haughtiness, and borderline entitlement, you had occasionally glimpsed a profound insecurity. Beneath it all, you don’t think Roxy actually likes herself very much.

You swipe your badge on the door, and it actually dings and slides open. Or tries to. Something jams it halfway and you have to wedge yourself into the doorframe and push the door open the rest of the way.

Roxy, who had been sitting at her vanity, head in her hands, perks up. Her ears twitch as she glances around. “Who’s there?” she calls out.

You open your mouth to speak, only to leave it hanging open in surprise as you see how badly she’s damaged. So much of her exoskeleton is missing, exposing the endoskeleton underneath. Her hair is a tangled, singed mess and her tail isn’t much better. But most horrifying, her eyes are completely gone.

“Who’s there?!” Roxy repeats, a growl in her voice as she stands up and starts stalking towards you. You can hear the servos and joints in her body creak in protest as she moves.

“R-Roxy, it’s me!” you say before hastily blurting out your name.

She stops, her ears twitching and her claws grasping at the air. At first you think she’s baring her teeth at you, but you quickly realize her broken faceplate has put one side of her mouth in a permanent snarl.

She huffs, turning away. She skulks back to her vanity, plopping down in her chair and burning her broken face in her shattered hands. “What do you want?” she mutters.

You tense, taken aback. “Wh-What do you think I want, Roxy?” you ask incredulously, slowly moving towards her. “I-I wanted to know you were okay. I wanted to help you. I was…terrified you’d…been destroyed,” you say quietly, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She pulls away with a growl. “I have been destroyed! Just--Just look at me!” The rage in her voice doesn’t fully mask her despair, nor does it completely hide her fear. Fear of what? Of what could have happened? Of how close she came to being permanently deactivated?

Her command was clearly rhetorical, for she lowers her head further, digging her claws into what remains of her scalp.

“Roxy…all this can be fixed…” you say gently.

“No it can’t!” she snaps. “I already checked. Parts and Services is a pile of rubble now.”

“Well…what about the loading docks? Maybe we can at least find some new eyes for you…”

She scoffs. “Oh good. Then I can see myself. Because feeling all this isn’t bad enough,” she sneers, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Roxy--”

“FINE!” she growls, pushing back from her vanity abruptly. If the chair weren’t screwed into the floor she surely would have toppled it over. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

You flinch nervously, nodding. Remembering her blindness, you quickly say, “Okay. Here,” you say gently putting a hand on her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she snaps, though she sounds somewhat less defensive and a bit…nervous? Embarrassed? With a huff, she adds, “I’ll just follow your footsteps.”

You bite back a sigh. “Alright,” you say patiently.

You lead the way out of her green room towards the long stairway down to the loading docks. You’re not about to risk trying to take the elevator.

“Here, careful on the stairs,” you say, gently taking her arm again. This time she allows it, albeit with some reluctance as she gives you what probably would have been a withering look if her faceplate had been intact.

It’s a long way down and neither of you want to rush. The sound of your softer footfalls and her heavier ones as you both pick your way down the stairs echoes through the stairwell.

Thud. Clunk. Thud. Clunk. Thud. Clunk.

You watch her carefully. She seems too focused on making it down the stairs to be too sulky for the moment. Small blessings, you suppose. Still, the silence is only stretching out your descent.

“It sounds like one of your knees is out of alignment,” you say eventually.

“The left one,” she confirms a bit gruffly. “I can manage.”

“I can see that,” you say gently. “It took me awhile to notice something was even wrong. You carry yourself well,” you say, smiling a bit.

Roxy grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn’t preen even a little at the praise. That’s unusual for her…compliments usually cheer her up.

“Maybe I can find a new hinge while we’re--”

“Why are you doing this?” she cuts you off.

“W-What do you mean?” you ask, stopping in the middle of the flight of stairs.

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean,” she says. Before you can speak, she continues, “This whole place is finished. Nobody’s coming back to rebuild. What’s the point of you patching me up?”

“I told you, Roxy…I was worried…” you start as you resume your climb down the stairs.

“Why?”

“Because I care about you!” you say, exasperated as you reach the bottom of the stairs. You keep your hand on her arm as you make your way down the corridor, and she doesn’t protest.

She snorts. “You care about a pile of scrap?”

You wish she could see the glare you give her at that. “You are NOT a pile of scrap! You’re just a little scuffed.”

“More than a little,” she huffs.

You sigh. “Okay, maybe a little more than a little,” you admit. You force a smile. “But hey…I’m the perfect tech, remember? If anyone can get you fixed up, it’s me, isn’t it?”

You weren’t normally any kind of braggart. Roxy had been the only one to ever call you the perfect tech, though you feel like that was almost more a point of pride for herself rather than for you. As if she were praising herself for being deserving of the best tech more than she’s praising you for being the best tech. But you still liked hearing it…and sometimes it really did seem like she was directing the praise at you.

Roxy turns her head towards you, her ears swiveling forward. It’s hard to read her expression with her broken faceplate, but eventually one side of her mouth ticks up into a small smile. “...Yeah…” she admits softly.

You squeeze her arm gently, careful to not touch any of the sharper broken off bits.

Once you get to the loading dock, you guide her to sit down on a crate while you look through some of the recent part shipments.

The fire had somehow spared much of this place, but the collapse of P & S had rippled partially through the area and several patches of ceiling had fallen, knocking over piles of crates and leaving the whole place in disarray.

Eventually you find a crate that has the P & S stamp on the wooden slats, and figure that’s a promising place to start. You grab a crowbar and begin trying to pry it open in any way you can.

Roxy’s ears perk and she turns towards you. “What are you doing?”

“Trying--urg--to get this crate open,” you grunt.

She stands and walks towards you. “Let me,” she says. She reaches towards you, trying to determine your position.

You take her hand, your fingers weaving in hers for a moment before you guide her hand to the crate.

“Thanks,” you say, stepping aside.

“Well…pretty silly to make a human do all the heavy lifting,” she says, digging her claws into one of the planks. The wood splinters and creaks and is readily ripped free.

You smile weakly. “You’re right…these arms would never have a fraction of your strength,” you say. Jokingly, you lift your arm and flex…only to realize Roxy won’t be able to see it.

Probably for the best. It was a dumb joke anyway.

She snorts, actually preening a bit as she pulls another board free. “Even busted…” she agrees softly. Her tone is slightly melancholy…as if she doesn’t fully believe it.

She pulls another board free, and you put a hand on her shoulder. “I think that’s enough for now,” you say, guiding her back to the crate she had been sitting on before.

You begin pulling the smaller boxes from the shipping crate, cutting them open and rummaging through them, looking for anything usable. 

Once again, the silence stretches on.

After finding nothing useful in the first two boxes, you glance back at Roxanne. Her hand is over her face, her middle finger slowly tracing the cracks near where her eyes had been. The quiet isn’t doing her any favors.

You shove the box you were looking through aside and pull out another, cutting it open. “Roxy?” you break the silence.

“Mm?” she grunts, still more focused on her faceplate than you.

“You…d’you um…remember that time we ran out of driver bots and that angry dad yelled at me?”

She pauses briefly, turning her head towards you. “What about it?” she asks before going back to feeling her faceplate.

“You remember what you said to me?”

“I called you an idiot.” Was that a touch of guilt you detect in her tone?

You laugh weakly, nodding. “Yes. But you remember why?”

“For letting a loser like that get under your skin,” she says plainly.

“Right,” you say, smiling. “I think about that a lot, you know.”

Roxy scoffs. “Really? Freddy said I was too rude,” she says. If she had eyes she would have rolled them.

You let out a gentle chuckle. “Well…maybe a bit,” you admit, earning a slightly sulky huff from her. “But there was truth to it, y’know? And I think about it a lot. It uh…it’s…helped me. Deal with people like him.”

She cants her head, one ear flicking curiously. It’s a cute expression even with her broken faceplate. “It…did?”

“Yeah,” you say, pulling out another box and opening it. “I-I mean…you were right. I knew he was a loser but I still told myself his opinion meant something. But it doesn’t, y’know?”

“Yeah,” she agrees quietly.

The conversation lapses again, and you try to resist the urge to slow your search in order to come up with a new topic. Luckily, it is Roxy who picks the next topic.

“You remember that time a birthday party ran long, and I was late getting back to the recharge station?”

You freeze. Oh you do remember. You remember that evening well. The animatronics tend to get a little quirky when their battery dips below five percent. Something about a power save mode cutting power to random systems. Usually mobility, but somehow, their…inhibitions, for lack of a better term, also seemed to go by the wayside. As far as you know nobody ever quite understood why, but it was a little like getting loopy from lack of sleep, or even a bit tipsy.

Roxy smirks, hearing your stunned silence. “You do.”

“Y-Yeah…I…I wasn’t sure if you did, though.”

“I remember the important parts.” Before you can start to wonder what the “important parts” are in her mind, she continues, “You’d finally used that salon voucher I gave you for your birthday. Gotten your hair done. Actually wore it down. I never understand why you hide such long pretty hair up that bun.”

You fluster a bit. “Th-The dress code--”

“Oh, you do it without the dress code,” she scoffs, flicking a hand dismissively.

You clear your throat awkwardly, pausing to rub at your cheeks as if you can wipe the blush away. “W-What’s your battery at, by the way?”

She snorts. “Just an idle wondering?” she smirks. “It’s twenty-two percent.”

So it’s not her low battery talking…

Roxy continues, “You know…if you can find a set of replacement eyes…I wouldn’t mind seeing your hair down again,” she says, actually sounding wistful, of all things. You don’t know if you’ve ever heard her sound wistful.

You sigh softly, running a hand over your chopped off hair. “Y-Yeah…” you say, noncommittally.

She glances at you questioningly, sensing something in your tone. But before she can comment, you cut open another box, and find it has the spare eyes you’ve been looking for.

“Found the eyes!” you say. Some of the happiness in your tone is genuine. You grab two amber ones, going over to her. “They’re just standard optics, so you won’t see as well as you’re used to, but…it’ll do for now,” you say, guiding her to lay on the floor.

Her smile fades slightly and she nods, reality setting back in. Despite your claims that you could repair her, she wasn’t convinced she’d ever be as good as she was before. “Guess it’ll have to,” she mumbles.

You put a flashlight in her hand and position her arm to shine it down on her faceplate, giving you light to work with. Your toolkit is beside you, with some extra lengths of wire and soldering iron to work with. As you cut away the burned wires, murmuring apologies whenever Roxy flinches, your mind drifts back to that evening.

Her power had been at one percent when you finally coaxed her into her recharge station. Before you did, though, she had leaned down and pressed her lips to yours. You think she had been trying to nuzzle your cheek. Even “drunk” you don’t think she wanted to kiss you like that.

Neither of you had ever spoken of that night again, until today. She must not remember the kiss, you decide. She wouldn’t bring up that night at all if she did.

The truth is you’ve carried a small flame for her ever since then. Or perhaps a little longer, if you were more honest with yourself. Nothing you couldn’t ignore most of the time, of course…but something that had occasionally managed to put a bit of warmth in your heart when you allowed it to.

But none of those silly little what-ifs you’d allowed yourself to daydream of would ever come to pass now.

You wire in the eyes, then carefully fit them into their sockets. As they come online, the attached eyelids blink shut against the light.

You quickly turn away, keeping your back to her as you pack up your toolkit. “Th-They working okay?” you ask. It’s silly to turn away like this. You can’t possibly delay her seeing your scar for more than a couple minutes. Why even bother trying?

She moves the flashlight out of her eyes and sits up, looking around. “Yes,” she says. She pauses. “...Better than I thought. I forgot the standard optics still have night vision.”

You laugh weakly. “Another thing you have over me, then,” you say in what you had meant to be a good natured tone, but you couldn’t quite keep the melancholy from your voice.

Roxy catches it and glances at you curiously. She stands up, then reaches down a hand to help you up.

Well. No more putting it off.

You bow your head slightly as you turn to take her hand, letting her pull you to your feet. When you stand before her, you finally lift your head to look into her eyes, giving a small, tentative smile that borders on apologetic.

Roxy stares down at you, her mouth opening slightly in surprise. “Wh-What…happened…?”

You sigh, glancing away slightly. “I-I…got to work early, and…I was upstairs when the fire started. It…spread so fast I…had to cut through some pretty bad areas. I-I mean. I guess, something like that…I-I don’t really remember…” you say, your voice starting to shake.

Roxy’s hand is on your cheek, turning your face back towards her as she examines your scar.

You feel your face growing warm. “I-I don’t know how I got the scar, really…The EMTs found me passed out in the employee parking lot.”

Roxy smiles sadly. “You were strong enough to save yourself.”

You blush deeply at the compliment, lowering your gaze. “I-I guess so…”

She runs her thumb over the scar, tracing the ridges of the shiny, discolored skin. “Can it be repaired?” she asks, her tone more gentle than you’ve ever heard from her.

You shake your head, resisting the urge to nuzzle into her palm as you do. “Not…really. My hair will grow back and the scar will probably fade a bit, eventually, but…it’ll…probably be pretty noticeable for the rest of my life…” You feel tears brimming at your eyes and force out a weak laugh. “C-Can’t really…uh…s-switch faceplates on a human…y-y’know?” you say in a wavering tone.

Roxy hums quietly, bringing her other hand up to cup your other cheek. “No need,” she says, lowering her head and gently nosing at your scar.

Your breath stills at her words, your eyes widening in surprise. You’re almost not sure you heard right.

She pulls back, smiling down at you tenderly. “You’re still beautiful,” she murmurs, leaning down and pressing her lips to yours.

#fnaf #fnaf roxy #fnaf roxanne #roxanne wolf #roxy x reader #roxy x y/n #fnaf security breach #my writing #apologies to everyone waiting on the next chapter of stereo souls #my brain just does this sometimes #i can only focus on the third item in my todo list #sometimes i can glitch tasks into third place to work on them but other times i just start a random new project

[suzukiblu]

hello out of curiosity do you have any idea/ plan for how long the sugar daddy fic is going to be?

cause I was rereading it on ao3 and noticed you said you'd written the first 50k and were polishing it into chapter shaped pieces, and then were gonna write more, and the ao3 fic is nearly 50k, so I was wondering if you're about through with what you'd initially written, and what percent of the total plan it was

(I would not be surprised if this ended up being several hundred thousand words, or even a million... Tim's overthinking probably helps to increase the wordcount for any given event)

I've posted just about all of what I wrote for NaNo; the stuff I haven't is from later in the fic and still needs stitched together.

I honestly thought 50k would cover WAY more of the outline than it actually ended up covering, sooooo uh . . . no idea how long the finished fic is gonna be, hahaha. I MIGHT be a third of the way through now. Or . . . possibly a fourth. It's gonna be a long one for sure, put it that way.

#nonbinary-octopus #rintalk

[web-archives]

Cool Nails Bro | Hunter Sylvester x Gender Neutral Reader

warnings: swearing

summary: "Wait.." He starts again. You grimace rolling off the chair onto the floor staring at his ceiling begging for mercy as he starts back towards you. "Is this why you confessed?!"

"Well.." You replied, somewhat weakly squinting up at him while he stood over you.

OR: you paint Hunter's nails

posted to my ao3 as well word count: 980

Rolling over on Hunter's bed you sighed. He was across the room pacing, which he's been doing, for over 30 minutes ranting about Kevin. And you were sympathetic, you tried to be anyway, it was kind of hard to keep on being sympathetic after the first 10 minutes. It's not really his fault, his best friend getting a girlfriend, his best friend getting his first girlfriend.

He had mostly gotten over his qualms about Emily after Battle of the bands. It was obvious he was still getting used to the idea that Kevin wouldn't have been able to hang whenever Hunter wanted.

That was okay for the most part, except for the fact that you are so fucking bored. You had come over to hang out maybe watch him play guitar for a little not to listen to him rant about Kevin for what felt like years. Years of your life wasting away. Didn't he know that you were here cause you were also his friend?

You roll back over on your right side watching him worry himself into a frenzy over his two friends. Because he did care about Emily, he was just always nervous opening up to new people. He just didn't want to lose them both now. You take pity on the boy.

Pulling yourself up you lean back on your hands and cross your legs infront of you. Hunter, still pacing around the room decided chewing on his nails was more productive than ranting.

The silence was worse you decided.

"You know.." You start, catching his attention he stopped moving glancing at you, "I could repaint your nails if you want?"

Hunter scoffs, brushing his hands down his jeans walking over to his snake. (Ozzy the ball python, he let you hold her a couple of times.) He started moving the papers that were next to her enclosure to the other side of the room while responding, "You? Paint my nails?"

Okay. Ouch.

"Yeah dickhead I paint nails," you responded rolling your eyes.

"I know you paint nails," he replies crossing his arms, raising an eyebrow he continues, "that's also how I know you're shit at it."

You laugh also crossing your arms, smiling up at him, you couldn't keep the amusement out of your voice when you said "I'm going to paint them hot pink," no room for argument.

"That's the least metal thing I've ever heard in my entire life!"

Maybe a little room for argument.

"Fine," you drawl standing up cracking your knuckles while walking over to your backpack, an idea hits you, he just watches as you pick out your black and white polish. Turning to him you smile holding out your hands to present the bottles. "How about skulls?"

He uncrosses his arms and just gestures to his desk, you pull up an extra chair and you both sit down next to each other.

Fuck yeah.

-

15 minutes later and you were currently trying not to panic. Hunter was right, you had no idea what you were doing. One hand and a half later, minus the frantic YouTube tutorial video, you were done with the two fingers on his right hand and sweating. He wanted skulls on his middle finger an homage to his band's old name (SkullFucker, Skull on the Middle Finger.)

And now it was time for you to do the Skull. Yay. You looked at Hunter studying him, he was strangely quiet throughout the whole ordeal minus the snickering you received when you pulled out your phone. He was pointedly looking not at you, the tips of his ears pink. It was moments like these that made you think he might like you back. You put the brush back in the bottle clearing your throat.

Might as well right?

He startled looking at you, swallowing you notice how close you got had gotten, facing each other in the chairs the desk in front of you both, your guy's legs knocking into each other. Practically holding hands.

"What?" He almost whispers, a tad bit defensive, a small bit soft.

You shift your hold on his hands, lacing your fingers together, taking a moment you gather your confidence you start.

"Hunter?" You question, the flush on his ears darkening doesn't escape your notice. "I know this is out of nowhere but-" he tenses squeezing your hand. "I like you," you finish.

It's quiet for a moment, you started to sweat a little bit, watching Hunter you could see when he finally started to digest the information. He was nervous too, you rubbed you thumb back and forth over the back of his hand waiting for a response.

"I like you too," Looking up at him you smile, as he removes his left hand from yours he smiles back at you somewhat nervously and goes to tuck his hair behind his ear.

Before he can finish though suddenly you freeze. 

"Oh my God!" Hunter busts out laughing. Your face starts to burn, groaning you rub at your eyes.

"It's not that bad!" You protest. He throws his finished left hand in your face, standing up.

"Not that bad?" He asks incredulous.

You see, after your first attempt at a Skull on his middle finger on his left hand, it went so badly you prayed a YouTube tutorial would fix it. Sadly the only thing it managed to do was-

"You painted a cock on my middle finger!" He shouts. Walking across the room gesturing. If only the ground would open up and swallow you whole. He was never going to let you live this down.

"Wait.." He starts again. You grimace rolling off the chair onto the floor staring at his ceiling begging for mercy as he starts back towards you. "Is this why you confessed?!"

"Well.." You replied, somewhat weakly squinting up at him while he stood over you.

"Dude!"

#metal lords #hunter sylvester #kevin schlieb #emily spector #one shot #x reader #hunter sylvester x reader #metal lords brainrot #metal lords netflix #hunter metal lords #hunter x reader #long haired metal heads #hmmm #my favorite snack #gender neutral reader #my favorite type of reader #nail painting IS romantic #sarcasm as a love language #nblm #skullflower #skullfucker #fanfic #ao3

[venusthepirate]

like any unloved thing  part one : tangerines and hotel rooms

part one / part two / part three

taglist : @avocado-writing​ @little-sunflower-bug

ao3 ; masterlist

Fawn is lounging on her bed when the phone starts vibrating with an oncoming call. She lets it ring for a few more moments, closing her eyes, before snatching it from the nightstand and swiping her thumb across the screen to accept the call.

“ Yes ? ” She asks. She doesn’t bother asking who it is. She already knows. Come to think of it, she already knows what the call is going to be about.

“One of your regulars just called”, a woman’s voice says. 

It’s her handler from the agency, who takes care of the whole booking appointment thing. No client likes booking directly from her, or others in her same line of job. They like the pretense that it isn’t just a transaction, that some of it is real. They don’t like discussing rates and availabilities with her, it would simply ruin their illusions.

Fawn can’t help but raise an eyebrow, even though her handler can’t really see it. One of your regulars can mean anything. She has no shortage of them.

“Which one ? ” She asks, picking disinterestedly at her nails. The nail polish is starting to chip.

“Gave another name than the last time. Goes by Tangerine now, apparently.”

She snorts. Right, now she knows who it is. Only one regular switches names every time he calls, and he is the only one to use completely random, ridiculously names. The last time he’d told her to call him Blue. She had snorted, taking in his blue eyes and dark navy suit, but had chosen not to comment it. He’d been Sparrow before that, and before that Percival, and Orion.

Yeah, their arrangement had been going on for a while. Fawn wonders, sometimes, if the code names are uniquely for her. She doesn’t think they are, he doesn’t seem the type. Some men do use other names, for privacy reasons. Most are ashamed, fearful things, terrified that anyone might learn of what they do.

Most of them are married, but she’s never seen a wedding ring on him, not even a tan on his fingers.

That’s not it, though. He is not that kind of man. Come to think of it, she isn’t sure she has ever met someone like him.

“He asked if you were available in two hours”, the woman continues.

Two hours. It’s already nine in the evening. She sighs, thinking about the book she had planned on finishing tonight. Well, whatever, she can just bring it with her and finish it there.

She can always say no. Money isn’t really a problem, so it’s not like she is obligated to accept every appointment. Sometimes she does refuse, if she’s busy or simply doesn’t feel like it. But she can never quite say no to him. For one, he might be one of her regulars, but there is no pattern in the appointments he takes. He seems to pop up and out randomly. Sometimes she doesn’t hear from him for months. But he always reappears, somehow. However, she doesn’t take the risk saying no when he calls ; she doesn’t know when he’ll reach out again.

The truth is, Fawn is intrigued.

She wonders what he does for a living. She’s not sure if she wants to know.

“Sure”, she tells her handler. “Did he say where?”

“Same hotel as last time, room 15.”

Fawn hangs up, the arm holding up the phone against her ear flopping back down on the bed. She remains there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Two hours, then. Plenty of time for her to get ready. Not that it takes her much time, but she likes to have the possibility.  

She eats a little, takes a shower, brushes her teeth and puts on a tiny bit of makeup. She doesn’t bother doing what she would usually do with her other clients. That is not why he hired her, after all. A hour later, she heads out of her apartment, shrugging her leather jacket on, putting some earphones in and checking her reflection in the mirror at the entrance one more time. She debates taking a cab, but she likes walking at night, and she’s early anyway. There’s a switchblade in her shoulder bag, just in case.

The cold air outside feels heavenly against her skin. She strolls slowly towards the hotel, swipes a bit aimlessly through the music on her phone, before deciding on some Lana Del Rey playlist the app suggests. Her songs are perfect for slow, dreamy  nights. It puts her in a weird but comfortable headspace, and, as she walks, she feels like she’s all alone in the world. The fact that the streets are completely empty only adds to the feeling. Without music, she would have felt uneasy.

She gets to the hotel eventually. It’s still early, so she stands outside, lights herself a cigarette, and watches the lights behind the large windows. She tries to guess which one’s Tangerine’s room, imagines what he’s doing while waiting for her.

A couple passes by her and goes inside. She takes a drag of her cigarette, slowly exhaling as she watches them. The smoke whirls around in the air, dissipating in tendrils. The woman is wearing a long, elegant dress, and a fur coat over it. She’s holding the man’s arm, who’s wearing an equally smart suit.

Fawn would have felt criminally underdressed, in her long leather jacket, black shirt, denim skirt and platform boots, but it’s been a long time since she’s felt over conscious of herself in places like this. She’s used to the glances and the murmurs, now, especially from fancy people like this. She’s been to this hotel many times.

She finishes her cigarette, crushing the end in one of the ashtrays outside. She takes her earphones off, sticks them in her bag, before finally heading inside. The hall is, mercifully, empty, save for a young woman behind the reception desk, who seems like she’s rather bored. She does brighten up when Fawn  walks towards her.

“Hi”, she tells her. “Someone must have left a card for me ? For room number 15.”

She lets the girl check her registration, turning a bit and letting her eyes wander around the immaculate walls, the plushy chairs and glass coffee tables.

“ Oh ! Yes, here’s your card ! You’ll find the room on the second floor, right to your left after exiting the elevator”, the receptionist says with a large smile. She hands her the card. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here ! ”

Fawn gives her a smile back, turning away towards the said elevator. Once inside, she presses the second-floor button, and waits until the doors slide open. The corridor is as quiet as the entrance hall. She stops in front of the little “15” in golden on one of the doors, swiping the card inside the lock. It makes a small beeping sound, and she comes inside.

The room is large. It’s more of a suite, really, with a huge living-room, large windows and all the likes. She takes of her shoes, drapes her jacket and bag on one of the couches, and pads further inside. The carpet feels very soft beneath her feet. There is a light coming from one of the rooms, so she follows it.

She finds him in the bathroom, lounging in the tub.

She watches him for a moment, leaning against the doorway. He’s a handsome man, she’s always thought as much. He’s the kind that knows it, and is not shy about it.

His hair is swept back, wet and slightly curling at the ends, his face relaxed back, eyes closed. Her eyes swipe down, to his strong shoulders and his arms, which are resting on the edges of the tub. She spies the drops of water cascading down, and tattoos on his skin. She has a few of her own, perhaps more than him, but hers are thinner, more delicate looking. She’s never been fond of the maximalist style, but she has to admit that they do suit him. The bulldog is a bit ridiculous, though.

There’s a golden pendant, glinting around his neck. She’s never seen him without it. Even when he sleeps, he keeps it hanging around his throat. Fawn did not ask, and he did not tell her, even when she brushed a curious hand against it .

Tangerine finally opens his eyes, perhaps sensing her presence, or just the weight of her stare on him. He doesn’t startle, though, and she wonders briefly if he had heard her come inside.

He doesn’t speak, and neither does she. His eyes merely flick up and down her body, in a lazy way.

Taking that as authorization for her to get closer, she does just that, circling the tub to stand behind him. She rests her hands on his shoulders. The muscles feel tense beneath her fingers, but well, he’s always tense, like he’s expecting someone to try to kill him at any moment. Maybe it’s the case, looking at the scars littering his body. She never asks about them, but it doesn’t take too much thinking to figure out they’re not simply accidental.

He relaxes against her touch, almost leaning into it. She lets her fingers trail up his throat and neck, and she holds his jaw and side of his face gently, thumb swiping against his temple. He watches her beneath long eyelashes. She’s, once again, startled by the blue of his eyes. She’s never seen someone with eyes this blue.

They fall close again, and she buries her hand in his hair, lightly rubbing at his scalp. He sighs deeply. She has half a mind to press a hand to his chest, just to hear it rumbling beneath her palm.

Instead, she dips a hand into the warm water in the tub. She takes one of the bottles of shampoo that are sitting on the edge of the tub, scoops a bit into her palm, before winding it into his hair. He doesn’t say anything, so she keeps going, massaging it into his curls, pressing both her thumbs against the base of his skull, just above his neck, up to the back of his head. His eyes stay closed, and she wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

She rinses his hair when she’s done, careful not to get any shampoo into his eyes, swiping his hair back from his face. She leans down, presses a light kiss against his temple, and he hums , relaxing even more. His skin is very warm against her s.

She leaves him alone while he dries himself and puts on some clothes. She walks idly in the suite, watches the city through the large windows. She decides to make herself some tea, rummaging through the small kitchenette. There are two mugs and a few sachets of tea. She chooses chamomile, puts the kettle on, and drops one sachet in each mug.

When Tangerine finally emerges from the bathroom – he does take a very long time – she’s sitting on the large, comfy bed, her mug on the bedside table, reading the book she had brought. She looks up at him when he comes in. He’s wearing sweatpants, hung low around his waist. His hair seems a bit damp still, reduced to a mess of very soft-looking and fluffy curls. He looks… Soft. There’s no other word to describe him right now.

“I made tea, if you want”, she tells him, nodding towards the second mug on the other bedside table.

“Thanks”, he replies, laying down on the bed. He pressed his face against her hip.

“So, Tangerine, now, is it ? ” She asks. She can’t help but smile a bit, turning a page of her book. She adjusts her grip on it so she can hold it with one hand, and lowers the other to pet gently through his hair.

He lets out a groan. “Yeah, just… Don’t ask”.

She snorts. “ Is it because it’s the season ? You know, it’s fall. It’s the season of tangerines and clementines and all the likes.”

“ Sure ”, he says, which is not an answer at all, but Fawn decides not to press it. She isn’t paid to do so, after all. “What are you reading ? ”

“ Pride and Prejudice.”

This time, it’s his turn to snort turning his head to look at her.

“Didn’t take you for a romantic .”

“What, because I’m a hooker ? ” Fawn asks.

He rolls his eyes at her, brow furrowing.

“No, you just don’t seem the type”, he tells her.

“Just messing with you”, she reassures him, patting his head, before resuming the head rub. She doesn’t make a habit of teasing her clients. Some like it, but others just want a submissive thing, a diligent and docile arm candy. Tangerine, though, doesn’t seem to be among them. From what she has gathered from their previous meetings, h e has a very short temper, so she doesn’t push him too much, but he doesn’t seem to mind the occasional teasing. “Have you read it, then ? ”

He sniffs.

“ Of course I’ve read it. It’s a classic.”

“But did you like it ? ”

He hides his face back against her side, which is enough an answer in itself.

“Yes”, he mutters, almost begrudgingly, voice muffled. Fawn grins, delighted.

“Didn’t take you for a romantic”, she parrots, scratching lightly at his head. He huffs .

“I’m not . I just … like romance books, or whatever. Doesn’t mean I’m fuckin’ romantic. ”

She simply hums, giving him another scratch, and he leans his head even further into her hand, almost nuzzling against it.

He’s so touch-starved, almost purring and melting at the slight touch of affection she gives him. He’d been cagey at first, not quite shy, but not exactly willing to allow himself to be vulnerable in her presence, even if it was the reason why he was paying her.  He’d been tense under her hands. She had worried he would almost break or something.

Maybe he had. Something had, at the very least, because then he’d practically melted against her.

She closes her book, folding the corner of the page for later, and placed it on the bedside table, leaning to shut off the light. The room is plunged in the dark, saved from the light from the city outside.

She lays down, scooting so that she’s almost at his height, wrapped her arms around him. He buries his face against the hollow of her throat. His mustache tickles a bit against her skin, but not unpleasantly.

She brushes her fingers to the back of his neck, trailing them slightly up and down to the top of his spine and against his nape, to the soft curls of his hair. He lets out a choked-up sound, and then inhales deeply, pressing closer against her.

“ Okay ? ” She asks, quietly.

He nods slightly, even though she can’t see his face. She feels the motion of his head against her. His body is so warm against her, his skin smooth and heated. She doesn’t know how he can sleep without a shirt on, without waking up in the night freezing, but he seems to radiate off heat.

She closes her eyes, already feeling herself dozing off. It’s late, and the comfiness of the soft mattress beneath her is making her sleepy. Usually, she doesn’t like falling asleep with clients. She doesn’t like sleeping next to others at all : she’s always liked her own personal space. Plus, he doesn’t exactly trust them, and it’s pretty much impossible to fall asleep in a place where you don’t feel safe. She tries to leave directly after letting them fuck her, but some like her to stay for the night, and she has to humor them, pretend to be something else than the hooker they just paid to have sex with.

Mostly she just pretends to fall asleep until she’s sure they are asleep, and then she just scrolls down on her phone and plays game on it until she can finally leave.

It’s not the same with Tangerine ; she doesn’t mind it as much. Maybe because they don’t have sex. Maybe it’s because he’s so warm.

When Fawn wakes up , Tangerine’s side of the bed empty. She finds him sitting at the end of the mattress, his back to her, hunched over his phone.

She yawns, rolling on her back and stretching so that he’s aware that she’s awake, and then remains laying on the sheets a bit longer, lazily observing her surroundings. The sun is already up outside, casting its light into the room through the large windows. There are yellow flecks of light on the ceiling, probably from the sun reflecting through a window.

She glances back at Tangerine’s form. He’s still shirtless. She stares at the muscles in his back, the strong line of his shoulders, the scars littering his skin. They’re all faded, already healed. She wonders, absently, how he got them.

He mutters a curse, and she sits up, scooting over to him. She touches the tense line of his shoulders gently, setting them on him, thumb rubbing against his nape.

“Everything okay ?” She asks.

He lets out a sigh, groaning a bit as she di gs her fingers harder against his back.

“Yeah, just my brother getting on my fucking tits”, he mutters, sounding annoyed, eyes not leaving the screen of his phone as he types something furiously on it. Fawn watches his profile, a bit surprised. He never mentioned a brother until now. He’s never volunteered any kind of personal information, actually. Nor professional, for that matter.

“Didn’t know you had a brother”, she replies, toying slightly with the curls at his nape.

He huffs. “He’s a fucking prick sometimes.”

She resists the urge to snort, and presses her thumbs between his shoulder blades. He sags a bit forward against her touch, as she works at a knot.

“I could give you a proper massage, if you want”, she suggests.

He lets out another groan, sounding almost pained, and shakes his head.

“That sounds like heaven, love, but I need to get going”, he says, apologetic. He sounds extremely disappointed. It makes her smile. He’s touch-starved like a little kid, and he sulks like one. “Got a plane to catch.”

Fawn raises an eyebrow.

“ Oh ? Going somewhere interesting, I hope ? ”

He checks something on his phone before answering. “Yeah, Bolivia, apparently.”

She lets him go as he gets up, looks at him as he rakes a hand through his hair. The soft light of the sun outsides paints his body in warm hues.

“Your payment is on the coffee table in the living-room”, he tells her, grabbing his shirt from where he had hung it in one of the closets. He shrugs it on, buttons it up quickly. “The room is booked until six, so you can stay here until then, if you want.”

She nods, and he disappears in the bathroom. When he emerges a few minutes later, he’s put on some dress pants and his rings are back on his fingers.

She watches him get ready. It’s fascinating, the way he seems to put on a disguise. He transforms from the touch-starved, soft man that almost begs for her affection , to something completely other, someone proper, slick, professional.

Everyone does it. Everyone shows a different personality depending on their surroundings, but some do it better than others. Moreover, those personalities are often close.

Tangerine, though. It’s a drastic change. It’s like the instant he puts on the suit, he transforms, shapes himself to fill it. Becomes the sort of man people are expecting him to be. Confident, assured. Nothing like what he is when he’s alone with her.

“Alright”, he finally says, now fully-dressed. He adjusts his cufflinks, glances up at her briefly. “Until next time, then, love.”

“Sure thing”, she replies easily, smiling a bit. He flashes her a quick grin back, and then he’s turning away, leaving the bedroom. A few seconds later, she hears the entrance door shut close.

She wraps herself in the duvet and pads over to the large windows. Down in the street, just in front of the hotel, she spies a car waiting. A few minutes later, Tangerine exits the hotel, jogs down the flight of stairs and gets into the passenger seat of the car. It drives off, disappearing.

She goes back towards the bed, grabs her phone from the nightstand and checks the time. It’s barely eleven in the morning, meaning she can enjoy the lavish suite for seven more hours. She’s not going to pass up this opportunity.

She runs herself a bath,  takes her time looking through the arrangement of soaps and shampoos. She chooses one that smells like orange blossom and almond, according to the label. It does smell good, though, when she pours a bit into the warm water.

She relaxes in the bath for a n hour, scrolling on her phone without purpose. She watches cat videos until it bores her, and then just elects to lounge in the warm water with some music, but it eventually stops being relaxing as the fumes from the bath starts getting to her head.

There’s a huge fluffy bathrobe hanging from a wall. She wraps herself in it. The feeling of the fabric against her skin is heavenly. She feels like she’s been swallowed by a cloud.

Her money is in the living-room, in an envelope on the coffee table, just like Tangerine told her. She opens it to find a wad of cash inside. She counts it quickly, thumbing through the bills. It’s more than what they had agreed upon. She isn’t going to complain about it, though. Money is money, after all.

She orders herself room service and eats it on the luxurious, comfy couch, still wrapped in the bathrobe, flicking through the channels .

She wonders what business Tangerine can have in Bolivia of all places. Maybe he’s a businessman of some kind, she muses, but the scars on his body don’t really add up. Besides, she is used to businessmen and their antics, and he is definitely not one of them. There’s something too… dangerous, unrestrained about him, despite the expensive suits and lavish hotel rooms.

Fawn knows what dangerous men look like. It’s not difficult, in her line of work. Some are nice, some can be a bit weird. Some are downright dangerous, and she’s learned to stir clear of them, in time.

And she knows this one is dangerous. She has yet to really see this side of him, and she truly hopes she never will. But it’s… Not quite the same. Maybe it’s the way he crumbles against her hands, the way the slight touch peels a layer of the armor he’s put on . The way he seems so… Vulnerable, with her. He doesn’t allow himself to be, except with her. There’s some sort of gratification from it.

It’s five when she finally leaves the room, her handbag heavy with the weight of the money. She gives the card back to the girl behind the reception desk. Outside, she fumbles with her earphones, slipping them inside her ears, and lights herself another cigarette. The air is a bit cold, as the sun begins to set, but the cigarette keeps her warm. She watches as the sky darkens gradually.

On her way home, she passes in front of a small grocery shop. There are clementines and tangerines on the front shelves on the outside. Unable to resist, she stops and picks one up. She wonders if he likes them, if it’s why he chose to give her the name Tangerine. The simple image of him busying himself with peeling off the skin makes her grin to herself.

What a strange man.

-

here we go ! I hope you enjoyed the first part, please tell me what you thought ! part two will be there soon ^^

#tangerine bullet train #tangerine #tangerine x reader #bullet train #bullet train 2022 #tangerine x oc #lemon bullet train #lemon and tangerine #bullet train fic

[prolix-yuy]

Chapter 1: Never Realized I’d Been Here Before

Pairing: Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x F!Reader "Sugar"

Summary: It's only a themed resort.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: T, some introspection, not much in this chapter but will be explicit in later chapters, 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: Welcome to Westworld, babes! I am playing fast and loose with both of these fandoms but it should be entertaining at least. This starts out around Episode 6 of Westworld S1, but you don't have to watch past Season 1 to know what's going on.

And with that...do you know where you are, Dear Readers?

Cross-posted on AO3

Cognitive Dissonance Masterlist || Whiskey & Westworld Series Masterlist

“Is this the high-tech version of going to Hooters for their hot wings?”

Lacey almost aspirates her champagne, instead blowing it painfully through her nose and onto the limo carpet. You scrunch your face up in concern, half for her and half for the security deposit you and the rest of the bachelorette party put up for this extravagance.

“Holy shit, I can’t breathe,” one of the other girls, Dina, says as she tries to pull in sips of air between braying laughs. You just met but you like her style, no restraint when she’s enjoying something. The five other girls are letting out peals of laughter and it makes you puff your chest out just a little bit. You might not be the hottest one in this group of tens (that would be Sophia, who is literally a model) but if you could make them laugh then this bachelorette, and the ensuing wedding, would be a piece of cake.

Hah, a piece of wedding cake you think, but the girls are still fanning their faces. Your comedic genius would have to wait.

Lacey lurches over to your side of the limo and you hook your arms under her armpits, preventing her from draping her white dress on the newly-dampened carpet.

“I am SO glad you are going to be in my wedding!” she squeals as you hoist her up into the seat. The party was starting a little early, which always made you want to do the opposite.

Be the Mom friend.

Make sure everyone is hydrated and at their proper destination.

Then once things settle down and you’re on the tour or narrative or whatever they call it, then you can relax.

Speaking of, a gentle rolling stop signals your arrival at this weekend’s entertainment. When Beth, Lacey’s maid of honor, asked where she wanted to spend her bachelorette, there was hardly a moment’s hesitation.

“I want to do one of those wild Delos parks,” she said excitedly, a chorus of raised eyebrows circling the room. “The Western one.”

“Really?” Dina spoke first, voicing what everyone was thinking. “You? Want to go rough it in a fake Old West saloon? We could just go to Montana, it would be a lot cheaper. And real.”

“I mean, don’t you think it sounds interesting? Like it’s all robots, top to bottom.” Lacey is practically vibrating, which maybe makes more sense to you than her work friends. Lacey was a horse girl, grew up riding and going on vacations to dude ranches. As polished as she was now, paralegal making her way up to lawyer in a well-to-do firm, she was still a country girl at heart. You would know; you’d attended many of those trips when you were kids.

“Plus,” she says, leaning forward enough that you reached a hand out to keep her appetizer plate from tipping, “what better way to spend my last hurrah as a single woman than at a resort where nothing is real?” Her smile twists in a wicked curl and you watch the other girls start to catch on.

Who needs Chippendale's and male strippers when you can have a world built around you, anything at your fingertips with no consequences?

The tickets were booked and bought within the day.

Tumbling less than gracefully out of the limo, the “Magnificent Seven” T-shirts that will soon be swapped for period clothing make you a beacon for the Delos staff.

“Welcome to Westworld,” a thin, beautiful blonde with gorgeous eyes and full lips says, motioning to follow her to the monorail system. You’d heard it was underground, but nothing about how modern it was above. White domes and glistening water features and feeling like you’re two hundred years in the future. A whole world decades in the past hiding below.

“Wait, we need a photo!” Lacey shouts, directing the girls away from the Delos guide who looks more exhausted than perturbed. Beth fishes out one of those instant cameras that prints tiny Polaroids and lines up the group. Everyone holds up Lacey stretched across their arms, her laughing wildly as you all smile for the camera. Then Beth takes a bunch of individual ones, the girls doing their best Instagram poses. You hang back a bit, keeping an eye on everything going on and ready to round up the group if the staff were looking peaky.

Beth shouts your name, and you wave your hand to refuse but she’s got the camera up to her eye and is not backing down. Dropping your hands and giving a pleasant smile, she snaps a photo and hands it to you. Waving it for a second while it develops, you look at your tiny image. The backdrop of the city makes you look very cosmopolitan, your smile small but friendly. You look nice, you guess.

“Look at that hottie!” Lacey coos over your shoulder, trying to snatch your photo away. You giggle and play keep-away before stuffing the photo into your bra with a triumphant, “I dare you.” Lacey laughs and winks.

“It’s my bachelorette, who knows what will happen?” You roll your eyes and let her lean on you.

“Right this way, ladies,” the Delos host finally says, and you assist with moving the girls in the right direction. As the building looms closer you finally let some excitement thrum through your veins. The girls are marveling at the entryway, chatting happily between each other. Lacey has linked your arms and it feels like weight sliding off your shoulders.

Maybe it would be a nice respite from the stress of your life. Let the weekend be carefree. Don’t think back to the argument that followed you out the door.

“What am I supposed to eat while you’re gone?”

“You’ve been guilting me about this for weeks. You know how to order takeout.”

“You didn’t tell me it was this weekend.”

“I told you several times. I put it on the calendar.”

“You should have said it more. It’s messing everything up.”

“I’m literally going to be gone one night.”

“Don’t get snippy with me.”

“I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

The rounds and rounds of the same argument you always have with your fiancé when you go out without him. The moaning and groaning, the wheedling to cancel even though there’s no reason to. Then the anger when he accuses you of ditching him, questioning whether you’re sneaking off, despite sharing your entire itinerary with him.

The words he spits at you as you leave, then takes back via text ten minutes later.

Maybe it was good you can’t bring cell phones in. A complete unplugging would be refreshing. Let you just enjoy the weekend, whatever it might bring. Some antics you’re sure, bachelorette party shenanigans and then back to your life.

You could use the break.

Program boot sequence >>

Host: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels

Storyline: The Golden Circle

Role: Antagonist, double-cross

Begin startup sequence >>

Host Online //

“What speaks to you?” the perfectly manicured and pleasing host says as she leads you through an extensive wardrobe you’d kill to have in your own closet. Racks bespoke for you, lavish accessories, grouped by general theme. It feels much too extravagant to focus.

“Nothing flashy, I’m easy,” you say, eyes skipping over the more risque outfits. Some of the girls will definitely go for the feathers and silks. You hope Lacey picks out something fun, she should get as dressed up as she wants for this. You? You’d rather be in something a little more subdued. Comfortable would be nice too, especially if whatever narrative the girls choose involves any traveling.

“This is nice,” you say, tugging on the skirt of a long blue dress, buttoned up the front over a white cotton blouse and a pleasantly flared skirt. You wouldn’t get sunburn, and the color makes you think of cornflowers in a grazing field. The host pulls out your selection, appraising it without comment before gathering more items you’ll need. Shoes, flat and comfortable. A belt with some of the necessities: coins for “purchasing” from the hosts (everything was already included in the bill, and anything you take out you’re charged for), some handkerchiefs and other odds and ends a lady would have.

As you dress, zippers and hooks replaced with foreign clasps and ties, you finally start to feel some of the wonder of the resort creep in. Sure, it’s probably a little campy at times, but you know Lacey will love it, and hell, maybe you’ll even get to do a little horseback riding.

If all the other girls are willing to do some “roughing it” between the saloons and the possibility of dashing cowboys.

That part twangs your stomach. You’d read the disclosures on their site. Anything goes. The hosts are just machines, after all. You can yell at them, shoot them. It’s implied that you can fuck them too, which makes your shoulders roll back uncomfortably. Maybe you’ll excuse yourself when the night gets too rowdy. Stargazing, even if it's most likely a projection, would be a nice way to slip away if things get handsy.

A poke of plastic against your breast makes you pause as you walk down the corridor to the next room. The little Polaroid picture, the one you stuffed into your bra to keep Lacey from snagging, is still tucked against your flesh. Your mouth twists at this; you were supposed to leave all your belongings at the first check-in. Your phone was locked up in a storage box, your clothes left behind to follow. It would be best for you to hand the photo to the host helping you before stepping into the park.

But holding the photo, seeing a smile you’ve rarely worn lately, makes you want to keep it close. The host would probably toss it out, and you suddenly want the tiny slice of happiness printed on plastic to remind you that you could be. Against possibly better judgment you tuck the photo into the small bag hanging off your belt. As long as you didn’t show anyone it shouldn’t matter. There was some fine print you’d read about the hosts not being able to process anachronisms anyways. It’s promptly dismissed from your mind as you enter another room.

“There’s one final touch,” the host says cheerily as you study the rows of hats lining the walls. Some are clearly meant for men, but there’s a selection of women’s bonnets and headscarves.

“Which would you prefer,” she says, gesturing to the rows of head wear. You contemplate the selection before your eyes skim across a flat-brimmed Gambler hat, light brown and feminine. You doff it and check your reflection in the mirror by the exit.

It amazes you, the work that goes into running this place. You aren’t the easiest to shop for, yet this ensemble fits comfortably and flatters your favorite attributes. Even the hat, which you'd never wear otherwise, compliments the tone of your skin and gives you a more authoritative air than without.

You like how you look. You didn’t expect that.

“Right this way ma’am,” the host says, leading you down a hall to a black door. The noise grows as you get closer, laughter on the other side as the host smiles and ushers you in.

The stark difference between the sterile walls and clean light of the wardrobe area and the bustling interior of this train car shock the words out of you. Door closing quietly behind, you take in the deep cherry wood walls, plushly carpeted floors, and the array of people chatting together. You spot the other girls gathered up by a cocktail table. You were right; many of them chose lavish ensembles. Silks and ostrich feathers and scandalously ruffled skirts. They look amazing, like the glossy photos from the website.

You suddenly feel awkward refusing the extravagance. You didn’t mean to swim against the current and you’re afraid you look like you think less of them.

All that uncertainty disappears when Lacey walks in. You manage to sneak into the group and cheer when she swirls the expensive-looking purple silk skirt, beaded bodice catching the light as she bats her eyes playfully. Her hair is intricately styled, as most of the others are, and she’s touched up her makeup. She looks perfect, but there’s a tiny ping in your heart at her choice. When you vacationed as kids it was more likely you’d be in overalls and ratty t-shirts, stinking of bug spray and sunblock as you let the wind from the ponies’ canters bat at your cheeks.

Not today, you muse.

As they fawn over each other’s outfits, Dina gives you an approving look (she’s all dark beautiful skin spilling out of crimson finery) and comes to stand beside you.

“You look good, girl. Looks like you’ll be schooling us on how to behave,” she cackles, and you warm even more to her.

“I doubt I could ever make any of you behave,” you snicker back, earning an even more approving look. You’ve almost let out the breath you’ve been holding. Just a little more and then you can enjoy yourself. Maybe even let go of some of the pain that’s been plaguing you.

Anything can happen in Westworld, right?

Deploy host >>

Name: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels

Location: Mariposa Saloon

Protocol: >> Engage female guests until 1500 hours >> At 1500 hours, join hosts Tequila, Merlin, Ginger and Eggsy at Statesmen HQ >> Initiate Golden Circle storyline

Protocol accepted //

Host deployed //

NEXT

#jack whiskey daniels x f!reader #jack whiskey daniels x reader #jack whiskey daniels #jack daniels x you #jack daniels fanfic #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x you #agent whiskey x female reader #agent whiskey x reader #kingsmen golden circle fanfiction #kingsman fanfiction #kingsman golden circle fanfic #westworld fanfiction #whiskey & westworld series #prolix fics

[delta-pavonis]

July Kinkfest Days 12, 13, and 14

The Sandman (human A/B/O AU) || Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling) || Rated E || 5.6k words

Prompts: Voyeurism | Pillow Princess | “I know you like it rough but I'm not going to damage you.” | Weapons Kink | Aggressive Omega | “Show me how you like to touch yourself.” | Breeding Kink | Confession | “I want to dress you up.” (The crossed out prompts will be in a later chapter of this insanity.)

Warnings (in addition to the prompts above): (check the AO3 tags)

Author's Notes: This is in the same AU as this kinkfest fill. It explores how alpha Hob and omega Dream got together.

Excerpt below. Read all of Chapter 1 on AO3.

“Hello, gorgeous. Heard you begging to be fucked… any chance I can take you up on that offer?”

Morpheus is consumed by gently inquiring brown eyes. The entire party fades into the background as warmth suffuses through his body. Even the ropes that have him suspended from the ceiling feel like tender caresses when he is looking into those brown eyes. 

This is an alpha, of that Morpheus has no doubt. He cannot scent him, not with the smell of sweat and semen and lube and blood all around him here on this stage, but he knows, in the way that he knows that he has lungs and a heart – it resonates within him.

“Yes.” He whispers, as if he speaks any louder the man in front of him will prove himself a dream. 

His smile is a dawn, something bright and new. “Good. Can I touch you?”

“If you can fuck me without touching me I will be really impressed.” A laugh, warm and rolling and so real. Morpheus can’t help but smirk. “Yes, you can touch me.”

He expects a fist in his hair, or a tug on the ropes. Instead, calloused fingers run over Morpheus’ lips, his cheekbone. “Gorgeous and smart.” Fingertips tilt his chin up. “Oh, I am taking you back to a room. I want this all to myself.”

Morpheus thrills at the possessiveness, wants to moan Yes, please, and take those fingers into his mouth. Instead, he pouts and whines. “But I like an audience.”

The alpha leans forward to whisper in his ear. “Liar.” His voice is heavy enough to cause the omega to shudder in his bonds. “Everyone already knows you are a needy little whore.” A gasp catches in Morpheus’ throat. “But if I take you away, just you and me? Then they all will know you are my needy little whore. And that’s what you really want, isn’t it?”

Fuck. Morpheus can feel himself getting wet at that, he might even be dripping onto the floor. Christ. “Yes. I want that.” He tilts his head in to subtly nuzzle at the other man’s jaw. “Sir.”

The alpha growls in pleasure and Morpheus does moan out loud then, can’t help himself, every instinct in him screaming that he should prostrate himself at the feet of this stranger. Then, in a rush of displaced air, the other man is gone. 

Luckily, he is speaking before Morpheus can cry out looking for him. “Drop him, gently now. I’m taking over this one.” There is an audible chorus of disappointed sounds from people around them, more than Morpheus thought were there, at least before this man showed up. “Jess, get my usual room ready, would you, love?” The clip-clacking sound of high heels fades into the distance. Who is this guy?

“Hey now, I had him first.” That’s the voice of the guy who was flogging him, who tied him up, who put this collar on him. Great hand at shibari, less at the domming. 

An aggressive snarl permeates the air again and Morpheus hears himself whine. There is the faintest rustle of fabric and then murmurs from the crowd. 

There is a tack-thud of the flogger hitting the polished floorboards. “S-s-sorry, Mr. Gadling, uh, Sir. Yeah. I. Ah. Have to. Leave.” 

Morpheus can barely hear the thud-thud-thud of boots running away over the rush of blood in his ears. Gadling. Robert Gadling. The Knight. Consigliere of the Cortesi Family. 

Fuck. This man is here to kill him. Pull him into a private room and either ransom him in pieces to his father or just murder him outright to send a message to the Endless. 

Well, joke's on him because Khronos couldn't give two shits about what happens to his pathetic omega son. Gadling is going to send Morpheus' ear by courier and Khronos will send the poor messenger back with a wad of cash and a request to finish the job. Oh, and a note: please return that ruby necklace, it is a family heirloom. 

The next few minutes pass in a blur as Morpheus is untied and his limbs rubbed back to normal function. Gadling does it all himself, with careful deliberation that, in any other circumstance, would make Morpheus' knees weak. 

"Hey, darling, what's wrong?" A silken robe has been draped over Morpheus' shoulders and Gadling is holding him up by the biceps. "I don't take unwilling partners, so if you have changed your mind, I won’t take offense…"

"Cut the act." Morpheus whispers, monotone, keeping this between them as he threads his arms into the robe. "I know you are here for me. So what is it going to be? Ransom or just plain murder?" His voice is probably more bladed than it needs to be, but he is also furious with himself for not catching it sooner. Epthumia is right, Morpheus is fucking useless.

Gadling looks genuinely confused. "I am sorry, what? Am I supposed to know you? Like, outside of my wildest fantasies?" 

Morpheus tamps down the amused snort that wants to come out – now is not the time to be charmed – crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the man in front of him. He finds nothing but warmth and sincerity. With narrowed eyes he turns slightly and lets the robe drop to reveal the bump of the top of his spine. There, in only about an inch square, is an hourglass with a frame shaped like a Mobius strip. 

What Morpheus doesn't expect is to be grabbed by the wrist and dragged down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, down another hallway he didn't even know existed in this building, and into a luxuriously appointed private room. The door slams, making Morpheus flinch, and he hears the deadbolt lock into place.

"You are one of Khronos’ kids, aren’t you?" Gadling spins him around so they are facing each other, hands on Morpheus' upper arms again. “If you know me, then you know I know Death and Destiny, just by virtue of our positions in our respective organizations. I know that he has more children.”

"Morpheus is what my father named me." He keeps his gaze as even as his tone.

He can see Gadling doing the math. Khronos has a hard-on for Ancient Greece, thinks it the pinnacle of human civilization, so it pays for anyone who interacts with him to know a bit about it too, even his enemies. So deep is his adoration that each of his children has a name right out of some Ancient Greek dictionary, then a nickname to go with it that matches the meaning of the Greek word. The latter is because their mother realized that no one could pronounce any of the given names and she was going to be spending the rest of her natural-born life correcting people when she could actually be drinking more wine. She was the one who came up with the cute alliteration scheme. The biggest rub is that Morpheus had it on good authority that Khronos had named himself, that his whole story of their hereditary line was bullshit, and that the name on that motherfucker’s birth certificate is Tim.

“Okay, you got me. I can’t come up with a word that starts with D-E that means sleep. So what’s your…” Morpheus just keeps staring while Gadling trails off. “You don’t have one. Holy shit, he does have an omega son he is hiding.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hiding is a strong word. More like a lie of omission.” Gadling just blinks at him, some unnamable emotion flittering across those beautiful eyes. “Now are you going to fuck me or what?”

#Dreamling #Dreamling AU #Mafia AU #A/B/O AU #alpha Hob #omega Dream #julykinkfest2023 #Pavonis writes

[mslanna]

Unforgiven II

Chapter 25 of Be My Guest now up on AO3

In which Raphael suffers.

I should have stopped them.

The thought is now part of the inventory of his mind. It doesn't matter what Raphael sets his thoughts to, sooner or later, he is back here: I should have stopped them.

But he hadn't. The fire of rejection burnt so high and hot in that moment, the moment Tav tore down the whole home he had built with a few words. The rage rearing its head had been overpowering, the animal urge to grab and slash and hurt.

So Raphael had not moved. Had not grasped the slim wrist and made Tav stay until they understood. Until he understood. There was no understanding in the maelstrom of utter betrayal. He had planned their future out perfectly. Together. Forever.

And Tav rejected it. Rejected him. A feeling he knew too well. Something he would not let stand. He would not be denied. Certainly not by a mortal hopelessly in love with him! They said it, there and then, said they wanted to be his. Tav threw those words at him and left.

Left him.

Without looking back once. Why? He had already seen their tears and the lip bit bloody. Tav hadn't wanted to go. But they had gone anyway. An unforgivable insult. Raphael pretended that only his pride was hurt, told himself over and over that no mere mortal had such power over him. Lies in the face of truth.

It worked, if only a little. If Tav truly held no power over him, his thoughts would not circle the hole they left in his life like hungry predators. But they do. Daily. Hourly. The lack of something in his life is ever-present. He hates it. He hates that Tav is gone. He hates that he cares.

Some days he can convince himself that he doesn't care. Days spent completely engrossed in the task of bringing his hells to heel. Yet, even at the end of those days, the temptation beckons - to retreat, to rest, to yield to the care of somebody who is no longer there.

Of course, he can always ask Haarlep to step up. The little shit is living their best life and always ready to indulge in a professed weakness of their former master. Their price might even be acceptable. Yet Raphael cannot bring himself to ask. Not just due to the humiliation. It feels wrong. He hates it. He abides by it anyway.

Because it won't be long, can't be long, until Tav returns. There is certainty in the thought, a belief built on thin air. The alternative is unthinkable, so Raphael does not think it. Tav is his. One way or another. It is his truth, held up by hope he doesn't admit to and lies.

They'll come back.

Tav loves him. It is the truth. It cannot be denied. It is a pillar the realms rest on. And because Tav loves him, they will be back. Days and days go by during which Raphael is certainly not waiting for Tav to return. He doesn't expect them to grovel or even an apology.

They are beyond that. Tav will return with an explanation. And Raphael will have his words practised and polishes. They will talk. They will set things right. And Tav will stay because they love him and it is the right thing to do.

But Tav doesn't return.

Certainly, they'd come for some of their things. Raphael doesn't spend much time in their suite. It's a hall of empty memories. He slips in still, weak for past comforts. For a while the sheets and pillow smell faintly of his little mouse. After a while the scent wears off. He bunches up the pillow in anger, shoves it back on the insultingly pristine bed.

But all of Tav's things are there. So he puts the blasted contract where they have to find it. On top of their collection of favourite things in the topmost desk drawer. When Tav breaks in, sneaks in as they did before – for Mol's contract, for the Orphic hammer that once again sits in the place of honour in the archives – when Tav comes to steal from him once more, they must find it.

They will understand. Maybe they will just take it for now. But that is an invitation Raphael can follow up on after some time.

But Tav doesn't break in. Every time Raphael ventures into the coldness of his former home, the top drawer is undisturbed. The Helldusk armour in its stand, mimicking Tav's small form perfectly, is still there. Everything is exactly the way Tav left it behind, untouched, slowly dusting over.

So he takes his time to reel Karlach in, a difficult and delicate task. The tiefling is suspicious of devils and rightfully so.

But Karlach has one thing, one thing she desires above all else. And he, Archdevil of Five Hells, can provide it. For a price, of course, always for a price. And if the price may be deemed to low for the service he provides – well, the devil is in the details. Karlach may speak to exactly one person about the price she paid.

Karlach leaves with her heart repaired and nothing but a request as payment. Surely, this good turn will catch Tav's attention. They have no chance but to recognise his goodwill. Raphael has his words prepared, the feast hall polished, the reception planned to the t.

But Tav doesn't arrive at his doorstep. Even when he knows for certain Karlach has reached them, talked to them. He is an arch devil. His eyes, his ears, are everywhere. But Tav keeps on adventuring as if nothing has changed.

Raphael changes his approach. He gets more forward, a little help here and there. Saving their life. But Tav stays silent. Not even an "I didn't ask for this". Tav doesn't acknowledge his interference.

So he decides to go himself. Let things play out like they do in plays and novels with eyes meeting across the distance and budding understanding that dawns in its wake. But when their eyes meet, there is only pain.

Tav turns their head away as if he didn't see the thin line of their lips, the darkness clouding their eyes. It makes no sense. Has he asked for something in return? Never! He stands, reaching out and reaching out and grasping nothing. He crosses his arms, calms the tapping foot, keeps his eyes on them.

The silence is deadening. Tav shakes their head and that does it. Raphael retreats. If the direct approach does not work, he needs something else. But Tav's companions are granite. They do not talk to him, answer no questions, offer no insight.

It's Astarion who finally breaks. But he only offers six words: They told us what you did. No judgement, no tirade nor rage. A simple fact. And behind it the truth: we stand with them to the end. Tav is not alone and they are right.

Raphael stews over those six words for days. Tav is not right. They have no right to burden his thoughts the way they do. Who ever heard of such a thing? An arch devil humiliating himself for a mere mortal. He should- and there his train of thought stops. There are many things the Archdevil of Five Hells should do to Tav. None are appealing to him.

There are many things Raphael wants to do to Tav, but they rejected those. It is a discrepancy he cannot solve. If he cannot have his little mouse – not like a possession. The words sear down sharply. Tav's words. Not a possession. Well, it is obvious that he doesn't own them. Owns their soul, but at what cost?

The damned contract lies untouched in the topmost desk drawer. Tav never comes to claim it – or anything else from the life they shared. Not a single possession. Raphael keeps his eyes and ears on Tav anyway. To make sure they survive, keep them where they are if that is what makes them happy.

He will see Tav soon enough – Tav, who doesn't want to be in his House of Hope. He can't stand the thought. So he will keep them alive and away. A purely selfish act, of course.

Still word gets around somehow, that the Archdevil of Five Hells is trying to lure one very specific human down to him.

Offers to facilitate Tav's demise crop up more and more often in deal negotiations. Rejecting them turns tedious. Raphael doesn't want his mouse dead. He just wants them. A concept the desperate souls seeking him out seem to have trouble grasping.

It should delight him that the human life is short. Nothing but the blink of an eye in the world of devils. Soon Tav must return. Raphael remembers teasing them for believing he preferred their presence in his home to their soul in his possession.

The House of Hope is full of fiends and empty of home. Tav made clear that they do not want to return and will hate every moment once they have to. Raphael doesn't call it defeat, doesn't even call it acceptance. It is a tactical retreat, a break to regroup and consider his options. Even if every day makes it more and more clear that Tav will not return.

I should have stopped them.

#bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #bg3 fanfiction #be my guest #chapter 25 #i hope you like pain #sleazy second-hand car dealer

[edupunkn00b]

The Uses of Adversity, Ch. 13: Two Days Later

Prev - Two Days Later - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Two weeks and two days later is Star Wars Day, May the Fourth. Logan's Birthday. Guaranteed to be a day to remember.

When we, spoke we, knew it wasn't over When I, spoke I, know it tortured us both Two days later, two days later and calm - Two Days Later, by Fink

Logan’s very obvious panic attack seemed to have awoken some sort of friendly protectiveness in Roman and he’d reached out every day since it had happened. Even during his week-long trip back to London, Roman hadn't let a day go by without reaching out in some way.

Typically, it was simple texts in the morning, Logan's morning. But sometimes, well after dinner but before Logan was asleep, Roman would call, as well. Logan knew it wasn’t necessary, he was fine but… he found it impossible to force himself to discourage the calls and messages. He was now more sure than ever that his earlier musings on what Roman might have been about to say that lovely evening was nothing like he’d thought. Hoped for? Still, Logan couldn't help but look forward to starting his day with their little chats over his morning coffee.

Good morning, Lo! May the Fourth be with you!

Setting down his mug, Logan chuckled and typed back.

And also with you. 🌟 

He paused for a moment, thumb hovering over the send button. Finally, he quickly tapped out another line and sent the message before he could think too much about it.

Do you have any plans tonight? Virgil and Remy came down and we’re going to have a Star Wars Marathon. We’d love it if you joined us.

Three little bubbles popped on the screen for a long time and Logan took a slow draw of his coffee, bracing himself for a thoughtful, gentle rejection. He shook his head, frowning at his own thoughts. It wouldn’t be a rejection, he’d simply asked a friend to join him and his sons for a movie night. It wasn’t a… a date.

I’m sorry, I have plans. Maybe next time? 🤞

The phone didn’t at all tremble in his hands as he tapped out a response. He merely typed too quickly to hold it steady.

Yes, of course. I did not intend to put you on the spot. Another time would be wonderful.

Logan waited, sipping his coffee, but though his message flipped to ‘read’ immediately, Roman didn’t respond. The cold certainty that he’d made a mistake crackled, blooming in his belly and growing through his chest with each tick of the kitchen clock. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You don’t invite people to a social gathering the morning of. Let alone on a Friday night! What, you seriously thought Roman Prince didn't have a date and would just be sitting at home waiting for you to—  Logan took a deep, shaky breath and slowly let it out. He would do better. Roman was forgiving. Desperate not to end their conversation on such an awkward note, he finally tapped out another message.

I hope you have a great day!

He locked the screen to stop himself from staring and waiting for a response that wasn’t coming. Slow steps shuffled down the stairs and he shoved the phone into his pocket and refilled his coffee. Remy entered the kitchen, still in pajamas and tapping at his own phone. He and Virgil had gotten in late last night and it looked like he’d had trouble falling asleep after the adrenaline of a long drive. “Good morning, Remy,” he called and Remy stood still, thumbs bouncing against his phone. “Would you like some coffee?” Finally, he stopped and looked at him.

“Morning, Dad! Happy Birthday!” He pocketed his phone and nodded before hugging him. “Yes, please! I'll always say yes to coffee!”

~~~

At the sound of footsteps down the carpeted hall, Janus frowned at the clock, then looked up from his desk. He should have had at least another hour before the office grew to its usual frenzied pace, starting the never-ending stream of people at his door. His frown softened when he caught sight of carefully polished shoes and razor-sharp creased pants.

“Logan?” Said shoes froze mid-stride outside his office door and Logan turned to face him. “Would you come in here, please?” 

“Oh, J—Janus,” he sputtered, clutching a thick redwell of case files close to his chest. “I—I did—didn’t realize you were in yet.” He adjusted his glasses. “I—I mean, n—not to say—”

“It’s alright, Logan.” Janus attempted a smile. The man’s nervousness was contagious and recent… developments had left Janus doubting his assumptions about him. “It’s safe to admit your observation that I’m typically not the first one in the office each day. Leadership has its privileges, after all,” he deadpanned. Logan didn't crack a smile.

Janus gestured toward the chairs across from his desk. “Please, Logan, sit down.”

Nodding once, Logan stepped inside, spine straight and face carefully masked with his all-too-familiar ‘approach the bench’ expression. “At ease, Logan,” he said, closing the folder in front of him and steepling his hands as he sat back in his chair. He waited until Logan sat down, hands folded primly over the casefiles in his lap.

“You are correct that I’m breaking character a bit here,” Janus began. “Devin’s recent… behavior—”

“You mean assault?” Logan raised an eyebrow, still sitting arrow-straight even as he frowned back at his boss. 

Janus fought a smile. There’s the lawyer. He nodded, “Devin’s assault showed me I have had a few blindspots around here.” Janus fucking hated admitting he was wrong but he had to concede to himself, if no-one else, that Logan had tried to warn him, had advised him to pay more attention to Devin’s actions.

After everything he’d learned, fucker had been right to take the deal.

Licking dry lips, Janus fished around in his pockets for mints and reached for his water. He rapped his fingers against the bottle, relishing the cold burn of the water and peppermint down his throat. It wasn’t what he really wanted. But it helped.

“I’ve spent the past three months reviewing everyone’s caseload and docket history.”

“Everyone’s cases?” Logan asked. His expression didn’t change but his eyes jumped down to the stack of files on Janus' desk.

“Everyone’s,” he confirmed. “Both for paying clients and pro bono cases.” Janus frowned. The deafening silence pouring in from Devin’s empty office on his left and Marge’s empty office on the right had grown distracting over the weeks and months since he’d introduced Roman and Devin, ever since his former best friend had revealed just how slimy he really was. Their emptied offices were a constant reminder of how easy it had been to let ‘just a little’ favoritism snowball into blinding him to their poor performance, as well. 

Logan’s eyes followed his gaze but he didn’t ask for details on his former colleagues' sudden—and vocal—departures. He’d been the only one in the office who hadn’t. He’d just kept his head down and picked up more than his fair share of their abandoned cases. “The rumors are true,” Janus confirmed. “I’ve let several people go.”

He waited, but Logan only nodded, still listening. Janus sighed. He almost wished he’d smirk, say ‘I told you so,’ dance on their graves, anything… human. He just sat there like the fucking robot Devin—

Janus blew out a sharp breath, stamping out the thought before it could fully bloom. “When I was reviewing your docket, I came across the old petition records of that anti-equality initiative.” Logan nodded, brow furrowed. “A name leapt off the page.” He blinked again, lips twitching at the corners like he was forcing himself not to speak. They both knew Logan knew exactly which name he was referring to. “Your old last name,” he finally said. Janus crossed his arms, a flash of his original anger seeping out.

He’d been fucking livid when he’d spotted Kelly Jessica Croft signed in big, looping letters on the first page of the signature list. Fortunately, he’d been alone in the office, so no-one had overheard when he’d called his husband to complain.

“I can’t fucking believe it!” He’d paced the office, Remus on speaker phone so he wouldn’t shout into his ear. “I just can’t fucking believe it! This motherfucker simps and nods, all respectful with his fucking creased pants and he turned around and had his own wife run a goddamned petition against the law! Our law!”

Remus didn’t speak, and the only sound coming over the phone was the ratatatat of his brushes beating against the side of his easel.

“I can’t figure out what his angle was. Why fight his own fucking law? He wrote the damn thing! Was it the money?” Fuck knows they’d all had to pull overtime when the Save Our Families initiative had gathered enough signatures to be taken seriously. Ultimately they’d prevailed, but…

“It just doesn’t make any sense. He’s named as the primary author of the legislation. He didn’t need to fuck around. If he’d wanted more money, more attention, a better office, he could just write his own goddamn check! There were firms across the country battering down the door to meet with him. He didn’t need to do this he—Oh!” Janus' voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, fuck.”

He stopped pacing, both hands coming up to his temples. Yep, that was a migraine coming on. He fumbled in his pocket and popped three Altoids into his mouth and crunched hard. “You don’t think he was feeding information to the Eyman group, do you?”

“Okay, Jannie,” Remus finally said, and the little shk shk of his mustache brushing against the mouthpiece yanked Janus’ attention back to the present. “Take a breath. Let’s think this through, together, okay?”

He waited, probably with that infuriatingly adorable smirk, until Janus took three slow breaths.

“Okay. When the law passed, he coulda strut around that office, right? Gotten any new title he wanted and just rode those laurels until it was time to retire, couldn’t he?” Remus’ voice was low and quiet, and Janus deflated, sinking down into an armchair near the window. He nodded silently and Remus continued as if he saw him.

“But he didn’t do any of that, did he?”

Janus sighed. “No,” he said, still frowning.

“What did he do?”

Scoffing, Janus got up and checked the 2012 docket list. “After the initiative was struck down, he requested three new pro bono D.V. cases, claiming with Marriage Equality complete, he had time to pick up ‘his slack.’” He swallowed against the sour taste in his throat and popped another handful of peppermints into his mouth. 

“Jannie,” Remus cooed. He felt like he was the one being cross-examined, the noose slowly tightening.

He sat back in his chair, eyes falling shut. “What, Muse?” The throbbing in his head slowly eased.

“So his wife’s name—now ex-wife’s name—was on the petition…”

“Her name’s on the fucking presentation page." He sat up again, rage energizing him. "She had to be one of the organizers. The whole thing was probably bankrolled with his Q-Law salary!” Janus sat up, stabbing a finger down the hall toward Logan’s office. “He probably signed it, too!”

“And how long did you spend pouring over the old paper documents searching for his name before you gave up?”

“Two—”

He could practically hear his husband’s eyebrow raise over the phone. 

“Two and three quarter hours,” Janus murmured.

“And had he signed it?”

“No. But I might’ve missed something.”

“Jannie…” Remus purred and Janus leaned back against his chair, arms crossed in front of his chest. He knew he looked like a petulant child but he was too angry to give a fuck. “So, if all signs are pointing to him not signing the damn thing, and when he could, he didn’t take an easy opportunity to gain fame and wealth and, frankly, a fucking target on his back…” Silence poured over the phone line. 

“So why didn’t he?” Remus asked, gentler than he probably deserved.

Janus picked up the file. He’d spent hours re-reading Logan’s case notes, checking the filings… there was nothing suspicious save for his fucking wife’s name on the petition. Had Logan had some grand scheme? Had Janus somehow stopped him from taking the next steps in whatever the fuck he was trying to accomplish here? Or was Logan completely incompetent and couldn’t recognize when to strike?

“Maybe it's the other way around.” Remus’ voice cut through his wandering thoughts.

“What do you mean, ‘other way?’”

“So this guy used to be married to some Karen—”

“Kelly,” Janus smirked.

“Even better,” Remus cackled, the unexpected sound pulling a chuckle from Janus, as well. “So he’s married to this bitch Kelly who runs a campaign against her own husband’s work…” Janus dumped the last of his mints in his palm and popped them into his mouth. “The same ex-wife who watched over him like a fucking warden at the Q-Law parties, right?”

“The few he’d bothered to attend,” Janus had muttered. Something itched at the back of his mind but he couldn’t quite scratch it.

“Maybe ask him about it before you accuse him of legal espionage, huh?”

It had taken Janus three days to calm down enough to decide what to do. And another three days to call him in to discuss it. He hadn't been delaying the conversation, he’d… he’d just had a very busy calendar.

Finally sitting across from Logan in his office, he watched the man's guarded eyes, the way they bounced back and forth from the case files and his face. Anxiety sizzled through every movement. Worry. Maybe even a little fear in there.

But no guilt.

“What can you tell me about this?” he asked, setting down the file, open to his ex-wife’s signature. Janus spun it around so he could read. “You were still married when she signed this.” Logan touched her signature and for one sickening moment, Janus thought he might cry. “Did you sign it, too?”

“No, of course not!” Logan looked up at him, mouth hanging open in shock. It only lasted a second and was quickly papered over with a more controlled expression. “Janus, I—” He sat up a little straighter, lips pressed together into a thin, shaky line. “D—did you c—call me in here to fire me, as well?”

“Should I have?” Janus challenged, leaning over his desk and staring into Logan’s eyes.

Logan gripped the case files in his lap before straightening his glasses. “If you can’t trust me enough to believe I wouldn’t sabotage my own work, then perhaps you should.”

Balls of fucking steel. The wobble in his chin and the wetness he couldn’t really hide behind his glasses told Janus he was probably going to go cry as soon as he left the office, but that still didn’t stop the guy from standing up to him.

Janus nodded once. “Actually, I called you in here to offer you the office next to mine,” he looked pointedly at the wall to his right.

“Wh—what?” He almost dropped the files as he scooted closer in his chair. “But tha—that’s the office for the Assistant Attorney in Charge.”

Unflappable my ass. “Exactly.” Janus couldn’t hold back a little smirk. “You want it?”

~~~

The office slowly came to life around them as they discussed—negotiated—Logan’s new salary and a 30-60-90-day plan. Janus listened when he leapt up and taped sheets of legal paper to the wall, sketching out a plan to coordinate with firms across the country to battle the flurry of anti-trans and anti-LGBTQ laws popcorning up in even moderately purple regions. Janus laughed when Logan grabbed a highlighter from his desk without asking, but quickly sobered when he drew lines between them, noting which states were also in the middle of proposing bans on no-fault divorce and obliterating reproductive rights. It wasn’t something they’d been watching very closely at the firm, but the commonalities revealed a chilling strategy.

Again, there was that little itch at the back of Janus’ mind but he shook it away.

“Draft this up,” he nodded, clapping Logan on the shoulder. “Let’s see if it has wings.”

“Thank you, Janus,” Logan smiled. It was small, and shaky and didn’t quite wipe out the worry in his eyes every time he looked over the boxes and arrows he’d mapped out, but it wasn’t that papier mâché grimace of his, either.

Beatrice chose that moment to slip into the office, towering over both of them. “Oh, good, Logan, you’re in here. You have a flower delivery at reception.”

“Oh?” he blinked. Janus could’ve sworn he was blushing as he followed her out to the lobby. 

“Go, on,” Janus nodded. “It’s time for a coffee break, anyway. C’mon," he said, grabbing his blazer from behind the door. "My treat.”

“Yes, silly,” Beatrice patted Logan’s cheek as he passed. “Why didn’t you tell us it’s your birthday?”

Plastering on a grin, Janus crossed his arms and tried not to think about how, just a couple hours ago, he’d let Logan think he’d been about to fire him on his fucking birthday.

A delivery guy stood in front of Beatrice’s desk, arm wrapped around a giant vase filled with pansies and baby breath. An enormous heart-shaped balloon emblazoned with ‘Happy Birthday, Logan’ floated above it. He held a beat-up clipboard in his other arm. Yeah, Logan was definitely blushing.

“Are you Logan Sanders?” the delivery guy asked, holding out the flowers.

“Yes,” he smiled, accepting the bouquet.

“Sign here, please,” he said, watching as Logan signed. He took back the clipboard and left a manila folder in his hand. “You’ve been served.”

Logan looked up at him, brow furrowed in confusion as he held a bouquet in one hand and a thick envelope in the other. “It’s really your birthday?” the guy asked, a twinge of guilt passing over his features. Logan nodded silently and turned over the envelope. He paled at the name of the firm on the front. “Sorry, man,” he shrugged and hurried down the stairs. He didn’t bother to wait for the elevator.

Beatrice nudged Janus forward with a pointed look, then moved down the hall, shooing away the little knot of interns who’d heard the word ‘birthday’ and had gathered to watch. Janus held out his hands. “Would you like me to take those?” he asked, leaving open which he’d prefer Janus held for him.

Logan nodded and passed him the flowers. “Is there a card?” he asked without looking up from the envelope. Hands shaking, he tore off the sealed tab and pulled out a blue-backed petition.

Janus found the card and turned it around to read. A little growl bubbled up from the back of his throat and Logan looked up at him.

“What does it say?” he asked, defeated.

“Happy Birthday,” Janus answered, only half-lying.

Apparently Logan’s bullshit detector was just as finely tuned as his and he reached for the card to read it for himself. “Happy Birthday. Pansy.”

Gritting his teeth, he shoved the card into the envelope and took the flowers, dropping the bouquet of pink and yellow pansies into the trash.

“I think I could use that coffee, Janus, if you’re still offering,” he said, jaw set despite his shaking hands.

“You bet your ass I am.”

~~~

Together, Logan and Janus read through Kelly’s petition to the court. His boss’ muttered curses grew louder with each page.

“What fucking century does she think this is?” he finally spat, shaking his head and signaling a server for another refill. “Dammit, Logan, this is…”

“I have to fight this,” Logan whispered, staring at her proposed parenting plan. Full custody of Patton with no requirement to stay within the school district or even within the state. Monthly, supervised visitation with Logan. A continued residential requirement attached to any future college payments for any of the boys after they turned eighteen.

“Of course you have to fight this,” Janus insisted, looking up from where he jotted notes in the margin. “Fuck that, we have to fight this.” Logan stared at him, the blend of shock and hope on his face twisting uncomfortably in Janus' gut. “Hey, I thought you were smart," he said, trying to deflect. "A man who represents himself is a fool.”

"A man who is his own lawyer has a fool for a client," he corrected automatically, the barest hint of a smile softening his face. “Are you seriously offering to represent me in this? It’s… it’s a personal matter.”

Janus shrugged and smiled over his coffee. “You can get me back when Remus sues me for custody of our lemurs.”

“You have pet lemurs?”

“That’s the part you find unbelievable, Sanders?”

Logan bit back a chuckle and, by the look in Janus’ eyes, that had been the point. “I have zero doubts about the longevity of you and your husband’s relationship,” he bowed his head, clinking their newly refilled coffees together. “I… I appreciate your help. I…” He blew out a sharp breath and straightened his eyeglasses, an embarrassing lump growing in his throat. “I—I don’t know what I’d do if she took my boys from me.”

Janus clinked back and smiled. “You won’t ever have to find out.” 

After drafting their plan of attack, Logan crossed out the section marked The respondent forfeits his or her right to contest and signed the petition with a flourish. Janus would first enter himself as attorney of record representing him in the proceedings, file a stay, and then submit a claim for discovery. “That’ll take a while, so in the meantime, I’ll need to deposition you. I need all the facts.”

Nodding, Logan looked away. “Yes, of course.”

Janus patted his hand. “Attorney client privilege will be in effect. I won’t share what you tell me with anyone you don’t wish.”

“Of—of course, Janus. I trust you and your integrity. I…” Janus seemed to misunderstand his hesitation and gripped his shoulder.

“I think you’ve probably had enough for one day, let alone your birthday. Take the afternoon off.” Logan opened his mouth to protest but Janus was quicker. “I insist. I’ll draft the papers and we’ll start the deposition… is Monday too soon?”

“Monday would be good,” Logan nodded. Get it over with.

“Monday, then,” he smiled. “Now, I will take all of this back to the office.” Janus picked up his case files, their notes, and the petition from Kelly’s attorney. “You will go home and enjoy your birthday.”

—-

Taglist: @crossiantgay

Ask and ye shall be added

#The Uses of Adversity #ts logan #ts janus #Logan Sanders #Janus Pater #ts remy #Remy Sanders #ts roman #Roman Prince #ts remus #Remus Prince #Patton and Virgil mentioned

[generalized-incompetence]

“You have, like, books here, right?”

Myrtle, the librarian, looks up from her desk, at the library, where she has been finalizing a new order of library books. 

“Yes,” she says. “We do.”

Read on AO3 here

“Oh!” says the man with a relieved smile. “Great.”

Myrtle eyes him over the stacks of books and notepads on her desk. She has been a librarian for nearly four decades, and she’s seen all sorts, though she can’t recall anyone ever asking this particular question. The man in front of the desk is… hm. Muscular is the best word she can think of, though she would have more choice adjectives if she was a few decades younger and/or inclined in that direction. Chiseled, perhaps. Blonde, predictably, with the sort of haircut that had been popular on Ken dolls, back in the day (do they still have Ken dolls? Barbie has certainly traveled; she’d heard something about a breakup?). His smile is pleasant enough, though somewhat vacant, and judging by his question, this might be the first library he’s entered in his life.

But, librarians didn’t judge - not books by their cover, and not patrons by their questions - so she shifts away from her computer and says, “Can I help you find anything in particular?”

“Oh!” says the man, brightening at the offer of help. “The thing is, this guy Mike? He’s, like, really smart? And I’m not? So I thought, maybe, if I read some books and stuff, he might like me more?”

He looks so hopeful that Myrtle doesn’t have the heart to tell him that changing oneself is rarely worthwhile, and that his best hope with this “Mike” likely involves who he is now. The man misinterprets her silence and blunders forth with, “Not like like, obviously. Just as, um. Is there a word for, like, people who hang out all the time, and talk a lot, and think the other person is really smart and cool and funny and just make each other, um, I guess. Happy?”

Myrtle raises an eyebrow. “...Friends?” she says.

“Yeah!” says the man with the biggest smile yet. “Yeah. Friends.”

Myrtle has always considered her duties as a librarian to extend past the books and towards the well-being of her patrons, but she feels this man may need more help than she is able to provide. “What kind of books does this Michael enjoy?” she asks. “Any subjects he’s interested in?”

“Aliens,” says the man instantly.

“Aliens?” says Myrtle.

The man nods enthusiastically. “He knows everything about them,” he says. “Like, all the stuff the government’s been covering up - he got access, or I guess I gave him access, and he says it’s just what he thought the whole time and people are super not paying attention. And then he said a bunch of science things that sounded really smart. So maybe if you have some books that could, um, explain that?”

“You’re looking for,” says Myrtle slowly, “scientific books about aliens?”

“Yeah!” says the man.

Myrtle takes off her glasses, polishes them on her sweater, and puts them back on. “I’ll… see what I can do,” she says.

“Oh! One more thing,” says the man. “Sorry, I know you’re a librarian and everything, but reading, like, kinda sucks? So if there’s any books you have that you, like, don’t have to read to get smart - could you find those?”

Ah, she thinks. Thoughts of UFOs fly out of her head as she recalibrates her illicit judgments. There are reasons she is a librarian, and this man is one of them. She is suddenly and overwhelmingly grateful that this man has chosen this library, on this day, to walk in and present her with an opportunity to unlock literature, outside the written word.

“Have you ever tried,” she says, “audiobooks?”

An hour and a half later, she has loaded the man down with several audiobooks; a stack of graphic novels; links to browser extensions for changing font size/spacing and rendering text to speech; and, of course, a brand-new library card. 

“Now, these are all just starting places,” she says, methodically scanning out each graphic novel in turn. “If any of them don’t work for you, you don’t need to push it. But if it does work, then you feel free to come back and ask me for more, alright?”

The man, who, to his credit, did not flee when she went Full Librarian, swallows. “I - I guess,” he says. “But, I mean. Are you sure? Like, this isn’t really reading, right? Picture books are for babies.”

“These aren’t picture books,” she says snippily. “They’re graphic novels. It’s a perfectly legitimate form of literature, and if anyone gives you a hard time, you send them straight to me.”

He pulls the closest book towards him and flips through the pages, lingering over some of the more vivid illustrations. She’s had this conversation so many times she could have it in her sleep, but it still breaks her heart a little, to think a little thing like formatting has stood in his way for so long. 

“We’ve only had writing for about five thousand years,” she tells him, “but we’ve always had stories. True purists should still be sitting around a fire carrying on the oral tradition. There are plenty of ways to read that don’t involve words on a page.”

“Huh,” says the man, staring at a full-page spread of a detailed spaceship. “That’s - that’s kinda cool.”

“It certainly is,” says Myrtle. She finishes checking him out and slides the rest of the books and resources across the desk. “Good luck with your Michael,” she says, looking him straight in the eye. “And everything else.”

“Thanks!” he says with a bright smile. “You know, I always thought libraries sucked? But you don’t suck at all.”

Myrtle refrains from a sigh. “Thank you,” she says instead, and waves him out.

—

She thinks of him a few times over the next couple weeks. She doesn’t seriously expect to see him again; there are return bins outside, and her shifts are fairly irregular. But roughly three weeks later, she looks up and there he is, with a slight, nervous-looking man in tow.

“Hey, it’s you again!” says the man with an oversized wave. “Mike, this is the nice librarian lady who gave me all those, um, graphic novels. Hey, librarian lady, those links you gave me were so cool! I never knew there were all those things that would read emails and stuff to you, so you don’t have to read them at all!”

Myrtle does try to remain somewhat detached, but she can’t help but feel warmed by this outcome. Even better, Mike responds to this speech with a fond smile, first in the man’s direction and then in hers. “Thank you,” he says. “That was, um. Overdue, I think.”

“Oh, no, I turned all the books in on the day they said!” says the man quickly. “No library fines here!”

Mike laughs and pats the man’s arm. “Come on,” he says. “Didn’t you want to look for the Predator sequels?”

“Yes,” says the man, and tows Mike inside. Myrtle watches them go, still feeling like a job well done. Maybe she needs a new slogan, she thinks. Libraries: We don’t suck at all! She snorts and shakes her head. She’ll work on it. She has plenty more patrons to practice on.

#dghda #dghda fic #dirk gently's holistic detective agency #hugo friedkin #assisfriedkin #(lightly) #my fic #he just needs help you guys #he just needs a little bit of support #he is Trying #i wrote this fic last year and forgot about it SURPRISE libraries are still great <3 <3 #some resources in the ao3 link #including!! accessibility kits at the library #literally they have everything #give your local librarian extra love it's a rough time and they're so so important

[solitaire-sol]

05: North

For: @prongsfoot-microfic

Month: August 2023

AO3: Link

Notes: A bit more than the usual 500 words; the actual microfic is 500, but there are some short 'extras' in the form of two endings I couldn't choose between, so I went with a third one and included the extras in case anyone still wanted to read them.

In their third year, fresh from the holidays, Sirius was in the middle of unpacking, eager to put his time away behind him, when James threw himself on Sirius' bed and shoved a small package in his face. Sirius accepted automatically, if suspiciously: James was grinning broadly, his “I know something you don't” grin, and Sirius liked to think that James didn't keep secrets from him.

“Go on,” James urged. “Open it!”

“Alright, don't nag,” Sirius retorted, but tore it open regardless, revealing a box of the kind that typically held jewelry. Something contracted within him, taut with a strange anticipation that Sirius didn't know what to do with, so he forced it aside and tipped a small, gray-black ring into his palm. It looked like ore, polished to a mirror's sheen, but it seemed utterly mundane. Sirius looked back to James with a quirked brow.

“Oh, give it here,” James said, bouncing up to take the ring in one hand and Sirius' hand in the other. Sirius had a moment to wonder why this made him a little breathless, or why he felt strangely warm when James (slightly clumsily, but with great enthusiasm) slid the ring onto the proper finger.

“Now, think about me!” James instructed, as if Sirius needed to be told.

“James,” Sirius said, his tone carrying a slight warning – stop making me feel things with no explanation – but he paused at a faint pulse of warmth from the ring. It felt like sunlight on a cold day, like a shared scarf on a snowy walk, like James, just a few seconds ago, holding Sirius' hand.

It felt like James, and when Sirius turned to James, mouth slightly open but not quite sure which words to say, the warmth increased as if to indicate the shift in direction.

“It works, right?” James crowed, pleased with himself in the way that Sirius always found endearing. “I just about destroyed Dad's workshop, trying to make the charms stick, but this way-- I mean, we can't get you owls,” James explained, his words bumping into each other the way they did when he was flustered. “And when we come back, you're always a little--”

James glanced away. ��It's so you don't forget. About me, or... Because we're best friends, right, even if I'm not... where you are.”

It was a bit much to ask of a thirteen-year-old, explaining feelings that were only just beginning to be known, so it was a relief when Sirius flung an arm around James' neck and asked if he was 'going all soppy on him,' and the ensuing scuffle excused both the color in James' cheeks and the irregular beat of Sirius' heart. Really, there was never any danger of Sirius forgetting James, but he still kept the ring through Hogwarts and beyond; it lacked the utility of the two-way mirrors, but there was something to be said for having a little piece of James in his hand, whenever he wanted, wherever he might be.

BONUS?

Years later, when those halcyon Hogwarts days are already lost to the past and Sirius' world has fallen apart, he finds himself shivering through a prematurely cold November, frost riming the surfaces in the semi-abandoned basement he's temporarily taken refuge in, because Merlin knows he can't go back to the Order-- Not with what he knows, not with what he plans to do. Sirius clings to the rage, to the sense of betrayal, and he occupies himself with the many myriad ways he's going to take Peter apart; little Peter, poor, easily-impressed Wormtail, who admired James so greatly and had sent him to his death. Sirius prefers his murderous thoughts to any of the others that crowd around him in that damp, unpleasant space, because he'd rather focus on the prospect of violence than on the life he might have to lead now, the knowledge that one of their best friends betrayed them after all, the guilt of pressing James to change their Secret Keeper, the idea that he'll have to live without--

Sirius' hand goes to that ring, one of many, now, but infinitely more precious because it was the first: Silver-black in the light that drips through boarded-up windows, humble in appearance, Sirius clings to it like a talisman, still unwilling to take it off even though he knows that its purpose has likely come and gone. He knows where James is, after all, or what's left of James, he saw the fallen body and the wide-open eyes devoid of the light and the life that Sirius has loved for so long. Even so.

Even so...

Sirius, back against the wet-slick wall behind him, lifts his hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the ice-cold ring, barely noticing the tremor that passes through him. James, he thinks, James, James, James--

Not the body back in Godric's Hollow, not the man with the shadows under his eyes that Sirius had last seen through the mirror, but James as he lives in Sirius' best memories: The boy that Sirius met on the train, the boy he grew up with, the boy he loved, who grew into the man who Sirius wants, more than anything, to see again. One last time, if never again, he wants to feel that warmth, that sunlight, please--

Alternate Ending 01: Half-Full

Faint but undeniable, that familiar warmth pulses from the ring; the basement remains unchanged, but to Sirius, it's as if the mildew-streaked walls have been suddenly bathed in golden light. The whisper of James' magic, imbued into the ring what feels like a lifetime ago, ripples faintly, like James murmuring in his sleep; for a moment, Sirius can almost feel James' hand in his.

The moment passes, the magic goes dormant, but that's all right. Sirius' eyes close, his breath puffing into mist as he exhales shakily, and he presses the hand wearing the ring against his chest as if trying to draw the remnants of that warmth into his heart. James is gone, but not really. Not in the way that Sirius feared.

Now that he knows this, now that he's sure, Sirius knows what he has to do.

Alternate Ending 02: Half-Empty

... Nothing. There is no stirring of familiar magic, no sought-after warmth; the ring is just a ring, now, as empty as the man who made it, a reminder that nothing lasts forever and the promises of children mean nothing in the face of what men do. Sirius knows this, has known it, but he had hoped, he had stupidly, desperately hoped to be proven wrong.

He tries again, regardless, and again, and again, until he's forgotten why he was thinking of James at all, because it's been so natural for him to do so and now he can never think of James without the reminder that James is gone. It almost makes Sirius want to discard the ring entirely, to rip it from his hand and hurl it into the streets and let it lie there, forgotten, to be buried under the snow. He does not, because even a painful reminder of James is better than nothing, and now painful reminders are all that he has. James is gone, and wherever he might be, if he still exists at all, lies far beyond Sirius' reach.

Now that he knows this, now that he's sure, Sirius knows what he has to do.

#prongsfoot microfic #prongsfoot #bambibelle #starbucks #james potter #sirius black #james potter x sirius black #sirius black x james potter #playing catch up with myself #i honestly set out to write fluff i swear #i'll try to be less canon-compliant next time #no promises tho #it was supposed to be like a “he is my true north” thing #not sure i pulled it off #fics by sol

[erenspussy420]

Take Me With You- Wishing Well

This is a male disney princesses x oc fanfic. Crossposted on Wattpad/Quotev/AO3

Warning: Please be advised as this fic will later on contain mature themes, such as violence and sexual mature themes later on. This is crossposted on AO3 under BurningLaurelLeaves130.

Chapter 1: Wishing Well -Snow White 

She fell.

It felt endless. The world had turned dark, with the faint glimmer of a rainbow's lights peeking through.The pull of her skin as the suction of the tunnel takes her farther into its world- Victoria was afraid if the fall doesn't kill her the cutting of the wind just might. 

As it felt like this fall will never end- there! A prick of light at the end of this endless abyss, it came closer and closer and soon she passed the edges of the tunnel and fell briefly into a ring of light. It wasn't daylight but the full dawn in its falsehood. In the small space of freedom she appeared in, she caught the glimpse of a courtyard of an old fashioned castle, dusty with crooked trees littered with vines.

And then Victoria had plunged into the well.

She screamed as she submerged into the water, a large splash spooking the owls in their perches . Instincts kicked in and she kicked up to the surface of the well. Coughing out the water she swallowed, Victoria breathed in sharply, shivering as the water was cold. Victoria clings to the sharp edges of the stones that jutted out, trying to relax her nerves.

“Fucking shit, where am I?” Victoria gasps, she pushes her hair thick back, trying to get her nerves together. 

The game.

She's in the fucking game.

Amos didn’t beta check the game.

"No, no no no," Victoria groans. Looking up for a way out, she only sees a pulley with a bucket that’s far out of her reach. Patting herself, she feels her bag drag in the water. Good. She still had her purse with her, but its strap wasn't long enough to throw, and she knows she didn't pack an emergency rope. She grimaces seeing how high the bar was.

 It was still dark out, with only the tint of blue light edging towards dawn. She's not even sure if anyone was awake- or if anyone even lived here. Regardless, Victoria is not waiting for someone to get her.

Victoria reaches out testing the stones, finding something to grip as she tries to find her footing and starts to climb. Victoria had barely made it a couple of inches, before her feet slipped scratching her knees as she slipped back into the water. Spitting out water, she tries again, and again…

There was no point climbing, the rocks were too slippery. Her bag for all its multi-space, she had nothing that could help her come out of the well, a sword wouldn’t be helpful either if the walls were too small. Ruffling through her bag hoping to find her emergency kit—only to realize she gave it to Amara.  Pushing down the rising panic she hugs her purse close, Victoria hums to herself, thinking and thinking. Tapping her fingers against stone, her blue nail polish chips.

Victoria leans against the slippery stones.

”I’m so screwed.” 

.

.

“Nopel!” the head house maid called into the kitchen. The old stout woman, who’s hair is gray as weathered rocks on the river's edge, bustles down the stairs, her dull green dress rustling as she does. Her wrinkled face twists, seeing not the young man she’s searching for, but the other servants who hurried past her. ‘Where could the boy be’, she wonders, her tongue clicking,' ts ts,he must be out by now before the king awakens.’ 

The head house maid, known as Hilda, one of the oldest veterans of the castle staff when Queen Ingrid once sat in her throne as a princess, before she wedded her first husband, and later King Grimhilde. Hilda, who had been just a lowly maid at the time, with a child at home with her mother as her husband was long gone, was put in charge to care for the young prince of the castle, till she was no longer needed as a nanny but as his retainer—-as long as King Grimehilde see’s fit.

“Nopel!” Hilda calls down the halls, with no answer. Maybe he was outside in stables? He always seemed to be fond of animals, as they were of him. The stable boys who passed by, their breakfast in hand, told her Nopel had already fed the horses on his own. As per orders. Hilda stress lines grew.

The prince, so sweet and gentle like his father. Hair dark like a raven’s feathers, glossy and smooth, skin pale as the freshly fallen snow…

“Nopel where could you have run off too?" Hilda rubs her temple. There was no sign of the missing young man, he must be somewhere in the castle’s many towers.

“Miss Hilda!” cries a young maid from behind, waving to her frantic," Miss Hilda! The Huntsmen have returned! The butchers are arguing with them about the game they brought back, ohhhh Miss Hilda what do we do! They're making such a fuss with Sir Johann, his majesty would hear of it!"

Another headache. 

Hilda breathes in sharply, feeling her stress rise. Nopel. She could find him later. For now, she'll entrust that he could stay away from his majesty for today was an important day. Turning to the maid, Hilda marches back towards the kitchen, the maid scurrying after her.

“If you see Nopel, send him to me in the kitchen, I must speak to him!” Hilda ordered, bustling down the hall.

“Yes, head maid!”

.

.

“Guide,” Victoria commanded. 

Nothing.

“Settings! Inventory!” she called out again, with nothing to pop out for her. Victoria groans, slapping the water.  After another failed attempt to climb out, she ran into several problems. Where the stones were jagged below, became smooth as it rose– so no hand holds. And while she is tall, enough to put her back and feet against to shuffle atop, the well became narrow where only her shoulders had enough space to elbow in; she'd be wedged stuck. Now, Victoria’s been calling out every control menu option that V.R.D games usually had. When nothing appeared, she tried for manual settings, with only her voice echoing back at her as a result. She’s been stuck here for what felt like hours now, with only the sun’s light seeping into the well to tell time. “Oi dios mio, anyone up there!” she yells up to open space.

So far she couldn’t hear anything from the castle, but little sounds of life from far off gave her some hope. Horses, there are horses, and if their owners were anything like her uncle’s back in Puebla, then there are people who love them, meaning someone should be around at the least to water them! So far no luck. Her only company were the doves who perched on the wooden bar. They like to sing, which she did find comforting, at first but now Victoria wishes she could fly out of this well.

From the merry group of doves, a small bird came down to the well at the sound of all the yelling. The owls said a human had been trapped in the well. Surely one wasn’t silly enough to tumble in! Peeking down, the bird squeaks in surprise to see a drowned looking woman in the well. The small little brown bird dances on the edge of the ring, looking down at her, trying to get her attention. She sings, as sweetly as the ripe red berries, as no human would ignore her!

It chirps, dancing on its little feet, cocking its head at her. When Victoria didn’t see, the bird tried again.It flaps its wings at her chirping like it would talk, loud sharp ‘fweets!’ at her. Perking up, Victoria looks at the bird, who flaps its wings rapidly at her. Staring at it, Victoria's eyes widened at a sudden idea. Pressing her lips together in thought, crazy it sounds crazy but she’s done crazier things before.

Work life rarely ended on a normal note.

Cults usually were her starting point, then everything fell into place after. Talking to a bird for help? Not that crazy at all with everything she’s seen. Since this is a fairytale, it should work, she hopes.

She has to try!

 “Jaja, hey pretty birdy–,” Victoria said, whistling at the bird,”--can you find anyone to get me out of here? I’ve been stuck here for a while, and this girl really needs to get warm, can you help me? I’ll bake you the sweetest bread for you, topped with delicious seeds!”

The bird chirps, bouncing on its little feet. With a loud, ‘tweet!” it flies away leaving Victoria bobbing in place,”All the seeds you want!” She calls out to it desperately, watching it fly off,” please let it come back..”

.

.

.

Nopel rushes past the other servants in the kitchen, gathering the rags and buckets he needed for cleaning the grand entrance. There were many things to do that needed to be done by supper’s time. He has already polished his stepfather’s crown, leaving no speck in sight, he changed the pots with fresh flowers that came to bloom early, and he fed the horses hay, leaving their water untouched for now as it was still full. He ducks past the entrance, with a soft ‘excuse me’ to the maids whose arms were full of trays of food with the butler sending them to their stations. Not missing a beat, the maids entered with hurried steps so as to not mess up the routine.

His stepfather must be eating by now.

Nopel waves to the butler who only spared him a stiff nod, as he passed by. Nopel brightens at that, it’s more than a glance like before. The young man sets off towards the courtyard, one of the many on his daily chores. This one hadn’t been cleaned as it was further away from the castle, closer to the forest as not many servants like to venture so close to.  Nopel liked this spot in particular, as it was quiet and warm. Where he could sing to his heart's content with no judging looks. With the spring season, it’s ripe with flowers and his friends have returned to the garden. Ones that didn’t mind his clothes with tears and patches, and did not mind his presence.

The castle could be rather loney, as not many seem to speak to him, much less look at him for a moment. It's been this way since he could remember, long enough, even the newest of faces avoid him. When voices were cheerful, became quiet as he came near them. He had no friend , like him or a person, in this castle to call his own. His steps faltered at the reminder.

Passing the open balcony, a soft breeze caresses him as he walks towards the heavy wooden doors, a smile curling the tips of his mouth. “Oh, how nice the wind feels,” he says to himself, he steps out feeling the sun on his skin,”will my friends be here today I hope?”

A loud ‘tweet’ soon answered him. Sweeping down to the raven haired boy, the small pipit pulls at Nopel’s sleeve, batting its wings urgently. Surprised, Nopel pulled away for a second,” What’s wrong little one? Is something wrong?”

The bird lets out a distressed song, pulling at Nopel’s shirt hard enough, a few strands have snapped. “Wait! I’ll follow you, little bird! Show me what’s wrong, and I’ll do my best to help!” Nopel promises, he follows the little bird as it takes off towards the well, circling around it.

A flock of doves surrounded the edge of the well, coo’ing peering down into it. His heart lurched in concern, did a dove fall in? Hurrying, Nopel tossed his things aside and looked down into the well. “Oh no, little do–huch!” a gasp left Nopel.

It wasn’t a bird!

“Hey! Thrown down the rope!” shouted from below, a drowned woman who waves up at him frantically, the faint light that touched her he could see her tanned hand reach to him. The water splashing around her,”I’ve been trapped down here all day, get me out of here, please!”

“Just hold on, miss! I’ll get you out– hold on!” Nopel says, panicking. He looks over at the birds for some aid, nervous as to what to do, a soft "ach" left him. Of course the rope! His hands reached to untangle the ropes that held the bucket in place, he tossed it down to the woman with a warning,” careful! Grab on and I’ll pull you out!”

He couldn't see her clearly, but Nopel was sure he could help pull her out. Just for good measure he ties the looser parts at the base of the wooden poles. The rope tugged taut, as the woman tested its strength. “It’s alright, I can pull myself out!” she shouts up at him,”Wait for me and watch, alright? Okay, here I go!”

Nopel watches with trepidation as he hears the mysterious woman climb, half afraid the rope would snap and another part amazed that she was able to climb out so quickly. The doves scattered away as she approached, and soon Nopel was able to see her dark hair. Suddenly, her arms shot out towards the ledge grabbing onto it with a loud shriek, scaring Nopel. Scrambling over the wall, in a terrifying display of strength as she drags half of herself onto the ledge. 

He was finally able to see her. 

Wet, and soaked to the bone, a mass of dark thick hair covered her face, a strange bag at her side and a shockingly short blue dress that showed so much skin! Her entire legs were exposed as were her shoulders and cutting close to her chest.

 Nopel felt his cheeks heat up at the sight.

“Hey, grab me!” She told him, she spat out a lock of her hair that strayed too close to her mouth,” Just grab me under the arms, okay, just hold onto me tight and help me out. I’ve been in that well way too long, dude, I can’t feel my legs at this point.”

'Dude?', his brows furrowed in thought. He wanted to ask what a ‘dude’ was, but that didn’t matter right now. Carefully, Nopel puts his entire being into focus, trying not to pay attention that he was pressing too close to the woman. The strangely dressed woman lets out a relieved sigh, wrapping her arms around Nopel's neck, murmuring a soft 'thank you' against his cheek. A soft warmth spreads in his chest at the touch.

He reaches around her waist, pulling her close to him, as he braces his feet against the stones and pulls. The woman tightened her arms around his neck, and soon with her own pushing, she was out of the well.

“Yes!” she cheered, till her foot caught the edge of the well and they both tumbled to the ground. Nopel felt the air leave his lungs, and two palms slap the sides of his head to stop the woman from completely crushing him. 

"Oh fuck! Are you ok?" The woman above him asks. Nopel couldn't see her face as it was still blocked by all her hair,"I'm so sorry!"

"I-I think so?," he winces, the woman scrambles off of him before, turning to help him to sit up," aua, thank you."

"Don't thank me," the woman told him, she sat back down beside him, tucking her legs benether her, as a puddle of water formed around her," if anything I should thank you, sweetie."

Sweetie? 

Before Nopel could say more, his voice dying at his lips when in a smooth motion, the woman arched her back, her chest becoming more prominent  – she turned her head brushing her hair back as she did so, gathering her long hair and straining it of all the water. Nopel should've turned away, something felt so indecent to watch, but it roused a temptation to look. So he did.

She's tall. So much taller than him, Nopel realized with some reflection that even sitting beside her he didn't reach her eyes. Her skin was a warm brown tone, smooth and soft, he noticed a dark dot under her left eye. Her eyes, Nopal drew in a sharp breath at the sight of them. Those hooded eyes were the color of sweet honey, the golden warmth of a summer day that left your skin feeling loved and a promise that left you grasping. In contrast to that warmth, her hair was long, dark as the night, and currently fighting her attempts to tame it, drawing a scowl from her lips.

"Ahh, yeah that's really knotted," she sighs, deeming it as a lost cause. She looks at Nopel with a wide smile that makes him smile back, she raises two fingers to him in the shape of a 'V', and introduces herself."My name's Victoria and let me say I have never been so happy to see another face till now. I hope you don't mind me asking your name?"

'What a strange getsure'. Hesitant, Nopel raises his own two fingers, mimicking the sign back at her. From the way she lit up, he must have done it right. 

"My name is Nopel, it's a pleasure to meet you, Victoria." Nopel said.

She cocked her head at him,"Nopal?"

"Nop-el," he corrected. She shot him a look, thinking it over before trying again.

"Nopel," she says, repeating it to herself, the little furrow of her brow,"Nopel." Nopel liked the way she said it.

Her clothes however, took Nopel by surprise. He'd never saw a woman wearing…so little. A thought struck him, as he looked over her concern for the woman. Was she robbed? It would explain how she came to be in the well!  Her stockings were torn and she wore no shoes either. But what really took him by surprise was her dress. A shockingly short dress that rode up her thighs, clung to her like a second skin, a shimmery soft blue–like the sky was plucked to dress her, it showed off her curves and those long smooth– immediately Nopel shot his gaze away. 

The tips of his ears felt hot. 'What are you doing! Don't stare too long!' Nopel scolded himself,'she must've been so cold! It's good luck that I came here today, if it wasn't for today's chores, no one would have passed by.'

What a scary thought.

"You must be cold from being in there so long," Nopel said to her," please let me take you inside, Mrs. Hilda would be able to get you dressed and warm."

She looks over to the castle doors and then to him. Her smile now replaced with a look Nopel had seen many times before from other fellow servants that came to meet him. Wariness. Though it was not directed at him, Nopal still felt ashamed.

"I don't mean to pressure you," Nopel spoke quietly," it's just that you're soaked to the bone and you're hurt. And Mrs. Hilda is very nice! I'm sure- no I know she can help you after what happened to you."

"What happened to me?"

Nopal gestures to her clothes. "You were robbed, yes?"

"Hm,...yes."

A beat of silence between them. The bird's quiet chatter was the only sound that existed. Victoria hums, tapping her fingers against her thighs as she thinks over his words. At the corner of her eyes she glances at the rickety windows watching them before looking over Nopel, dragging her gaze over the state of his clothes.

"I don't want you to get in trouble because of me," Victoria said at last, she leaned close to him, close enough that Nopel could see the faint sheen of gold caught in her hair ," but what about you?"

Nopel points to himself," Me?". 

"You look cold," she said gently. Even when she was the one who was wet and dripping, she was worried about him being cold. Nopel becomes aware of the tattered state of his pants. "Would they really mind helping me, when you're cold as well?"

Nopel didn't know what to say to that. Seeing that, the strange woman shakes her head. Carefully, she touched Nopel's shoulder with a faint brush of her fingers. Warm.

"Hey, I'm sorry I shouldn't have been saying that when you're trying to help me," she apologized, "I'm grateful you came. I tried everything and even asked a bird for help."

At this, Nopel shot up onto his feet." Yes! Pipit was the one who brought me to you! I almost forgot!"

Now she looks surprised. "No way…Wait it worked? It actually worked!" She slaps her leg, laughing. Wobbly, she stands up looking around, her height becoming more apparent now as she stands next to him. "Holy! That's amazing! Where is that bird? I owe them bread!"

Nopel cupped his hands,"Pipit! Pipit!"

Shooting off from its perch from a nearby tree, a familiar bird comes diving towards the two humans. Flapping its wings, the bird lands on the outstretched hand Nopel offered to it. It sings its song of greeting. Victoria leaned down to look at her hope, a delightful smile curling her mouth.

"So you really did come in for me, birdy," a grateful look in her eyes, as she pets the pipits back, breathless laugh that it had actually worked," bread. I am going to make you soooo much bread with every seed I can get my hands on."

Pipit cheerfully chirps at this.

"Though it's going to take me a while to get bread, so how about some snacks?" she turns to Nopel, with a bright smile. It's a rather pretty smile that made him smile back at her." And of course for you too, mi heroe."

"Hero? Oh no, Pipit is the hero, all I did was throw down the rope." Nopel shook his hand at her. Heroes were brave, fearless, and much like the princes who went off to save people who needed them.He wasn't a hero, Nopel was…

Was….

The tall woman frowned at that. Inwardly, Nopal panicked, did he say the wrong thing again? 

"Now how can I not be grateful? Saving someone from a well, you didn't just throw me a rope and left me alone. You stayed with me and helped pull me out." she looked at Nopel, fully looking at him with those eyes that made it hard to think.

Nopel felt his breath get caught in his throat. Pipit hops onto his shoulder to peck the star struck prince. Nope nothing.

"Something pretty hero-like," she leans back, smiling at him," I can't just let you say that's nothing. Now before you take me with you inside, let's sit down for a bit, the sun feels really nice right now and we can have something to snack on before they toss me into the dungeon." She pats her purse with a wet smack." Those robbers didn't take everything from me, jaja, thank God for that!"

He couldn't help but laugh at that "They won't throw you in there!"

Leading them to the stairs to sit, she lets out a cackle."So there are dungeons in there! I knew it! I wonder if there are dragons here too."

"You're really strange," he says, sitting next to her. She was strange, but not in a bad way. It's not every day you meet someone from a well. Or have bright colored eyes like hers and she was nice." We don't have dragons, they're far far away!"

"What about ogres? I heard they can be really moody about their land."

"Ah! I heard the huntsmen…"

They two chatted, as the woman shared her odd snacks from 'far far away'. Pipit snacked on some sweet raisins as the two humans shared stories. Odd, how quickly they became friends, Pipit however didn't mind as long as they kept giving her some of those sweet raisins.

Although….

Nopel burst into a fit of giggles, leaning in closer to the woman who in turn knocked their knees together.

Pipit felt like the third footed crow between these two.

.

.

 While Nopel studied the flimsy pink sponch wrapper, asking how it was so glossy and bright— Victoria's brain went into overdrive. Everything here looks awfully familiar, very soft and whimsical very much like a watercolor painting– nothing like back home where everything was bright, vivid and sensual. The courtyard was covered in flowers and vines with trees that were lush with leaves. Now that she was outside of that well, it's a pretty gorgeous place to sit and have tea parties.

Victoria inhaled and almost chokes on the clean unpolluted air. The air tastes pure. Subtly rubbing her chest, she let out a few coughs. Nopel sent her a worried glance but she waves it off, it's not so bad. Just…different.

"These sponch smell so sweet! Are you sure it's okay for me to eat them?" Nopel looks up at her with those brown eyes, that reminds her of caramel, that sweetness that would make your mouth curl up. He offered some to her," Please eat some with me, you must be hungry."

'Ay, que lindo,' Victoria thinks.

"Go ahead, sweetie, they're pretty popular back home," Victoria popped one into her mouth. There was a comforting taste of home. Even if there is no love in it. She didn't notice the flustered look her new friend had, as her brain began to connect the red string.

The birds here can understand her, and at least that's what it looks like. No, not like the parrots or her dad's macaw, they're not like the imps that disguise themselves like creatures, but very close to it. Dragons are real as the ones back home were, but those weren't the fairytale type, no she really hopes they're nothing like the ones back home.

Ogres are real and Victoria is very much tempted to go to a swamp.

Victoria rested back on the steps soaking on the sun. Talking with Nopal was informative and Victoria had a feeling for what story she was in. 

Nopal– Nopel , is freaking beautiful.

Like that rare delicate beauty that would have Amara and her rip their hair out and the women in Midsummer Eve to die for. Even now, it still shines as he was covered in dirt, and dressed in rags.

(Victoria pressed her lips tightly at that.)

She can almost hear that infamous line in her head.

"Lips red as the rose, hair black as ebony, skin white as snow"  describing Princess Snow White. 

Who was now very much a completely gorgeous guy.

Although, 'the snow' part was a bit much, she glanced over to the rosy cheeked prince who looked enraptured by the sweet mix of soft graham cracker and the marshmallows. Just watching him look so happy over it made Victoria's mood lift. Sitting back up, Victoria smooths down her dress as it happens to ride up....again. As much as she loves this dress, she is not eager to flash people right now.

Getting Nopel's attention, Victoria, now feeling somewhat ready to face those doors, grabs her purse. "Okay Nopel, I think I'm ready."

Nopel beamed, getting up, his bucket from earlier was beside him, rags not that different from the ones on his clothes were balled up in it. "I'll take you to the kitchens, she should be there right now. Mrs. Hilda is really kind and—"

A loud bang erupted Nopel, Victoria pushed him behind her as she faced the large wooden doors, her bag gripped tightly in her hand. There stood an old woman dressed in a green dress, with a stark white apron tied around her waist. Her hair was like weathered river stones tied into a tight bun, her dress covered her feet and her face—.

Victoria winces already knowing that look. She's seen it on her own mama's face before she makes a run for it. Like a shark sensing the flailing of a fish, the woman snapped to where they stood, her eyes shot comically wide in horror.

"Nopel, quick get away from that lady of the night!"

.

.

An: Okay this took me so freaking long to finish but here we go! How does one link a picture to a fic? If anyone wants to know how Victoria looks like I have a pic of her! Please leave a comment on what you think.

#disney #disney princesses #snow white #male snow white #original character #latina oc #snow white and the seven dwarves #oc stuff #mod 420 #original female character #I'm writing the most self indulgent stuff

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #6: Paperwork

Prompt: onerous || Master Post || On AO3

Lyse stared down at her never-ending pile of paperwork and sighed.

She had been well aware from a young age just how much work went into leadership; one of the few memories she still had of her father was of him crouched over a crate serving as his makeshift desk, reading reports by lamplight. Back then, the Resistance had been against the Mad King, and she could vaguely recall that some of her father’s work had been drafts for a constitution, a rough draft of what to, perhaps, put in place to govern Gyr Abania once the monarchy had been overthrown.

And now here she was, over twenty years after the fact, staring at a stack of reports and correspondence relating to how the Ala Mhigan council was trying to piece together a functioning government. Funny how things worked out like that.

Better late than never, she supposed.

Sighing again, Lyse took the folio that was on top of her “to do” pile, opened it, and got back to work. (Gods, how many had she done today?)

She remembered both Louisoix and Minfilia adopting similar hunched poses, too. The Circle of Knowing might have been small, but once in Eorzea and acting against the stated desires of the Forum, they’d been cut off from the majority of whatever funding they had had available to them. Louisoix had left Sharlayan prepared for that with his personal funds rather than anything from the Leveilleur family accounts—plus, as Lyse would much later find out, a few marks of credit snuck into his pack by Ameliance—and had budgeted ruthlessly; the memory of him chewing a quill into nothing as he balanced the ledger was one that she treasured. So many people, herself included, remembered him as a larger-than-life figure, when at the end of the day, he had merely been a man trying to do the right thing.

Minfilia hadn’t been a quill-chewer, but she had done most of her eating at her desk as she read through reports and organized them (in no way Lyse had been able to follow, but Tataru had—maybe it was something that made sense to anyone raised in Ul’dah). Honestly, it had been how Tataru had kept Minfilia fed; she had been terrible at keeping to regular meals, but if she was distracted with something else and had had a tray full of snacks in reach, Minfilia would absently graze as she worked. Maybe Lyse should start keeping snacks on hand, too, make the tedium at least somewhat enjoyable.

…No, that wasn’t wise. She was self-aware enough to know she’d polish off a tray of midye tava and leblebli and lokum and then get up to go look for more, instead of working.

Lyse signed off on the report she had finished, closed and set the folio aside, and took a moment to beat her forehead against her desk.

Don’t think about food, don’t think about food.

The next report she pulled down was, at least, genuinely interesting: one of Arenvald’s updates about the Silver Griffins. Raganfrid submitted his own reports, too, about the organization, but Arenvald’s were more colloquial—he probably had figured out it was Lyse receiving them, because she knew he could be as thorough and terse as Thancred at his most serious. Lyse read that one eagerly.

She was five reports removed from Arenvald’s when the door to her office swung open and Naago stuck her head inside. “Oi, workaholic,” she said, “fancy a spar?”

Lyse looked out the window wistfully; it was an absolutely gorgeous day. “I shouldn’t,” she groaned, “this pile gets bigger every time I look away from it for longer than five seconds.”

Her friend came over, poking at the pile. “This isn’t as bad as it was the day before,” the Seeker said. “Anything time sensitive?”

Lyse chewed on her lower lip. “Not really?” She glanced over at the outbox she kept on a side table, and blinked when she saw it was empty; huh, her secretary must have been in while she wasn’t paying attention to collect those. “I do those first thing in the morning, I know how slow I am.”

Naago nodded, and shouted out through the still-open office door: “Tilla, does Lyse have anything she needs to complete in the next few bells.”

“No!” Tilla shouted back. “Everything on her desk can wait another day or so.”

Lyse blinked, and Naago smirked. “This is why you have a secretary,” she said with a laugh. “They’re magical beings.”

“I really should know that,” Lyse muttered as she pushed away from her desk, the chair moving smoothly now that a carpet had been installed in her office. “Minfilia was a workhorse, but Tataru was a demon keeping the Scions organized. Who am I kidding, she still is.”

Her friend helped pull her to her feet. “Then utilize yours more! She’s there to help; you always bite off more than you can chew and need someone to knock sense into you.”

Lyse shrugged with a smile. “’Strue. But I will be doing the knocking around today.”

“Hah! We’ll see about that!”

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#ffxivwrite2022 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #lyse hext #m'naago rahz #dt's writing

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Confessions of an Imperial Concubine

Chapter Two: Stupid Little Rich Boy

AO3 Author’s note/glossary/info one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven epilogue

All my work is 18+.

Throw me in the dirt pit; don’t think about the choices that you make. Throw me in the water; don’t think about the splash I will create.- Daughter, Landfill

Sera had no idea why she was being led through the elaborately decorated halls of the Emperor’s home. She had no idea why she’d been bathed, but she had. In fact, she’d been scrubbed within an inch of her life in places she didn’t think needed special attention. The women attending to her, however, had disagreed, insisting on the scrubbing, lotioning, and perfuming of her skin. Her pale blonde curls had been washed, combed, and intricately styled, and she’d been dressed in a flowing green gown with a strange contraption to hold her breasts up. She had no idea why she hadn’t been permitted to use her own breast bindings or why she’d been put in a smooth, shiny fabric, but there she was, walking behind the Emperor himself with the soft fabric of her gown trailing behind her.

The floors were made of marble that had been polished to the point that she could see her own reflection. She could also see the reflection of the Emperor, which she found greatly displeasing because his appearance was not remotely displeasing. Sera attributed this to the fact that he was a stupid little rich boy who was the product of a stupid little privileged breeding program. 

He wouldn’t have such a ridiculous face, she thought furiously, if he’d been made organically like the rest of us.

The walls and ceilings of his rich-boy palace were a soft cream color—she’d never seen walls or ceilings that had color before—, beautifully painted with scenes so intricate, she didn’t have time to take them all in. The hallways were lined with vases of flowers and even statues, the walls adorned with paintings. By the time he stopped in front of a set of carved double doors, she was fairly certain he could feed her entire planet for a good few months at least. She was fuming.

The Emperor was living in luxury while Sera's people were being left to starve in slums, and she wanted to spit on him for it. She’d already known nobility was made up entirely of scum—especially royalty, whether their titles were inherited or stolen—but all of this solidified it. She’d never expected to see the proof firsthand, and yet here it was.

He opened the large doors and gestured for her to step through. Sera did so with her head held high, not contemplating what she might be walking into.

What she was walking into, in fact, was a room filled with jewelry.

There were large displays of crowns, tiaras, headdresses, bracelets connected to rings with hand chains—as well as separate rings and bracelets—, and necklaces, each more elaborate and ostentatious than the last.

Some of them appeared to be grouped separately; namely the headdresses, hand chains, and some of the necklaces. The crowns and tiaras were separate as well; likely because they were intended for royalty only. The Emperor stepped just inside the door and shut it behind him.

“You’re free to come back later and choose anything from these tables—“ he gestured to the tables with the rings, bracelets, and necklaces— “whenever you’d like. For now, however,” he went on, stepping towards the elaborately jeweled hand chains, “it’s important you choose one of these.”

Sera stared at him for several seconds.“Why?”

The Emperor tilted his head slightly to the side as if in thought. “You’re living under me from this moment on,” he said after a few seconds. “Every woman living under me must select one to wear. It signifies that you serve me now.”

Fueled by the fire his words lit in her veins, Sera lifted her chin defiantly at him and declared, “I’ll die before I lower myself to be your servant, Atreides.”

A slow, soft smile spread across his infuriatingly beautiful features, his glowing blue gaze fixed on her. “You will be many things in your life, Lady Seraphine of the Atreides,” he told her in a quiet, knowing voice, as if certain his words were fact, a foregone conclusion. “A servant is not one of them.”

She was too scared to ask, but she couldn’t help but wonder:

Then what am I?

And then, a much more horrifying thought:

He called me Lady Seraphine of the Atreides. What am I?

When she did nothing but stare up at him in stunned silence for several terrifying thuds of her heart, he said, “Emeralds would match your eyes.”

The eyes in question narrowed, and she informed him, “I’d prefer if you didn’t look at my eyes.” After a moment of thought, she added, “Or look at me at all, in fact.”

The Emperor only smiled slightly and shook his head.

Sera turned away from him, though she felt his gaze on her still. She told herself the emerald hand chain she selected had nothing to do with what he’d said, but she didn’t miss his soft smile when he saw her choice.

“I won’t do it,” Sera insisted firmly, staring down at the exasperated dressmaker. “I won’t undress with him present.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the man in question, who was looking increasingly annoyed.

The dressmaker sighed and turned towards the intruder. “You really needn’t be here, Majesty,” the older woman informed him. “It took additional time for me to make the extra trips to Her Ladyship’s chamber so as to bring my supplies, and I’ve done this many times before, as you well know—“

“I realize that,” the Emperor told her with forced patience, “but I’m afraid I must stay and ensure this is done correctly. She’s too important to take risks with, even on something so small.”

Sera was about to ask what in the hell he meant by risk when he added, “But if it will speed things up, I’ll turn around.”

He did so, and Sera stripped out of her gown hastily. Glancing down at her slippered feet, a truly marvelous thought suddenly occurred to her. Stepping out of her shoes, she reached down, took one in hand, reared her arm back, and let fly.

The dainty slipper sailed through the air in an arc, and a self-satisfied grin spread across Sera’s face when it smacked the Emperor square in the back of the head. 

To her horror, however, he immediately whipped his head around, and she saw his eyes trail the length of her bare body no less than two times before he turned back around.

She was sputtering in abject fury when he said, “Don’t throw things at me if you don’t want me to look at you.”

Sera glared fiercely at the back of his stupidly beautiful head, but chose to remain silent.

If she spoke to him, he might turn around again, and she couldn’t risk that, now could she?

“I must measure Your Ladyship’s bosom,” the dressmaker said exasperatedly.

“Yes,” Sera agreed in annoyance, “around my torso, I understand that, but the lengths you are measuring here, the positions—“

“Your Ladyship’s gowns require precise measurements of her entire body,” the older woman informed her. “The backside is next, and then the thighs—“

“The what?” Sera hissed. “Whatever could you need to measure those things for?”

“Precision,” the dressmaker insisted. “Now if Your Ladyship would please position her bosom as I’ve requested—“

“Fine,” Sera snapped, primarily conceding because the Emperor’s hands were twitching at his sides and she was afraid he’d turn back around and set his freaky, glowing, spice-addicted eyes on her.

She did as requested, positioning her breasts at whichever odd angles the dressmaker bade her until the older woman decided she was done. Sera watched the Emperor the entire time, hoping the occasional twitching of his hands was only coincidental in its precedence of the dressmaker mentioning a part of her body. Her backside didn’t require as much positioning, thank god, nor did her thighs.

A full hour passed before she was allowed to don her clothes again and the dressmaker was sent on her way.

It was around the time that Sera was no longer being poked and prodded that her attention was drawn to the room around her.

The dressmaker had implied that this was Sera’s room. This was very odd indeed for a multitude of reasons. First, Sera had never been in possession of her own room. She’d been lucky enough to only have to share a room with her sisters rather than her brothers as well. She’d had her own bed at one point, but her eldest sister, Maeve, had been born only a year after her, and they’d shared a bed every since. As such, Sera had no idea what having a bed to oneself might be like. Her house was sizable—at least as far as houses on Beakkal went—and even so, the room she currently stood in would likely fit her entire home quite comfortably. It felt strange—wrong—for one person to occupy so much space.

Like the rest of the palace, the cream-colored walls and ceilings were painted with scenes she wanted to spend hours studying, and there was gold around the corners of the ceilings. Lavish rugs adorned the floors, so thick her feet sank into them and she couldn’t see her toes.

There was a vanity table of carved wood with various jeweled bottles and jars set atop it as well as two large wardrobes pushed into one corner with an ornate chair between them. In another corner was a table and chair set with a vase in the center of the table. There were two intricately carved archways, as well— one that was rather small and had fabric covering it that prevented any visibility through it, and one that was wide and had a more sheer fabric concealing what was behind it. It appeared to be the sleeping section of the room, based on the large bed that she could make out beyond it. There were windows that were arched in the same way, and they had glass. She had glass. In her own room.

The fabrics that adorned the room were unlike anything she’d ever seen, too— they were lustrous in a way that reminded her of still water.

She was fairly certain that the bed she saw was intended for her and her alone, which was astonishing in and of itself. She’d been able to make out at least five thick, fluffy pillows, which was exceedingly strange to her given that she’d spent her life fighting for one flat pillow on a shared mattress with Maeve. 

Much to Sera’s dismay, however, the Emperor had shut the doors behind the older woman when she’d left rather than following after her, and Sera had been focused far too much on the room to even consider its other inhabitant.

“This is…” Sera gulped when he turned his gaze on her— he was always so unnerving. “This is my room?”

He tilted his head to the side slightly and nodded.

The shoe she’d thrown at him was a few feet to his left. This would’ve been much more amusing to her if it didn’t remind her of what he’d seen after it hit him.

“Why?” she asked, afraid of the answer. “Shouldn’t I be in a… a dungeon or something?”

He smiled softly at her and took several steps forward.

She fought the urge to run. 

“Why?” he parroted back at her, his voice gentle in a way that made her blood turn to ice. “Would you prefer a dungeon?”

Sera narrowed her eyes at him. “I’d prefer to go home.”

The Emperor said nothing, choosing to stare at her instead.

The dress she’d been given to wear revealed too much of her breasts. It pushed them upwards in a way she was unused to. And worse yet, he’d… he’d seen her.

“What am I?” she finally asked. “Why do I have a fancy room, or… this?” She lifted the hand chain up and jingled it, the emeralds winking in the light. “I’m not a servant, so what am I? A slave?”

“No,” the Emperor said with a soft chuckle, “you’re not a slave. You’re a kept woman.” He paused for a moment before saying, “Any woman living under me is one of the Kept, and they are given a number of things; status, respect, clothes, jewels, whatever else they wish for. You are one of them now.”

Sera stared at him for several seconds and had to fight the urge to back away. She’d heard of girls on Beakkal getting noticed by local officials and being taken to live with them; it was transactional. They got wealth and luxury in exchange for their bodies. “That sounds a lot like a concubine,” she said shakily.

The Emperor shrugged slightly. “If that’s what you choose to call it.”

This time, she did back away from him. She couldn’t help herself.

“I’m not letting you touch me,” she spat, furiously looking around the room for something to use as a weapon. “I’ll die first.”

He watched her with laughter in his eyes and a small smile gracing his too-perfect lips. “I have no interest in touching you until you want me to. Everything between us will be consensual.”

Until?! she thought furiously.

“You’ll be waiting a very long time, then.”

There was that soft smile again. “That’s fine,” he assured her gently. “I can wait.”

He left after that, quietly shutting the doors behind him, and Sera glared fiercely at the doorway he’d just walked through.

“Then you’ll be waiting the rest of your freakishly long life, you glow-eyed, spice-addicted bastard.”

She told herself that the peal of laughter she heard on the other side of the door was entirely unrelated.

In collaboration with @dunefandomevents for the Dune Mini Bang 2022. Art by @alexagirlie, moodboard by me, brainstorming with @meetmyothersoulss, and betaing by @patronsaintofthetwinks

Tag list: @meetmyothersouls @ellamaianderson @shika1200 @blackqueenstarseed1 @gatoenlaciudad @esmaada @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @softhecreator @timolaurence

To be added, please ask 💗

#my writing #fanfiction #fanfic #dune mini bang #dune fanfiction #dune film #dune 2021 #dune movie #original character #original female character #paul atreides x original female character #paul atreides #Paul atreides x original character #Paul atreides x oc #paul atreides x ofc #fem!oc