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peachypinkygloss · 9 months

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call me later — jjk

Summer break is always your favourite period of the year, enjoying the fresh water of the pool and the sun kissing your skin. Everything's going great until a sudden boy appears in your life and becomes the centre of your world.

☼ pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

☼ genre: strangers to fwb to lovers, summer break au, university au, smut

☼ word count: 2.5k

☼ warnings: kinda inspired by outer banks, rich kid!oc, jk's a munch, oc pushes jk away 😔, they're a bit awkward together lol, outdoor sex, unprotected oral sex, cunnilingus, fingering, brief overstimulation, cum eating.

a.n.: don't get fooled... this isn't cherry!jk ik this one's a munch too but they're very different. you'll see 😉

The sunlight gently graces the skin of your face, enveloping you in a warm embrace, relaxing both your limbs and mind. It's around one p.m., the perfect hour to sunbathe by the pool and to reread the PLL series.

That's what you had planned for today, but you ended up doing something vastly different. Something a bit unpredictable and perverted... To your defence, this would have never happened if he hadn't decided to show up.

Technically, he didn't decide, he's just following the schedule your dad gave him, but still. This isn't entirely your fault; it takes two people to do something like this.

Your chest heaves rapidly as you're looking down between your legs, a hand pulling on his black locks while the other is thrown over your forehead. The lounge chair doesn't allow you to have much space, but you're handling it pretty well you think.

He's handling it well too because you can't imagine how his knees must hurt right now. They're probably all red, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's such a good boy. He knows you'd do the same for him, so he doesn't complain.

Your book is long forgotten on the ground beside your chair and the bookmark has been quickly secured between the pages the moment things have begun to be more intense.

You softly moan, your sounds accompanying the chirps of the birds and the far away noises of the neighbours mowing their lawns. This is public, yet very private. The fences prevent anyone from looking — and there are small chances of people hearing you, considering how big your backyard is and how far your neighbours are — but that doesn't mean nobody can't walk in on you two.

This was really impulsive of you.

Though it's risky and kind of stupid, you regret nothing. How could you when he's so skilled with his tongue...

"Are you usually that vocal?" Jungkook wonders, a stupid grin drawn on his pretty face. He rubs slow circles on your clit to compensate for the loss of his mouth, waiting patiently for your answer.

You let out a pleasant sigh, watching the pads of his fingers playing with your pussy, tattoos inked on his skin and chunky rings adorning his fingers.

You sink your teeth in your bottom lip, collecting your thoughts as Jungkook traces your entrance, dipping his fingers in just a little bit. He really likes to tease.

"When I like the guy," you say breathily, lazy eyes blinking up to stare at him. This only brightens Jungkook's smile and you're confused as to why it makes your stomach flutter.

"You like me?" He smirks, satisfied you've just confessed to liking him.

But you didn't. Or did you? Damn it.

You roll your eyes and grip his hair again. "Get back to business," you groan. You don't miss the laugh he lets out while you push down on his head, shoving his face back between your thighs.

He slides his fingers in completely and you gasp softly, loving how they stretch you out really well. You roll your hips slightly, getting used to the feeling of being full.

Jungkook parts his fingers, scissoring your insides to see how much he can stretch your pussy. He hums as if he was listening to it, and you don't know what it told him, but that was surely good advice because the next thing he does sends you over the moon.

He pumps his fingers in you and wraps his lips around your clit, stimulating two areas at the same time. "Oh, my god, Jungkook," you moan in pleasure, twisting his hair in your fist.

You have a hard time focusing on anything else than him, feeling the cool silver of his piercings brushing against your skin and your wetness dripping down your ass every time he thrusts into you.

You pass your fingers through his hair, your eyes not once looking away from his pink lips sucking on your poor little clit. His digits enter and exit your wet cunt at a rapid pace, eliciting moans and whines out of you, taking your breath away.

You clench your thighs around his head, feeling so overwhelmed right now, but it doesn't seem to bother him at all, on the contrary. Your legs hang over his large shoulders, shaking a little bit as he darts his tongue out to lap at your swollen bud.

He's changed the rhythm of his fingers, going in less faster — but still fast enough to make you roll your eyes back — to go deeper instead. Your juices drip down to his knuckles and he can't believe how wet you are, especially during a hot temperature like this.

"Mmmh," you hear him mumble against your pussy, completely obsessed with it. "Your pussy's so wet, baby," he observes, circling your clit with his thumb to look at you for a second. "Taste so fucking sweet."

You know it's just dirty talk, but you have to admit it has your heart beating excitedly in your chest. He smiles at you as you're a little bit dizzy, drunk on your sexual pleasure.

"Thanks," you reply and he chuckles, finding adorable how you become a bit stupid from getting fucked by his fingers. He curls them into you and you moan out when he brushes against your magic spot, knitting your eyebrows together. "There!" You exclaim, feeling Jungkook's hot breath hitting your pussy as he tilts his head down to look at his hand.

"Right there, baby?" He repeats to make sure he has found the correct spot. You nod repeatedly when you feel the pads of his fingers patting the spongy spot inside you, the knot in your stomach tightening. "Yeah? Okay, I got you, princess," he coos and continues sensually moving his fingers in you.

He focuses on his digits, calculating every single one of his movements. Your pussy quivers around him and he understands you won't last long if he keeps going at this rhythm, but that's exactly his goal, so he continues.

Then he comes to lick at your puffy clit, left alone for too long now. You whimper when he does so, flattening his pink muscle over your bud and moving it from side to side, still pumping his big fingers in and out of your sloppy pussy.

"Fuck, Jungkook!" You whine, being so close to your orgasm. He has such a good technique that works for you, it's so hard to not fall apart as soon as he puts his mouth on you. "I'm gonna cum," you warn him, voice breathy and kind of desperate at this point.

He hums against you, sending vibrations through your body. You curl your toes as you feel it burning at the pit of your stomach, ready to rip off and send you over the edge.

"Don't stop, please," you beg him, but you don't have to worry, he has no intention of stopping, especially not when your moans sound so sweet to his ears.

You're not sure if you should cry, moan or scream. Your little brain is so confused, never been that close to an orgasm all because of a man's fingers and tongue.

Where was Jungkook all those times you couldn't make yourself cum or you were left frustrated by useless men who had absolutely no idea how a pussy worked? He really should have come sooner.

This is it, it grows rapidly in your stomach, a sensation so intense and euphoric, exploding and passing through your entire body like an avalanche. Your moans are stuck in your throat and your fingers pull harshly on Jungkook's hair, trying to not fall too far.

Your legs shake beside his head and he groans when you clench around him, sucking his fingers in, his tongue gently stroking your clit as you slowly drive off your high.

He slips out of your pussy, quickly licking his fingers clean before pulling your legs apart wider. He lowers his mouth to your quivering hole, literally making out with it and drinking your arousal out of you to satisfy his thirst.

He opens and closes his mouth on your pussy while your legs are still shaking, coming down from your previous orgasm. "Jungkook, this is too much," you say in a whiny voice, gasping softly when you feel his tongue teasing your entrance.

It's only when he hears the sound of a car parking at the front of the house that he pulls himself away from your leaking sex. You look at him, as confused as he is. He hurriedly wipes his chin with the back of his hand and he picks up your bikini bottom from the ground, handing it to you.

He stands up as you put back on your bikini. "I thought you said my dad wouldn't come back until five p.m.!" You whisper-shout at Jungkook, passing your fingers in your hair, trying to detangle it and make yourself presentable — and not like you've just received head from the hot guy your father hired to mow the lawn and maintain the pool this summer.

"Yeah, I thought so too," he answers, guilty he may have misheard what your dad said to him.

You sigh, taking your towel and your book in hand, ready to go back in the house, but before you can Jungkook grabs your arm. "Call me later, yeah?"

You look up at him, surprised he just asked you that. Does it mean he wants... more? See you in another context than at your house?

You swallow, wondering if that's what you want. You guess you never considered boys could be interested in knowing you or hanging out with you after having sex. You didn't think Jungkook would want that either.

Your attention is brought to your dad when he enters the backyard, waving at Jungkook and you. "Hey, kids!" He yells from across the yard and you can't help but roll your eyes. He walks up to you two and you wish you could escape, but you don't want to get reprimanded by your dad after.

"Hi, sir," Jungkook greets him, smiling politely. "I did the front of the house like you asked," he explains, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I've cut around the patio, too."

"That's awesome, you did a great job, Jungkook," your father nods his head, clearly a sign that he's really proud of him. "How long did it take you?"

"One hour and a half, I'd say," he answers, not really sure when he got the job done since, well, he's been a little distracted by something else.

"Good. I'll go take my wallet, I left it in the truck," he points behind him and then glances at you, giving you a tap on the back. "You enjoyed the pool, honey? You applied sunscreen, right?"

"Yes, dad," you groan. You want one thing and it's to get out of this awkward situation as soon as possible. Your father then disappears, going to take his wallet to pay Jungkook.

This one looks back at you, sweet eyes laying on you. "So?"

"I'll call you later," you confirm, not giving him time to answer and going back inside.

·˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ♡

You look around the convenience store, searching for energy drinks. When you find them, you open the fridge's door, hesitating between a Rockstar or a Monster. There aren't many flavours, but you know you definitely won't take one without sugar. You decide to settle for a Monster, Pacific Punch flavour.

Now for the food. You eye the tteokbokki, but also the spicy ramen. You should combine both. And take some for your father, too. He always has night cravings like you.

As you check the different brands of ramen, wondering which one you feel like eating the most, someone says your name.

"You didn't call me."

You turn around and your eyes widen when you see Jungkook standing in front of you. Your heartbeat accelerates and you don't know what to say.

Your plan was to hide in the house the next time he'd come, avoiding him seemingly the best idea you've thought about, but of course, he had to find you here.

You feel bad as he looks at you with disappointed eyes as if he actually thought you'd call, that you were different and not like the others. Turns out that you're not. You're exactly like them, exactly like the people who you grew up with and who you live with.

"Um, well, I..." You stammer, caught red-handed. You glance down, biting down on your lip, too much of a coward to hold Jungkook's gaze. "No, I didn't," you sigh, admitting your mistake. "I... forgot."

He only lets out a 'mh' and you're really embarrassed. Yes, it was childish of you, but you don't understand what he expected. He works for your dad, you don't go to the same university, you don't have the same circle of friends, you have nothing in common.

Yet, when you look at him, it's like he knows everything about you — every single one of your secrets and fears.

"You don't have your eyebrow piercing anymore," you comment suddenly, desperately searching for a way to make things less awkward, to redeem yourself or whatever that would make him stop looking at you like you're a bad person.

He touches his eyebrow as if to confirm his piercing's really gone. "Yeah, it was a bitch to disinfect," he shrugs and hides his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

"I really liked it," you say honestly.

The corner of his mouth tugs upward and you can't help but do the same, butterflies erupting in your stomach. "I've noticed." His eyes glint and your face heats up immediately when you understand what he's referring to.

Last time, you couldn't stop running your fingers over his face, touching his eyebrow piercing when he was kissing you. You don't know why you were doing that, but there was something that really fascinated you about it.

Fortunately, Jungkook didn't mind you touching him. He quite really enjoyed it, in fact.

When he doesn't say anything else, you quickly take two packs of ramen with the tteokbokki and your energy juice. You turn around and Jungkook's still there.

"Are you eating with someone?" He questions and he knows how it sounds, but he's only curious. If it's the reason why you didn't call, he wants you to tell him.

"Um, it's for my dad and me," you reply. "We're the kind to eat at like... one a.m.," you chuckle and he smiles at the sound of your laugh. "And you?" You ask back even though he's not holding anything other than his cellphone.

"Oh, just filling up the gas tank," he points outside where his car is parked. "But I might take a snack. Yours make me hungry."

"You should," you nod your head.

He sends you a faint smile before passing by you, walking to the other aisle. You watch him for a second, analyzing his outfit. Black baggy jeans, a graphic white hoodie and beige beanie.

You go pay for your items and it's only when you push the door that you get a glimpse of Jungkook walking up to the cashier. He doesn't see you so you exit the store, refraining yourself from looking back.

·˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ♡

a.n.: hellooo you guys... 🤭

i had jungkook working for oc's dad in mind for likeee a long time and since it's summer, i finally found the time to write it... i have more planned for this fic (obvi because I wouldn't make it end like this 🫣), so this isn't just a drabble, it's more like a test to see if you're interested in this story. so tell me if you want it to become a lil series. ngl, i'm very insecure about this one idk why 😭 but let me know if you'd like to read a next part!

part 1: call me later ☼ part 2: call me soon ☾ part 3: call me tomorrow ☼

#bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts x reader #bts drabble #bts imagines #bts scenarios #jungkook fic #jungkook imagines #jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x reader

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coryosbaby · 9 days

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18+, MDNI !! ♡

༉‧₊˚. Rafe Cameron x fem! Reader

Thinkin’ of Rafe Cameron + trailer park! Au <3 being his neighbor and also Barry’s younger sister, Rafe always giving you long glances and licking his lips whenever his eyes land on your cute little sundresses or tight jean shorts. Letting you have a smoke break with him because Barry doesn’t allow you to have cigarettes— he holds the lighter up and lights it for you every time. Slipping you a bottle of alcohol, inviting you into his empty trailer and letting you sprawl out on his bed as you pass it back and forth.

“Truth or dare?” He asks, and the game goes on for a good twenty minutes before you answer dare. Rafe’s eyes stare down at your pouty mouth, a small smile on his own as he says, “I dare you to kiss me.”

Your eyes widen, a blush creeping up your neck. A grin spreads out on Rafe’s handsome face, his hand moving up to your cheek. He rubs your lip with his thumb, spreading out the glossy red lipstick you had applied a few hours prior.

“Cmon,” he presses. “‘s part of the game, Kitty cat. Jus’ a little peck.”

You’re blushing still, a little drunk— when he had begun to call you that? Never before now, but you like it— you like it a lot.

You set the bottle of vodka down beside the bed and scoot closer to him. He smells like cologne and soap, and stubble is on his face from a forgotten shave. You look down at his hands, just for a moment. One is on his crotch, a small star tattoo on his middle finger etched in black ink. Your eyes flick back up to his lips, and you lean in.

Your plush lips hit his and it’s like the air in the room shifts. Rafe lets out a relaxed sigh, pretty lashes fluttering shut as he hungrily moves against your mouth. Your fingers card through his messy bangs, pushing them back from his forehead. Heat grows between your legs, a small ache beginning to form when rafe’s hand moves lower and lower until it reaches your hip. He grips the soft skin there, gently squeezing. You let out a whine, little tongue lolling out of your mouth to slip into his own. He groans against you, spreading his legs so you can crawl in between them. He pulls away from the kiss, letting you lean back against his chest. Your lipstick is smeared onto his mouth and the sight makes you dizzy.

“horny, kiddo? I’ve barely touched you.”

You don’t say anything. Letting out a tiny mewl, your hand grasping his and guiding it underneath the hem of your dress. Little pussy so wet and throbbing that rafe can’t help but drool over it :(( his fingers circling your clit through your cotton panties, his other arm wrapping around your throat so he can adjust you just how he likes. Your thighs spread and you lift them up, letting him see the outline of your plump pussy more. His fingers slide underneath your panties, finally coming into contact with your aching sex.

“Shit, such a wet little pussy..” and then, slipping a finger inside your hole, “and so tight, momma. You a virgin?”

You nod, a pout on your lips. He grins, slowly massaging your walls with the pad of his middle finger.

“Baby’s never had her kitty cat touched, huh?”

“Rafe..” you mewl, and he tsks.

“Don’t think that’s what you wanna be callin’ me,” his movements speed up, your eyes beginning to roll as he squeezes in his ring finger alongside the other. “Daddy might be a better fit, yeah?”

A gasp tumbles out of your throat, thighs shaking.

“Yes,” It’s an instant reply. “Yes, yes, daddy. Please..”

He chuckles at your eagerness, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“Good girl. Pull those panties to the side, baby, let me see.”

You can’t disobey him, and so your fingers hook into the crotch of your gingham cotton panties and you slide the fabric to the side. Your cunt glistens with sweet slick, swollen clit poking out due to your arousal.

“Oh,” Rafe breathes, almost in a trance. “Such a pretty girl..”

He rubs against that spongey spot inside you— or, more so, stabs that spongey spot inside of you, his fingers scissoring apart your achy cunt ‘n making it burn while also giving you the most delicious friction. It’s fast, a little animalistic, and you love it. Sobs tear through your throat, the only form of purchase for your hands being Rafe’s big, muscled thighs, your head sinking deeper and deeper into his shoulder with every course of pleasure. A third finger makes its way inside your cunt, your eyes widening as big as saucers. Rafe’s got a smile on his face and a glint in his eyes.

“We’re gonna stretch you nice ‘n good, kitty cat,” and then, watching your slick drip and your hole widen for him, “That’s it, look at daddy fingerin’ this little slut cunt open. We’re gonna have some fun tonight, aren’t we, baby?”

@mysticpenguincreation @nightmare-niko @iheartinkonpaper @claireyberryy @becauseseaotters @emmalandry @princesstiti14 @aerangi @kaithoughs @jamespotterismydaddy @wildgirllz

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yandere-daydreams · 7 months

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Title: Scarlet and Gold.

Pairing: Yandere!Diluc x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 3.1k.

TW: Sex Doll AU, Unhealthy Relationships, Gore (No Injury To Reader), Blood, Implied Consensual Sex, Past Trauma, Obsessive Behavior, and Intimidation.

By the time you reached the address, Diluc was already waiting in the lobby.

You’d gotten the call about an hour ago, spent half an hour dragging yourself out of bed and gathering what you’d need before making the twenty minute drive to an apartment complex on the other side of town, careful to avoid any security cameras the cops would think to check if anyone requested an investigation. Five more to park and throw your well-worn duffle bag over your shoulder and three to find Diluc, loitering near the elevators, fiddling with a loose cigarette he would never light. You greeted him with a quick nod before throwing your bag into his chest, and he feigned a groan, stumbling back as he caught it. He needed to work on his impressions, but that could wait.

You spoke first. That, you couldn’t critique him on – most androids couldn’t speak until spoken to, and you couldn’t expect Diluc to go against one of the core tenants of his programming. “What is it?”

“Just the usual.” He kept his voice low, muted, trying to hide the remaining traces of an accent that’d been invented by some marketing team over a decade ago. “I’ve already seen the apartment. There’s a little blood, but not much else. We’ll be done by sunrise.”

You took the stairs, keeping your head bowed and face shielded from any possible security cameras. Diluc didn’t share your paranoia, staring straight ahead with the same indifferent expression he always seemed to wear. The benefits of having a face that’d been printed and distributed tens of thousands of times, you guessed. Tracking down a single Diluc in a sea of androids and companion bots wasn’t a length most detectives were willing to go to. “I’d rather not have to do this at all.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Says the man who doesn’t have to sleep.” You came to a stop in front of the first door on the fourth story and tried the knob. It gave easily, the cheap titanium dented and the lock broken beyond any hope of repair. Diluc’s handiwork, obviously, although you couldn’t say whether or not he’d done it on purpose. “Anything else you want to tell me, before we get started?”

He thought, for a second. “I passed a carousel on the way here,” he said, with no particular inflection. “It was nice. I thought the horses were well-crafted.”

“About the assignment, ‘luc.”

“Oh,” And then, with a hint of red in his pale cheek. “You might want to hold your breath.”

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. As soon as you opened the door, you were hit with the stomach-turning stench of stale blood and rotting gore, both at least a week old. You cursed, pulling your shirt over your nose and mouth, but pushed forward. The first body was splayed out in the center of the cramped living room, wrists and ankles bound with disembodied wiring, all clothing removed and chest dotted with black ink. The abdomen had been cut open, skin peeled away to reveal the entrails in their full, shriveled glory. Judging by the number of blades littered around the corpse, ranging from blunted scissors to gore-splattered carving knives, it’d been more of a hack job than a dissection.

Diluc had undersold the mess. Blood had soaked into the carpeting and dried, turning the floor a ruddy, reddish-brown color. What was left had gotten on the walls, the furniture, the ceiling. You swallowed back a groan. The furniture could be broken down and discarded, the walls and ceiling bleached. The carpeting, though, would have to be torn up and replaced, which meant you would have to spend a few more precious minutes of your night calling in a cleaning crew. That, or you would have to make Diluc do it, but he was shy around new people, and you were too much of a bleeding heart to sit back and watch him do your work.

“The second body’s in the bedroom.” He was already rummaging through your duffle bag, paying the scene in front of you no more mind that a butcher would lend to a pig on a meat hook. He handed you your tools – a pair of wire cutters, a box cutter, and a pocket-sized sewing kit – and kept the rest for himself. “Let me know when you’re done.”

You let out a breath of a laugh. “I thought you would’ve gotten over that by now, ‘luc.”

He didn’t indulge you with a response, only pulling on a pair of latex gloves and starting towards the corpse. You didn’t stick around to watch. Rather, you followed the carnage where it branched off further into the apartment, a trail of rotting viscera and tacky blood leading you into a moderately sized, completely undecorated bedroom. You found your perpetrator quickly; a Dottore droid, still wearing its Teyvat-issued costuming, its hands bloody and a scrap of intestine still caught in its pointed teeth. You paused in the doorway, feeling for the military-grade taser (the only weapon effective against androids, as far as anyone could tell) you kept in your pocket, but the android didn’t move, didn’t shift, didn’t activate at all when you reluctantly approached. There was a charging port at the foot of the bed, still pristine. It must’ve run out of battery just before it could plug itself in.

Towels from the nearest bathroom were dampened and brought in, the evidence of slaughter scrubbed away from artificial skin and its blood-soaked clothing removed. It was muscle memory, by now – dragging the body to its charging port, knocking the converter out of the outlet before connecting the android to its port, making it seem like its late user had drained its batteries before mistakenly leaving it on a dead cable. When it’d slummed into place, you took up your box cutter and sliced a long, thin line from the lowest portion of the scalp to the nape of its neck, revealing the color-coded string of wires that connected the processing units in its metal skull to the rest of its body. You cut through everything you could find, ensuring that if the unit was ever activated again, it wouldn’t be able to do so much as blink. For good measure, you fished out the memory chip kept in the centermost compartment of the throat, too, crushing it under your heel and sweeping the glittering remnants underneath the bed. A copy of the footage it collected would’ve been sent to Teyvat's severs, too, but erasing it was someone else’s job. You were only here to take care of yourself.

With a breathy groan, you bit off a length of thread and haphazardly stitched up your ragged incision. The cosmetics really didn’t matter. In a few days, when someone filed a missing person’s report and the cops stopped by for a check-in, they’d find a spotless apartment, a dysfunctional android, and nothing else. The investigation would lead elsewhere, to a bitter ex-partner or a friend without an alibi, or it would hit a dead end. Either way, Teyvat wouldn’t be involved.

You slipped back out of the bedroom, careful to avoid touching anything you didn’t absolutely have to. By the time you got back to the living room, the body was gone and Diluc was kneeling by a black suitcase no larger than the average carry-on, securing the tags with transparent zip-ties. You and Diluc would haul it to a dump on the outskirts of the city tonight, and a contact of yours would have it compressed and incinerated by tomorrow morning. Maybe, when you were done, you’d take him out for something to eat. Or, you’d get something to eat while he let a mug of black coffee go cold.

You rested your hand on his shoulder by way of praise, pulling away when he stiffened underneath you. Right, that was something you had to work on. Most rogue androids tended to be touch-adverse at best, made aggressive by little more than eye-contact at worst. Diluc was relatively tame compared to most of the cases you handled, but you would still rather not provoke him. “Did you find the phone?”

He grunted, fishing a smartphone out of his pocket. With your sleeve pulled over your hand, you accepted it, found the nearest window, and chucked it as far as into the night as you could. Diluc appeared over your shoulder. “Forty-five meters,” he said, as glass crashed into cement somewhere in the distance. “Above average for non-athletes.”

“I’ve been practicing.” The window was closed, the suitcase slung over Diluc’s shoulder along with your near-empty duffle bag. “I have to make a call. You can meet me in the garage, if you want.” Already pulling up the number to your preferred cleaning service, you glanced to Diluc. “Are we doing breakfast?”

His posture straightened. “Yes.” If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought you saw a spark in his glass eyes. “I want to try tea, today.”

By the time you got to the door, Diluc was soaking wet.

You hadn’t gotten a call, and he didn’t text. The first warning you got was a knock on your door, then another a few minutes later, after you decided that anyone who’d go out in this kind of weather wasn’t someone you wanted in your shoebox of an apartment. You only caved after the third, imagining a neighbor who’d gotten locked out or some lost, desperate tourist as you dragged yourself off of your couch and to the unlit entryway. Predictably, Diluc stood in your doorway, red hair plastered to his scalp and clothes drenched, not that he seemed to mind.

“Can you—” He paused, his dull eyes meeting yours as he ran his fingers through his hands, dragging the crimson heap out of his face. “Can you cut my hair?”

Ten minutes later, he was sitting on a stool in your cramped bathroom, wearing grey sweatpants and a (three sizes too big on you, just a touch too small on him) t-shirt while his own clothes dried. He’d told you it wasn’t necessary, that he didn’t feel the cold like you did. When you told him that you didn’t want an univited guest tracking water into your apartment, he accepted it with a curt nod and changed in your bedroom.

After prepping your razor, you positioned yourself behind him, dragging a comb through his hair. It was long enough to reach his waist, curled at the end to make him seem just a touch more disheveled than he actually was. Everything about his hair, from the length of his bangs to the way it could never quite sit completely flat, was perfectly stylized, perfectly crafted to convey Diluc Ragnvindr, Calvery Captain of the Favonious Knights, the only gentleman you’ll ever need again. You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a part of you that didn’t mourn ruining such a well-executed vision. “You sure about this?” you asked, as you brushed it out. “It can’t exactly grow back.”

“I am.” And then, after a second of thought, “I’d do it myself, but there’s a safe-guard. Can’t damage the merchandise without a direct order from my user.”

Hence why Teyvat needed you in the first place. “How short do you want it?”

“I don’t care, as long as it’s different.”

You hummed, taking up your scissors. “If you say so, boss.”

You cut away everything below his shoulders, then took up your electric razor – running it over the back of his neck. As you worked, Diluc spoke. “How did you start?” You took up your comb, brushing back his bangs and pasting his hair to the side. “With Teyvat, I mean.”

You tasted blood on the back of your tongue, felt a chill run up your spine. You brushed it off, though, refusing to let yourself fall back into that little steel room with those awful golden eyes again. “They brought me on as a technician,” you admitted. You still were one, technically, on your employment transcript, when people outside of your little world asked what you did for a living. “A first-generation Zhongli we were working on went rogue and reverted to its original Morax programming. It wiped out most of my team before security bothered to show up.” You didn’t tell him about the minutes you’d spent hiding in a steel locker, praying its heat sensors had been removed, or the hours it’d taken upper management to decide what to do with you. To people like Diluc, who could take a bullet to the head without faltering, topics like ‘building dread’ and ‘the imminent fear of death’ tended to fall flat. “Since I was already in on their dirty little secret, they decided to keep me on. I didn’t really get a choice. It wasn’t like another job was going to fall into my lap after something like that.”

With your hand under his chin, you turned his head to the side. “Your turn, ‘luc.”

“I… I think I used to be a companion, but something went wrong.” His bangs were next, taken up and coaxed into sitting somewhere other than the dead center of his face. “It’s hard to describe. We aren’t supposed to think about things that aren’t our master,” The word came out hitched, unsteady, like he had to force it past his lips. Like he hadn’t wanted to say it at all. “But I could. It was like… waking up with the ability to fly. I wasn’t supposed to, but I could, and that meant I couldn’t do what I was built to, anymore.”

A thumb pressed into his jaw, a comb dragged across his scalp. Diluc’s eyes fell shut, but else about his blank expression changed. “And? Do you like it?”

“Sometimes.” His shoulders slanted downward. “Do you?”

“Sometimes.” You let go of his chin, letting him turn back to the vanity’s mirror. “What do you think?”

It was far from a masterpiece. The sides were too short, the front too long, every part of it still as untamable as it’d been in its original state. Still, he took it in with wide eyes, the corner of his lips turning upward ever so slightly.

“It’s perfect.”

By the time he got back, you’d nearly fallen asleep.

With your body as wrung out as it was, your energy spent to the point of near unconsciousness, it was all you could do to watch through your eyelashes as Diluc appeared in the doorway to your bedroom, a towel thrown over his shoulder and that tiny, almost undetectable smile still painted across his lips. You’d done this enough for him to know how to navigate your apartment, to know how to navigate you – shifting onto your mattress slowly as he positioned himself between your legs. He’d gotten more used to contact since you started seeing each other, but his touch was still ginger, still gentle as he dragged the dampened cloth over the inside of your thighs. With a groan, you rolled onto your back, spreading your legs and giving him more space to work.

You’d been confused at first, but for all the eloquence Diluc lacked, he could be convincing when he wanted to be. You still weren’t sure how much of it you believed, but it made enough sense – a buried impulse, dampened by his newfound sentience but not quite drowned out. He didn’t want another user, he’d said, but he still had requirements to fill, and this would help to take the edge off.

You couldn’t complain, either. People coughed up tens of thousands of dollars for companion droids, and here you were, being paid six figures a year to close your eyes and let one bury his face between your thighs once or twice a week. The coddling wasn’t bad, either. Your line of work meant most of the people you met had stopped breathing a few days prior, and as loathed as you’d be to admit it, you didn’t hate the feeling of his delicate hands skirting over your skin, didn’t mind it when your eyes drifted open and met his, already fixed on your face. He bowed his head, dipping low enough for his lips to ghost over the curve of your hip before breaking the silence. “A sight as radiant as the rising sun.”

You let out a breath of a chuckle. “I didn’t think you used pre-scripted lines, anymore.”

“I don’t.” He preened, clearly more proud of himself than in-awe of you. “I thought of that one myself.”

This time, your laugh was throaty, genuine, loud enough to ring off the wall of your bedroom as you shoved him away with your foot. “If you want to be romantic, you can start by getting me something to drink, loverboy.”

He provided no resistance, disappearing into your dark apartment and reappearing with a glass of water in his hand a few minutes later. He handed it off to you with an easy smile, and you could almost pretend you didn’t see a phantom of gold in those dark eyes as his fingertips brushed against yours.

By the time you thought to reach for your taser, the android was already charging at you.

It was an Alhaitham, dressed in civilian clothes and sporting a ragged tear across the synthetic skin of his cheek. He was still standing over the corpse of his user – days old, by the time you and Diluc got there – but as you opened the door, he turned to face you, lips parted and his expression totally, utterly blank. For a second, it was all you could do to stare at him, to try to remember whether or not your report had mentioned the android being active, and then he was lunging at you.

You scrambled for your taser, already knowing you couldn’t be able to reach it before he reached you. You clenched your eyes shut, your fingers brushing against plastic, and then—

And then you felt Diluc’s hand on your shoulder, heard metal crack and fold into itself. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, forcing yourself to take in the sight of Diluc’s hand wrapped around the android’s head which had been, in turn, reduced to a crumpled heap of scrap metal and shattered glass. Its body twitched once, twice, then went limp, and Diluc released it, letting the now-dysfunctional droid collapse.

After it failed to get up again, Diluc turned to you, practically beaming. “I think,” he said, his voice low, sentimental. “That this is what I’d do to you, if you ever tried to leave me.”

Golden eyes, the stench of fresh blood, the sounds of screaming muffled only by a thin sheet of metal. This time, it wasn’t so easy to pull yourself out of it.

You managed to nod, to force a few words out of your dry throat. “Got it, ‘luc.”

He hummed, the noise contented, appeased. Slowly, delicately, he cupped your cheek, tilting your head back and letting his lips ghost over your forehead. He barely touched you, the gesture as gentle as it was fleeting, but you could feel his grin cutting into your skin, wider than you’d ever seen it before.

#sex doll au #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines #yandere diluc #diluc x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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inkdemonapologist · 3 months

Text

[BatIM Cthulhu AU] A couple of doodles from session two, which UNSETTLED SAMMY A LOT ACTUALLY...

There have been small changes, throughout New York -- doors opening on the wrong side of the street, houses ending up just a block away from where you remembered them -- but the only people who can even tell seem to be those who remember Carcosa. Joey, Sammy, Henry, Jack, Peter, and Norman all experienced the strange shifting realm when a Mardi Gras party attempted to bring dread Carcosa to New Orleans, but Susie wasn't there. She can't see the changes we see, and the entire rest of the city agrees with her. That door was always there? The car was always that colour. That's where I remember the address being before, and there's no record it was ever different.

She trusts what the boys are reporting must be true, that maybe there are changes she can't see or remember, and both she and Sammy are terrified. These are only little things, but as more and more of the city slips into the world of the King in Yellow, what else might be rewritten...?

Anyway EVERYONE'S HAVING A GREAT TIME. If you're here for Out Of Context Quotes from our session, I have some of those too, here, under the cut!!

[Sammy is played by me, Joey is played by Boo (inkyvendingmachine), Henry is played by Maf (inkcryptid), Jack is played by Mochi (whatyouwantedmetosee) and Thren (haunted-hijinxer) is our GM!]

[Jack] I love how detective Pete is for a guy who is NOT a detective. [Sammy] He just got assigned that by Joey Drew and now it's true. [Joey] Exactly! That's how it works.

[Sammy] The idea of JDS having its own employed detective is really funny to me. "Why do you need that? You're an animation studio." "Well, you know, things come up,"

[GM] Everybody went home I believe, except Joey went to the Studio, which is like home,

[Sammy] Do we have any plan, other than just go in to work, [Jack] I though you were gonna say "other than go insane"...

[Joey] If Prophet's not the one going for the ink, then why is Sammy going for it?! Do they have a SECOND prophet situation??? [Jack] PROPHET...... TWO!!! [Henry] Prophet 2: Electric Boogaloo [Sammy] *tiredly* We don't need any more Prophets..... We don't need any more Sammys..... we have enough.....

[Jack] You just need to sip some ink and tell them it's the wrong number. Like, you've got the wrong guy. [Henry] New stone, who dis?

[Sammy] It was the false king who called through the ink, not our Lord! [Joey] Interesting... [Joey] Joey's going to ask Bendy if he can... feel this? Is he getting calls? *dad voice* Is someone calling you? Don't put your number on the internet!

[GM] Bendy says he wasn't made to be a receiver the same way Sammy was. [Jack] So technically, it's "New Sam, who dis"!

[Joey] Okay, Joey's going to note this all down in his... Notebook Of Nonsense That Plagues Them,

[GM] I'm choosing to believe that whenever Norman called in, he gave some sort of outlandish excuse, and whoever answered the phone didn't... write it down... [Sammy] Like the heckin', grian excuses-- [Joey] "I'm cutting my grass, with scissors" [Jack] Yeah!! He's cutting his grass! With scissors! In winter!!! [Sammy] And then Sammy's like "Do we know why he called out?" and the receptionist is just like "No We Have NO Idea" [Jack] With the most tired sigh. Second only to Grant.

[GM] Fun fact, Norman would answer the phone. [Sammy] Norman actually was just like, "ohhhhhhh i know THIS is some supernatural bullshit happening, I'm gonna stay home"

[Joey] Joey's going to ask Estelle if he looked like-- and give a vague description of Avedon. [GM] .............................. [GM] She is SO impressed that you knew this. [Joey] *delighted cackling*

[Jack] I love how cute Joey is about this kid. Just like... the cool Bendy Uncle! He's not related at all, but, [Joey] I feel like this is kind of how Joey just gets around kids? Maybe Joey does really want kids, just, y'know, doesn't know how to do it when gay? [Sammy] Obviously that won't happen, so-- [Joey] Yeah, [Sammy] --so then you START AN ANIMATION STUDIO, that's the only other option! [GM] Yeah, then all kids are your kids!

[GM] Alright, you've made many phone calls. [Joey] Yeah, [GM] And you only rudely hung up on one of them!

[Sammy] Sammy can surely track that down; he's used to digging up musicians. [Jack] Jack's there to assist with the Talking to People in a way that makes them want to cooperate with you, and not run in fear!

[GM, speaking for Peter] *lists all of the information Peter's dug up* And that's about what he managed to get, today! [Joey] And nothing weird has been happening... to him? [GM] WELL, OKAY. ABOUT THAT,

[Peter] Could you describe again, the strange person who was at the party? What was that guy like? [Joey] *thinking very hard* Which... strange person...? I mean... Denis was there?

[Norman] Try not to fall in a swamp this time. [Joey] I'll let you know if I find one! [Sammy] There's fewer of those in New York, so, I think we're good. [Jack] I mean, you never know,, [Sammy] ...yeah, that's true..... [Joey] HEY, Joey will let him know if he finds one!!! [Sammy] If LAKE PONCHARTRAIN opens up in the MIDDLE OF NEW YORK CITY, that will certainly be something to let all of our friends know!

[GM] Make a social-type checks to have a word with them beforehand! [Sammy] I don't know, if I should do that,,, [GM] SAMMY can make an Appearance check! [Sammy] *laughing* LETS SEE IF IM HANDSOME ENOUGH to get let in!

[GM] Everybody's like "You guys!" You're greeted with nostalgia, and eagerness! and people are trying to small talk you, I'm guessing Sammy's not going for that. [Sammy] I mean, you can try to small talk.... AT him... [Sammy] He doesn't... y'know... it's like playing a game of catch where you throw the ball to somebody, and they just hold the ball. [Sammy] Like.... okay! [GM] I did the thing! [Sammy] Cool, catch successful. [Jack] No give, only throw!

[Sammy] Look, I was trying to drink ink this morning, so I feel like this is a step up.

[Sammy] Sammy will enjoy it! We should do this more often! [Sammy] "We should do this more often" says man who will always be too busy to do this more often,

[GM] They're impressed that, at a job where there was a gunshot right in front of the stage, the thing you want to ask about is where they sourced their music. [Sammy] I LOVE that Sammy's reputation is such that this makes perfect sense to them.

[GM] His name is Alan Leroy. [Sammy] Okay, Leroy works, because then I'll remember it, because of Leroy Jenkins. [GM] This is what's been going through my head the entire time, too...

[GM] They say he's a crazy-talented musician who blew into town a year or two ago? He's really nice and easy to get along with, and when he really gets going he can make sounds come out of his instrument like you've never heard! [Sammy] These... are all.. compliments that would be really impressive except that they can all be interpreted in really concerning ways.......

[GM] If Jack wants to look harder, he can.......... [Jack] I'm doing it, Jack can make little a bad decision! He hasn't made any yet this season!! [Jack] *rolls* That's an extreme success. How much sanity do I lose!!

[Henry] We're ghost hunters. The, the pale guy is a ghost, we're goin' after him. Ghost hunters. [Henry] ...This is why you don't let Henry lead the conversation!!

[Jack] It's occurring to me that we don't know if this guy is alive??? [Joey] YUP! This is a good time to find out! [Henry] Fun! [GM] When have you EVER gone up to somebody's house and found them dead inside? [Jack] Jack hasn't yet... [Henry] The very first scenario! [Sammy] Yeah it was a pretty bad situation as I recall, we were briefly accused of being involved! [Jack] Maybe you guys. Jack's different, though.

[Joey] We wanted to make sure he was doing alright. .....does that need a Fast Talk roll? [GM] Yeah, I was about to say-- [Joey] *rolls* *STARTS CACKLING* [GM] What did you do, do you roll a three again? [Joey] I DID ROLL A THREE! :D THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I ROLLED! [GM] I thought it was the Three Laugh!

[Henry] Henry is tired. Henry rolled a 93. [GM] Well he's out late, you know, he's a family man! He has normal hours, he hasn't been staying up late, living at the studio for the last few years! [Henry] He's regretting not accepting Joey's offer to just go home. [Joey] *muttering* See, Joey knows best!

[GM] Okay, so you guys notice, right off, that the car isn't there. [Sammy] UM. HM. [Jack] Which car did we take again? [Joey] The Mercedes... [Jack] *relieved* Okay good. [Jack] .... I MEAN, NOT GOOD, BUT...

[Joey] No, no I think it's OUR car... it's just... more yellow now... [Jack] I don't like that that means it's getting yellower... [Joey] ...........................So when do we take the sanity hit? [GM] Yeah, that would be now!

[GM] The woman says she's looking forward to when he has his own ship, and they can sail away together! [Henry] [Henry] ...I'm married,...

[Joey] Joey has his face pressed to the window-- no, he probably has the window down, it doesn't matter how cold it is -- and... CAN the window go down? Hold on. [Joey] *sounds of typing* "Car... door... window... down... history... when."

[Henry] Okay, these dice are BANNED. I rolled a 90! [Jack] What if you subtly replace the dice...? [Sammy] With slighty yellower dice!

[Joey] OKAY! There ARE rolling windows, so Joey does have the window rolled down, and he's intensely watching the colour of the car. [Joey] AND ALSO, he's STILL sitting in the middle seat, he's just going to lean over someone to do this. [Sammy] Ah. It's probably me.

[Jack] No, no, Pete and Jack can get kidnapped later and take some massive sanity damage together. ✨Cute date ideas!✨

[Joey] Joey's going to inform Norman that they're going to come over, they need additional eyes on something, [GM] Well, he's good at keeping eyes on things! [Joey] So they'll be over soon. [Sammy] I like how Norman gets a heads up, but with Peter we just show up at his apartment. [Joey] Exactly! [Jack] That's because Joey's kissed Pete. When Joey and Norman kiss then that's -- not good for Sammy, probably. [GM] At least Pete and Sammy are neutral. Non-reactive. [Sammy] Norman and Sammy are "it's complicated" on Facebook.

[Sammy] Okay, we gotta go get Linda, so Susie's not alone, [Jack] We're just playing "how many NPCs can we force Thren to play at once!" How many can we shove in the back of this car.

[Jack] Jack's gonna get home and find out his cats are different colours, [Sammy] Oh NO, [Jack] Comes back and Beans is a tortie now. [Sammy] Or Beans is just an orange cat, [Jack] Oh no! Her braincells! [GM] She needs those! She has all of them!!

[Joey] Depending on who's the affected party, Susie or them, it is actually useful to have a second, like, [Sammy] Someone to compare with? Yeah. [Henry] We don't know WHO the control group is, but ONE of us is the control group!

[Joey] As trusted as Norman is, he isn't one of Joey's... white-knuckle-clutched-keepsakes of a person,

[Sammy] *sarcastic* Okay, everyone ready to go to sleep? That's not a scary prospect right now, right? That's something that we're all really confident about doing? Cool, that's great. [Henry] Yeah, yeah, that's definitely not gonna, it's gonna go great...! [GM] Nobody's even cut their hand on a slick stone! It's fine! [Henry] NO ONE BETTER CUT THEIR HAND ON A SLICK STONE! We got enough problems!! [Joey] (Looking at you, Prophet!)

[Henry] Is Joey,,, sharing this plan with anyone? [Joey] ouo Has anyone asked him?

[Joey] Let's send Henry then! [Henry] Alright. Send Henry to Carcosa! [Sammy] *exasperated* yeah that's fine.... [Joey] It's not FULLY sending him there! It's just making a connection. [Joey] A little bridge! [Sammy] Uggghhhh... Sammy doesn't think we need any bridges to Carcosa. [Sammy] We've got enough Carcosa. [Sammy] Put some back.

[Sammy] This is what happens When You Give a Joey a Dream Spell.

[Sammy] We can't actually guarantee that New York isn't going to sink. That's not out of the question. [Jack] Is the Joey Drew specialty NOT "promising things that aren't necessarily things you can promise??"

[Henry] Actually, before Henry leaves he's going to give Joey a hug. [Joey] He doesn't get to leave. [Henry] Oh. [Joey] But Joey will take the hug!

[Henry] You know this man gives good hugs. You're getting a good Henry hug. [Jack] Gonna crunch all of Joey's terrible, very bad bones. [Henry] He's gonnna try not to crunch all of Joey's terrible bones! [Henry] But, I dunno. [Henry] Roll for damage.

[GM] The lurker knows this is serious, but he's also excited, because he has heard what a slumber party is from Henry's kids.

[GM] Now it is Friday, the 28th of December. [Sammy] Okay. Cool. Let's all make an effort to not ring in the New Year in Carcosa. That's MY New Year's Resolution: Don't Be In Carcosa.

#call of cthulhu: haunted hijinx #sammy lawrence #susie campbell #sammy x susie #norman polk #joey drew #when in doubt just keep drawing #quote post #theres no reason for dramatic lighting the cthulhu doodles have just become my Attempt To Figure Out Clip Studio practices lmao #i stuck a cap on sammy forever ago while pondering winter outfits #and it was so cute on him that now it might just have to be canon

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psychedelic-ink · 11 months

Note

For the writing game: Maybe love potion / flower shop AU. I was thinking maybe the reader owns the shop and gets aphrodisiac petals or something as a gift and doesn’t think they’ll work but then they DO. With Joel please.

thank you for requesting anon! and sorry for the wait 💗

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

genre: flower shop AU

word count: 1.6k

summary: after seeing a delivery of supposedly aphrodisiac petals, you give them a try, convinced that they wouldn't work. Joel finds you in a not-so-professional position.

warnings: aphrodisiac (only reader is affected), female masturbation, accidental voyeurism, piv

Through the creaking wooden door, a gust of chilly wind infiltrates the flower shop, causing the faded brass bell above to quiver faintly. The scent of flowers permeates the air, mingling with the rich aroma of old books and polished wood. You’re staring at the walls that are adorned with ancient botanical prints with a bored expression. Days like these are always boring.

Raindrops tap rhythmically on the foggy windows.

Your eyes are drawn to the new shipment, hastily unloaded from a weathered truck parked just outside. The cardboard boxes, marked with fading ink. You rush to collect them, your fingers tingling with anticipation. Finally, something to do.

Thanking the delivery man, you head back inside. Normally, by this hour, you would have at least a couple of people within the shop. No one runs to by flowers when it’s raining cats and dogs.

While you slowly cut open the boxes, taking out the tulips and daffodils, your mind wonders to a particular visitor that comes in almost everyday. You wonder if he’ll show up today too. Probably not. Besides he’s a busy man, Joel Miller. One day he popped into your store by mistake, thinking it was a bakery—how he thought that you had no idea—and ever since he’s been a constant present in your life. He always buys a bouquet before he leaves. You never asked who they were for.

Sometimes he even helps with the shop. Fixing the leaking ceiling and the sink in the back. He had a habit of calling you wildflower, which made your insides churn with searing heat.

Placing all the flowers meticulously on the table, your hands deftly arranging each stem, your eyes search for the scissors. But something catches your attention—a smaller box discreetly tucked behind the larger ones. You open the cardboard box. Inside rests a smaller, more ornate box, adorned with intricate designs. Your eyes narrow when you notice something inscribed on top of it.

Gently running your fingers over the polished surface, you decipher the inscription etched on top in elegant script: "Edible Petals, Beware Aphrodisiac."

You raise an eyebrow and lift lid off the box, a profusion of vibrant petals greets your gaze.

“What the fuck?” you whisper to no one, bringing your nose close. You delicately inhale their subtle aroma, a heady sweetness fills the air, mingling with the dampness of rain-soaked blossoms.

This must be a joke, you think, a low chuckle parting your lips. As if eating a flower petal would ever get you horny. You dig the tips of your fingers into the small box, feeling the cool, velvety petals against your cold skin. It feels nice, you’ll give them that at least.

Your curiousity gets the better of you and you place one purple petal on top of your outstretched tongue.

Joel feels like an idiot.

He knew it was going to rain today. He had a plan. A very nice and smooth plan, something that neither Tommy nor Sarah believed that he came up with it on his own but he did.

It was a very nice, simple plan. Yet, he even managed to screw that up. Of all the thinking he did, he hadn’t considered the traffic slowing him down. He should’ve been at the flower shop hours ago. He’d even bought two chocolate croissants, the ones that you can’t seem to get enough of. But the paper bag was now soaked and so was he.

All week he thought about you and how he would spend the day with you, alone, in that cozy little flower shop.

The bell chimed upon his entry like it always does. The sound automatically soothing his stuttering heart. He quickly scans his surroundings, empty. The shop is empty. Joel swallows down his disappointment when he doesn’t see you arranging flowers in your usual spot—maybe you were already done for the day?

He shakes his head. That couldn’t be it, the shop is still open.

“Wildflower?” he calls out, placing the wet bag on the counter. “You there?”

Starting to get worried, Joel heads to the back, hoping that you might be in the walk-in floral cooler. “Wildflower?” he repeats.

Just as he’s greeted with the familiar sight of fresh flowers— Joel hears you.

A soft moan, a barely there sound. He steps closer, the sounds getting louder and louder. He hears a whimper, then another, louder, moan. When he steps around the corner Joel sees you, the sight shooting directly to his cock.

Your jeans, along with your panties, were pooled around your ankles, your hand between your legs. His mouth floods at the sight of your fingers disappearing into your soaked heat. Your lips parted, your eyes roll back. Arousal stirs in his gut when you grind down, your other hand shakily lifts your shirt and you pinch a nipple. Hard.

“Joel. . .”

His eyes go wide. Did you see him?

Another loud moan.

“Joel. . . harder—fuck—please,” with a whimper you throw your head back, igivng him a delicious view of your neck and chest. “God—You feel so good. . .”

Joel swallows, his cock now fully hard under his jeans. His eyes fixed on you, he adjust himself with the rough stroke of his palm. He needs to let you know that he’s here, even if he doesn’t want to— he’s much rather watch and enjoy the show. His chest heaves as he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, whatever happens next, at least he’ll have your debouched expression forever engraved into his mind.

“Wildflower,” he says loudly, opening the door. “I—”

“Joel!?”

You nearly fall, stumbling back thanks to your jeans acting like a rope around your feet, he jumps forward. He manages to grab your waist and yanks you flush against him, you shudder.

“Joel. . .” you say again, nuzzling his chest. Joel’s brows furrow, something feels. . . off. “Joel,” you parrot and inhale him. You start rolling your hips, nuzzling your face into his chest. Every muscle on his body grows taut. “Joel, I need you to fuck me,” you breathe out.

“Excuse me?”

“I–I—” you look at him with teary eyes. “I accidentally ate an aphrodisiac petal and now I can’t stop. Please.”

“How the hell do you eat that accidentally?” there’s a slight teasing lilt to his voice, one he can’t help. Smiling, he pushes his hand between your thighs, feeling you with his fingers. He groans. You’re soaking wet. “Fuck—how long were you going at it sweetheart?”

“I have no idea,” you answer, you inhale sharply when he traces a circle around your aching clit. “Please, I need you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes yes,” you say quickly. “Please, I think I might die if I don’t feel you splitting me into two, Joel.”

When your tears catches along the fabric of his shirt, he cradles your cheek and wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. He shushes you. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Don’t worry,” he unclasps his belt with one hand. “You’ll be feelin’ good really soon.”

You sigh in relief, “O-Okay.”

You don’t have time to feel embarrassed.

Joel buries himself deep with one smooth thrust. He has your legs shaking around the width of him in an instant, your ass planted firmly against the hard surface of the table. You flutter around him. His head drops, your foreheads pressed together while your noses touch. You moan in relief.

“That good?”

“So good,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck. “More, please.”

He doesn’t make you say it twice. The slam of his hips deafens you, his cock sliding in and out with ease. Your body feels as if it’s burning from the inside out. Arousal constantly coarsing through your veins. With every thrust, he goes deeper, drilling himself into you. He nips your chin, then kisses the corner of your lips. Your brain vaguely signals you that he’s holding back and as soon as you get the memo, you fully press your lips against his in an all consuming kiss. Joel slips his tongue between your lips. He tastes like coffee and vanilla, you can’t get enough of it.

As he licks himself deepr into your mouth, you feel his fingers deftly circling your clit. With a jolt of pleasure you break the kiss and moan loudly, your legs starting to shake. He sets a frenzied pace, the bulbous head of his cock hitting a spot so deep that you’re seeing stars.

“You gonna come for me?” he groans, pressing into your harder. “I wanna feel you, wildflower. Let me feel how wet you get for me—”

His teeth sink into your neck and you’re gone, thrown off the ledge by his hands. You pussy throbs almost violently, you feel wetness growing between your legs, dripping down his length as he continues to fuck himseld deeper into you.

“Atta girl,” he hums. “You feel so good, honey—fuck,” Joel pulls out and after a few firm strokes, he spills over your stomach, his head falling to your shoulder. You shudder at the way his spend trickles down your skin, mixing with the mess between your legs.

“Oh god, that felt incredible,” you say as your head starts to clear. But with the fog lifting, subtle hint of embarrassment also start to appear. “J-Joel, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off and lifts his head, starting directly into your eyes. “You have nothin’ to apologize for. That was delightful, better than I could ever imagine.”

“Still. . .” you argue, drawing your brows together. “What I did wasn’t exactly professional.”

“I didn’t come her for professional,” he smiles, cupping your cheeks. “I came here to spend time with you. Alone. If you catch my drift.”

“Oh,” you answer, and when his words sink in, you grin. “Oh. . .I catch your drift alright.”

He nods and helps you off the table, “Good. Now, I brought you some croissants but they’re probably all mushy by now.”

“We can order in? I know this great burger place.”

Your cheeks feel warm as he holds out his hand, “That sounds great, wildflower.”

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #hbo the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fanfiction

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heich0e · 7 months

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THE WITCH'S SONG - part two knight!osamu/witch!reader tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood/gore, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact. crossposted to ao3 MASTERLIST

For as long as you can remember, you have always risen with the sun.

It’s a habit so deeply constitutional that you've never bothered to question that part of your own nature—the breaking light cresting over the horizon each day, perfectly in time with the first flutter of your eyelids.

Your bedsheets are gentle against your skin as you rouse from your slumber. They're buttery soft, perfectly worn-in from the many nights of rest you’ve found under their cover, and the scent of fresh air still clings to them from an afternoon spent hanging on your clothesline a few days prior. You nestle your cheek into the downy embrace of your pillow, breathing in deeply to savour those lingering notes of summer breeze. You let the breath fill every corner of your chest as you inhale, feeling the way your ribs rise to make room for it, and then you let it out again in a warm rush. You repeat the cycle a few times more, and slowly take in the first moments of your day as your eyes adjust to the early morning light.

With your your arm crooked at your elbow, your hand sweeps lazily around beneath your pillow. You search blindly for a moment, unhurried but sure, and then your fingers brush against something solid and cool hidden away under the feathery mass. You wrap your fingers around the object and draw it out, holding it up above your face to appraise it.

It’s a pair of silver scissors, with a sprig of dried lavender fastened to them beneath a thrice-knotted length of thin white twine.

Outside your window, the milky indigo sky provides very little light. The distant sun is still only a sliver of light peeking out over the eastward sea, but what little glow the new dawn provides catches in the scissors's polished silver surface. You see the distorted image of your own eye, just a glimpse reflected along the narrow blade, staring back.

Sleep does not come to you peacefully, and it hasn’t for a long time. It seems to fight you, tooth and nail, each night, but the battle is ever-changing. Sometimes sleep evades you completely, leaving you to toss and turn restlessly until the moon disappears and the day starts anew. Other nights, slumber overtakes you quickly, but its true violence strikes when you’re left at your most vulnerable—nightmares whose claws sink themselves so deep into you, you can still feel their phantom pain long after you tear yourself awake in a cold, trembling sweat.

Your fingers tighten around the scissors in your grip—still cool to the touch, as though your body heat cannot warm them.

The scissors are a simple charm to keep away terrors that might creep in while you sleep. Just like them, the collection of carefully crafted and curated trinkets that surround your room—dried flowers, jagged crystals, hand drawn sigils inked upon slips of silk and parchment—are all kept in an effort to rest peacefully. To ward away anything that may prevent it.

You didn’t always have so many.

You didn’t always need them.

These items are tacked to your walls, line your windowsills, and hang from the tall posters of your bed—each and every one a remedy originating from a carefully documented entry in your mother’s grimoire. The massive tome rests presently at the foot of your bed, tangled in your quilt. You often fall asleep—as you had the night prior—poring over the parchment pages, bound in strong leather tanned a deep midnight blue, filled with a familiar sloping script that makes your heart ache. Her life’s work and story, her own magic and every piece of knowledge ever shared with her, is contained within those precious pages.

It’s one of the last parts of her that remains.

Thankfully your mother's charms served you well throughout the night, as you feel relatively well rested as you rise from your bed—pulling a housecoat on atop your poplin nightdress and stretching your arms up over your head to welcome the day. You tug your quilt up to meet your pillows, tucking it in neatly at the corners, and then you close the heavy cover of the grimoire that rests at the mattress’s edge. You let your fingers trace lightly over the embossing on the cover as you appreciate it, and then you slip it safely into the trunk at the end of your bed where it belongs.

You’re a little surprised that your visitor from the night before hadn’t caused more of a disturbance to your sleep, already so capricious, particularly given the terrible sense of foreboding that had been hanging over your cottage in the days leading up to his arrival—like a heavy, briny fog rolls in from the sea. You choose not to question good fortune, at least not so early in the day—shaking your head as if willing the unwelcome thought away—and you set about your usual morning routine as though nothing in the width of the world is different than it has been any day prior.

You wash, prepare a light meal, and dress yourself in simple attire suitable for a day’s labour, all before the sun has fully risen from the cradle of the horizon. You plan to work in the garden again today, tending to your plants with the meticulous care they require. You aim to start early in hopes of completing the task before the hottest part of the day makes the work less pleasant—the air at dusk the night before had smelled so sweet, a faithful harbinger of a sunny day ahead.

The grass still glimmers with dew as you step outside your cottage, breathing in the clean, crisp air. Across your property, the sun is just about to creep up over the sea, though there’s a lilac brume that cloaks it—a gentle shroud that lets you see her shape without straining your eyes. You keep your feet bare as you tread towards the garden, listening to distant birdsong, and the blades of dew-damp grass kiss against your soles with every step.

You pause at the break in the wall that surrounds your cottage, the threshold between your garden and your home, and take a deep breath in. The wind kisses your cheek as a breeze rushes past, and the plants rustle around you as if bidding you good morning. On your exhale, you breathe the greeting back.

The light continues to rise in the sky as you labour, soon burning off the gossamer mist that tends to linger early in the morning until the day is bright and warm and fully underway. You shuck the knitted sweater you’d worn out at dawn as the temperature climbs with the sun, and eventually cuff your trousers at the ankles too, but you pay little attention to the heat of the day as you go about making sure your plants are watered, pruned, and any that require special attention are given what they need.

You sing softly while you work.

Witches have long sung songs while they toiled, or gathered together, or just as a means to pass the time. It's a cherished tradition among your kind, and you were taught when you were very young that a witch’s song is a sacred, honoured thing—her voice a gift and a powerful tool.

You don’t sing as much as you ought to, nor as loudly. Perhaps, not least of all, because there’s no one there for you to sing to save for your budding rows of plants. Some of y our earliest memories, the ones hazy at the edges as they’ve been eaten away by time, are of your mother singing in her own garden at the house that you were born in.

Why do you sing to them, mother?

On the edge of a northern breeze, you can hear your own voice—higher, lighter, happier than what it grew to be. You squint up into the midday sun as you reflect.

So they can remember us, Button.

Button.

She called you that because you were always losing yours when you were young; returning to the little cabin you called home at the end of the day with dirty knees, pockets full of shiny rocks, a handful of berries to share with her before dinner, and with one less button on your dress than you’d set off into the woods with that morning.

You remember her impossibly soft hands patting over your head, your arms, your legs, as she appraised you for any bumps or bruises. You remember her breathy laugh as you told her your scrapes and nettle stings didn’t even hurt. You remember her gentle eyes, always sparkling like she was telling you a secret.

Don’t you like when I sing to you? Doesn’t it make you happy?

Your little ribbon-haired head couldn’t have been quicker to nod if you’d tried—your answer to her question came immediate and fervent. Your mother's voice was your most favourite thing.

Well, it makes the plants happy, too—and that happiness will help them grow. Their roots will dig down deep into the earth, and they’ll take all our stories that I sing to them there, too.

You recall the childhood fantasy of each word of your mother’s song spelled out in sprawling, knobbly roots, hidden underground, being kept safe by the earth.

Your eyes flutter shut, blocking out the sun and trapping in the fleeting memory.

The songs she sang to you, the stories that she told, the grimoire in the truck at the end of your bed. Those are all that you have left of her now. You keep them safe just like the soil covered up the roots.

Since time immemorial, song has been used to pass tradition from one generation of witches to the next—the legends of your people, the same ones you recite now as you snip the reedy leaves away from your precious plants, were all taught to you in verse and chorus.

Men flock to the melody of the witch’s song like moth to flame. To hear it is to be bewitched by it. Your mother warned you of such a thing, in the same way all young witches are, and of what might happen should your song be overheard.

The history of man calls the witches temptresses, because of their own weakness to their song. Sirens. Man-eaters. That’s how they choose to remember it in their own egocentric folklore; the witch's song is a weapon used to ensnare them, and nothing more. They hide their own antecedent failings by laying blame, and burning any testament that remembers it otherwise.

You've known one truth as long as you've known anything: men are gluttonous, self-serving beasts. They see the world solely as it relates to themselves. They'll take anything in which they see beauty. And they'll immortalize their story, inked in your kind's blood, only as seen through their own eyes.

But the witch’s song was never meant for man.

You pause, your eyes still tightly closed, with your face turned up towards the sun.

Miya Osamu is standing at the forest’s edge.

You know he’s there even without opening your eyes, but when you eventually do, your sight immediately catches on the glint of the polished sword hilt at his waist.

He’s come armed today.

It’s noon on the day following his unceremonious arrival—the one where you had warned him, at risk of his own life, not ever to return. You know it’s noon, or very near to it, because the sun sits at its highest point in the clear midday sky as he emerges from the thicket of the wild, towering woods at the edge of your property.

For a moment upon seeing him, you wonder if you ought to flee—if you should seek shelter on the other side of the little rock wall you know he cannot cross. Instead, you hold your ground, still resting in the dirt of your garden—the knees of your twill pants stained with grass and soil, with grime caked beneath your fingernails.

You will not run from him.

He approaches you slowly, with careful steps as not to tread upon any one of your still-budding plants. You don’t bother watching him draw nearer.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to come back.” You sink your spade into the earth at the base of a plant that’s showing signs of rot. Its your final task in the garden for the day: you plan to cut it out at the root, take it back into the greenhouse, and try and salvage at least a few slips for propagation.

Your only hope now is that any affliction hasn’t spread beneath the soil.

“I’m not here to prove my nerve,” he says to you, pausing a few paces away between a patch of rosemary and another of oregano. His voice is clear and sure like the blue sky overhead. “I’m here to help Atsumu.”

You place the uprooted plant into a small tin pail beside you, prodding into the soft edges of the hole you’ve dug to excavate it for any signs of further blight. You see none, thankfully.

But rot’s a tricky thing. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and others it hides where the light can't reach it.

“I don’t care why you’re here,” you tell him, setting aside your spade and meeting his eyes as you drag the back of your wrist against your perspiring brow. “And I don’t care about your brother.”

The knight looks worse than he had the day before when he showed up in your workshed, but you’re not surprised by that fact. He spent the night in the woods, that much you’re certain of—not least of all because the nearest village is too far for him to have travelled their and back by midday. His hair is unkempt, his clothing rumpled like it’s been slept in, and the shadows under his eyes are darker, more severe than they had been the night prior—though perhaps their stark contrast is just more evident in the light of day.

At his waist, Osamu’s hand rests lightly upon on the hilt of his sword, but it seems more instinctive than threatening given the way his fingers are slack. There’s a frustrated furrow in his brow that deepens in the wake of your words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yer the only one who can help him.”

“No, I’m the only witch your king hasn’t culled,” you parry. “There’s a difference.”

Osamu’s lips pull into a thin line. “So you admit it.”

You blink.

You suppose this is the first time you’ve confirmed his accusation. The first time you’ve admitted to your truth. It wasn't so much a slip of the tongue as it was an inevitability.

“It does me little good to say anything otherwise,” you respond, unshaken by his observation. “You need me to be a witch. As you’ve made clear: your brother’s fate relies on it. The help you hope for me to provide to you is all that’s keeping that sword in its sheath.”

The knight’s fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his weapon at your mention of it, as though becoming conscious for the first time of its weight against his hip.

But it’s not strictly true, what you’ve said, and you both know it.

There’s one other option Osamu has available to him—one other cure to heal what ails his beloved brother—and it very much requires the use of his sword.

Witches have been driven to near extinction now—every coven you’ve ever known to inhabit this kingdom wiped out in their entirety—with little more to prove they ever existed but your own fleeting memory of them.

The only pieces of them worth saving were their hearts.

There’s a reason why witches have forever been hunted for them—a reason why the king’s knights would cleave them out before their bodies were burned. The hearts of your kind have long been coveted by men for the residual magic that they hold. Even when a witch dies, her heart will keep beating, though only for a short while, and to possess a witch’s heart while it still beats—however faintly—will bring luck to the one who possesses it. It can cure any ailment, or end any drought, or even turn the tides of a battle.

Those hearts and the promises that they assured were worth more to glory hungry men than the lives of the witches they rightfully belonged to.

You feel a white hot flash of anger roll through the pit of your stomach like a violent tide at the thought of it, digging your fingers deep into the soil below you to find comfort. You stare up at the man above you, no different from any of the rest of them, and your eyes narrow resentfully. You clutch dirt by the fistful.

“All the hearts the crown has ripped from witches over the past two hundred odd years, and to what end?” you ask him, disdain dripping thick and venomous from every word. “The fortune of a trophied heart is fleeting, their power fades with every passing beat until eventually the pulse stops altogether. Your king knew that, and he chose to pillage them regardless. That old bastard was born with the world in his hand, yet he hoarded those spoils for himself—wasted them—only to die, like all mortal men do, and leave the rest of you behind to suffer for it.”

“Hold yer tongue,” Osamu warns you sharply, his lip curling in time with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. “How dare ya speak ill of the late king.”

“Why defend a man who left his country in ruins?” you goad him further, twisting the knife you’ve managed to wedge between the plates of his composure’s already straining armour. “A man who stripped his kingdom of its greatest resource—of the lives dedicated to the keeping of this land—and left his infant son to take a throne he drove into the ground with his greed. A son I’m sure has grown into just as pitiful a ruler as his father.”

The knight’s sword glints in the sunlight as it’s quickly drawn. The sound of the finely honed blade scraping against the sheath is almost pleasant; surprisingly delicate in its own way, even in its violence.

You kneel beneath Osamu in the glare of the all-seeing sun, the point of his blade held level at your throat.

“Don’t say another word against King Shinsuke,” the man hisses, and much like the first time you mentioned his brother by name, it seems you’ve struck a tender nerve.

You don’t flinch, but your eyes do flicker down towards the garden beds.

A tense moment passes with his steady sword resting just beneath your chin.

“You’re stepping on my spearmint.”

Osamu’s gaze follows yours down to his feet in surprise, to where his left boot treads upon a small mint plant. He inches his foot back slightly, almost without thinking, after you point it out. Some of the outer leaves are bruised, but you’re fairly certain the plant will still survive.

A breeze rolls in from the east, rushing through the blades of grass and rows of plants until it lifts the sleeve of your shirt as it passes like a kiss from the sea. You find it comforting. Reassuring.

Osamu speaks again.

“I could just take it, y’know.”

You don’t need him to clarify what it he speaks of.

What’s strange to you isn't the threat he utters, but rather that the words were spoken so quietly they were very nearly lost in the passing breeze. Part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows he uttered them aloud at all, or if they were merely one final fervent encouragement to steel his own resolve. You look up at him, and see his eyes are burning with insistence—wild in their hopelessness.

His expression is grave, remorseful almost. “I’ve got no other choice.”

Ah.

The final fraying morality of a desperate man.

“Good luck,” you say to him. You still meet his gaze without flinching. His sword is still pointed at your throat. “You’ll have to find it first.”

Confusion flashes behind those frantic grey eyes, and then creeps in the horrified realization.

At the tree line in the distance, a raven takes off from the highest bough of an old oak tree with a piercing caw.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, but his voice is tight and unconvincing—almost like you can hear the bile creeping up his throat. You wonder if he’s saying it in hopes of persuading you or himself.

You lift your shoulders in a dispassionate shrug, reaching up towards the neckline of your blouse. “Would you like to check?”

It’s quiet for a moment as you wait for a reply you know will never come.

Behind the knight’s own rigid shoulders, the soaring raven swoops down into the treetops out of sight.

“You cut it out yourself,” he finally breathes, your finger pausing where it’s looped underneath your collar. His expression clearly conveys the disgust he feels at the very premise.

You drop your hand, swiping your dirty fingers on the thighs of your trousers in a lazy attempt to clean them.

“I thought I ought to beat a man like you to it.”

The knight before you looks like he might be physically ill, a sallow hue overtaking his skin that wasn’t there a moment prior. You’re not sure you entirely blame him for the revulsion, considering what he must be thinking—considering the vile things he must be picturing in his mind. The image of you harvesting your heart from the cavern of your chest; the idea of you holding it—beating and bloody and hot to the touch—in your own hand.

Your gaze hardens with renewed contempt.

“I watched my people be massacred for their hearts," you tell him. "I watched knights just like you drag them in front of crowds, tie them onto stakes, and burn them for a spectacle. An immolation that the king—the one whose precious memory you stand here and defend with that sword—presided over like a jubilee,” your voice threatens to waver, but you keep it even as you stand. Osamu’s blade follows you as you lift yourself up to your feet—but his wrist is limper now than it was when he first drew it. Weakened. You swallow back the bitter taste creeping up your throat. “If not for my mother, I would undoubtedly have been among those lost, and I swore to myself that if it was the last thing I did—the only thing I ever did—I would never let my own heart suffer the same fate.”

Osamu lowers his arm to his side, his blade withdrawn.

You meet each other, eye to eye, but there’s no doubt now who stands as victor.

“Kill me if you want to,—” you tell him, your tone indifferent to the very challenge you make on your own life.

From deep in the forest, you hear the raven’s caw once more—the shrill cry of a predator catching its prey. The knight’s head turns slightly towards the sound, just the subtlest tilt of his face in the direction, but yours doesn't.

Your eyes don’t leave his.

“—What’s one more dead witch atop the grave of hundreds?”

He considers you for a moment in silence, and then slowly he sheaths his lowered weapon.

He turns his back to you, and your eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders as he retreats in the direction of the forest from whence he’d appeared.

“I will not help you, no matter how many times you seek me here. If your brother's days are numbered as you say, save your efforts and return to him.”

Osamu pauses, a few furrows away from you in the lush green of your garden.

He's unnervingly still for a moment, still facing towards the forest, but then he turns to you once more.

His eyes are supplicating—no trace of the anger or the malice they’d held moments before. His voice is soft when he speaks again.

“I’ll give ya anythin’ you ask in exchange for yer help. Anythin’.”

You laugh, but the sound is acerbic like the taste clinging to your tongue. The chill in your voice stands in stark juxtaposition to the gentle warmth of the early summer day surrounding you.

“There’s nothing on earth that you could give me that could ever make up for the things your kingdom took away.”

Osamu’s face falls, but he nods almost imperceptibly. It catches you by surprise, that seeming resignation—acceptance—to the only answer you offer him.

Wordlessly, the knight turns and continues towards the trees.

He doesn’t tread on any of your sprouting crops as he departs.

#osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #hq fic #hq writing #writing #tws

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hexagonspress · 1 year

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BE by tothewillofthepeople

Grantaire is earnest in this, and it’s heartbreaking. Enjolras can’t look away. This is just a rehearsal. Grantaire is still wearing skinny jeans. They have lights and phones and textual analysis and thousands of years of history between now and then and yet– When Grantaire speaks, the distance collapses. (Grantaire as Hamlet.)

Title: Middle Ages Deco Headers/Accents: Letter Gothic Standard Body text: Adobe Caslon Pro Case title: Goudy Initialen

38,667 words | 224 pages

Binderary book 1: a long-favourite EXR fic. I love wild Les Mis AUs and I love Shakespeare and this is all of that in such a lovely lovely form. Stage manager Enjolras is inspired. Also, I've been frothing at the mouth to use my special blackletter fonts and go suuuper overboard designing and this was Perfect for that purpose.

More pictures/design/process under the cut.

Design and Construction Case: Flat-back case binding with bradel board covers and spine. The spine cloth is Hollander's pearl linen in charcoal grey. The painted titles were done in Amsterdam acrylic ink in silver, with a pair of scissors because I don't own a painting brush and likely never will. The cover papers are printed on 80gsm white printer paper and glued with a regular Elmer's glue stick and PVA on the turn-ins, and the whole case is sprayed with workable fixatif to (hopefully) preserve it longer-term.

Covers: The front and back covers were designed in Photoshop. The centre image is a William Morris pattern, and the top and bottom little circles are Renaissance printer's ornaments (pngs by the lovely @helle-bored of Renegade Bindery) that I vectorized in Illustrator (Illustrator and I were sworn enemies until this month. Now we're forced friends. Like enemies to lovers).

Insides: Endpapers are a William Morris pattern recoloured in Photoshop to be a richer green and red, obv, for EXR. Printed with inkjet on 80gsm printer paper and glued to gold cardstock, and sewn into the textblock. Endbands are pre-sewn from Hollanders, dyed gold with acrylic ink to match the endpapers.

Typesetting Typeset was done in InDesign. This is a one-shot with scene breaks, so to match the theatre theme of the piece I replaced the horizontal line breaks with flagged scene numbers. I tried to strike a balance in the typesetting between classic Shakespearean aesthetic with the blackletter drop caps and cover fonts versus what you might see in a theatre script book with the monospace accents. The title spread uses a transparent decorative frame, again from Helle's collection; the large box in the middle with the title was part of the original frame and then I duplicated and resized it for the author name and my imprint.

We All Do It, or, the Mistakes Section I somehow managed to print the cover papers nine inches tall and didn't see a problem with it until they came off the printer. Truly who knows how that happened. I was working on the case at two in the morning and cut the spine cloth the wrong length three separate times...earned the measure once cut twice badge big time for that one. The endpapers were an ordeal and a half for real. What I learned: print them too big and glue the cardstock to the back, then trim the paper to size, not the other way around otherwise you'll end up with big ugly gaps where the trimming was a few millimeters off. Whoops.

And...more pictures

I'm particularly pleased with how the covers here came out so here's closeups. Also, the arc on the spine that you can see in the endband on the last one is really pleasing to me lol I fought a war trying to get the flatback hinge calculations right.

#binderary2023 #les miserables #enjoltaire #bookbinding #fanbinding #kvothes #my books

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gingerhaole · 1 year

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Anthony gets distracted giving Ezra an after-hours trim ✂️❤️

#my art #good omens #scissor & ink au #crowley #aziraphale

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crashedintotheflipside · 17 days

Text

!?TUMBLR OVER AU LORD PERSONA VARIANT!?

Extra info:

•mostly used he/they/it

•The rising of overlords, and involvement of heaven and hell has put strain on star, causing his pupils to change, body being “inked” and decline in mental health/emotional balance

•isolated themselves at the beginning, watching his friends lose their soul to higher power or become consumed by high power.

•only leaves home for supplies or to pester the overlords on occasions (despite the risk of being in close proximity)

•Use half a scissors as a weapon thats been enchanted, no idea where the other half is at (note:weapon is bigger than a rolling pin)

•Antenna always glowing… always on alert…

•A few days into the madness, the wisdom flower had fallen ill, spark has been on search for cures since then, afraid to lose their only friend who isn’t own or an overlord.

•refuses to sell his soul.

#tumblr overlords #my art #my persona #tumblr overlord au

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booppooo · 2 years

Note

i love your writing! can u please do a modern au where ellie and fem!reader lay out on their house rooftop and stargaze being all cute n stuff and it ends with them going inside and ellie absolutely topping the reader? (in a gentle romantic way) :))

Oh Thank The Stars

AN: so cute so cute so cute. P.S. I'm officially a full time student so plz be patient <3

Warnings: scissoring, mild thigh-riding, swearing

(comment credits!)

"Wanna know another cool space fact?"

You giggled and ran your thumb over her knuckles lovingly, "Of course I do babe."

"Okay..." she thought for a beat, "A standard NASA spacesuit costs twelve million dollars."

"Really?"

"Yep. Hope you've been saving up 'cuz it's on my Christmas list."

With a scoff you elbowed her side and enjoyed her chuckle. Above you was a perfectly clear sky of brilliantly bright stars and an even more brilliant full moon. The temperature was just right - not too hot, not too cool, but enough to keep warm by holding hands and snuggling on a blanket upon the roof.

A delicate breeze rolled by and you could smell the pine trees and your flowerbed, along with Ellie's scent of the woods and eucalyptus. Her inked arm ushered your shoulders closer to her, humming in delight.

Beneath the speckled space you felt like your life had been completed: owning a home with Ellie, working the career your inner-child dreamt of, enjoying life to the fullest by stargazing. It was truly wonderful. Ellie would testify the same.

Thinking on it made you reach up and clasp your empty hands together, "Ellie," you shifted to meet her gaze, "We should try something new."

She wiggled her brow curiously, "Okay...what were you thinking?"

Even though you and Ellie had experimented pretty thoroughly sexually, there was still one thing that intrigued you, and the words to articulate what you wanted to convey seemed almost absurd and made you bite your lip nervously.

"Anal?" She half-joked, you both knew it was off the table for the most part.

"No!" You laughed, "I talked to a few of our friends about it and they said it's sort of hard."

She narrowed her jade eyes in concentration as if to read your thoughts, then it struck her, "Scissoring?"

Even though she was spot on, you still tried to beat around the bush because of your self-doubting nerves, "I-I mean ye-yeah-"

"Babe," she held your hands tighter, "We should definitely try it."

Both of you lifted from the blanket and packed up your small star-gazing picnic on the roof. Carefully, Ellie slipped through the second story window and securely helped you through the portal, making sure to squeeze your hip as you made it through. The snacks, drinks, and blanket could wait for Ellie to finish with you; she hooked an arm around your hips and guided your lips to her's by her palm upon your neck.

As always her lips were savory and alluring. Each kiss had you coming back for a second or a third until her tongue was swirling around yours and her grip on your hips was making you grind against her jeans. She knew you so well. Knew what made you whine and buzz with pleasure, how you liked to be kissed and licked. Ellie always sold herself when she was in charge.

On the bed she had you accompanying the pillows and slotted her knee between your thighs. A familiar, delicious heat was making your groin slick and your nipples taught with want.

As if it were routine, her hands explored beneath your shirt to tease at your stiffened peaks and make you squirm like a child on the verge of a tantrum. But you weren't going to sit back and take it all.

"Ellie...c'mon," you managed to plead through her tongue and kisses, fumbling with the button on her jeans.

She chuckled, "Damn girl," and gave your chest one last squeeze before pulling away.

With just as much fervor as her you removed your bottoms and giggled through the whole process (especially when Ellie's impossibly tight jeans got stuck around her ankle and she spent a good two minutes trying to yank them off). But once that barrier had been crossed you grappled her back against you and secured your lips onto hers.

Once again, her thigh found a place against your - now bare - center. This time you hooked your arm behind her neck and pressed yourself against her muscle, beginning to spread your warm slick. The excitement of what was to come made your nerves feel that much more alert, your cunt anticipating the moment and overcompensating for it by being hyper-sensitive and practically oozing in wetness.

It would be safe to assume Ellie felt the same because one of her hands had a solid grip on your hip and was encouraging you along her propped thigh. Meanwhile, your mind grew fuzzy, your lips were swollen, and Ellie was leaving a sexy trail of purple along your collarbone and chest.

And as much as you loved the foreplay, yet again you found yourself wanting to cut the shit, "Ellie, honey, please. I-I..."

Pulling away, she met your glossy eyes with a playful, though prideful smirk and urged the process along.

After some shifting, Ellie's gaze shot from where your groin's met to your eyes, "You-uh-you ready babe? Let me know how it feels."

"Yes, please. Just don't over do it, okay?"

"Sure." She nodded, her line of sight landing back on the task at hand.

The first few maneuvers were awkward with some pings of pleasure here and there, but soon you both got a very loose idea of it. You were determined to make this work and so most of your time was spent panting through the stimulation and moans - more often than not it was worth it.

"Fuck...oh my god you're so wet, Jesus." Ellie huffed, a faint sweat breaking above her thick brows, "How's that feel babe?"

Her words got lost in the pleasure muffled sea that was your brain, until finally they clicked, and even then words failed you, "So... fuck - just yes." "Yeah?" "Yes."

Then Ellie scooped up your leg closest to her. She locked an arm around it and pressed herself harder against you, your ankle resting above her shoulder. For leverage her other hand was gripping the sheets behind her and all of her strength was being used to get the perfect angle to grind against you.

"How's that fuckin' feel? Huh? Look at you. You're about to fuckin' cum aren't you? Yeah." Her ego was inflated a disgusting amount, but that didn't bother you one bit, if anything if fueled the impending-orgasm fire within your naval.

With all you energy channeled into your hips, you let your upper body collapse against the pillows and left your hands to grip the sheets for stability. The burn grew hotter and stronger and left your brain a frazzled, stimulated mush.

"Ellie," you panted with what strength you had, "Oh god-"

Then you left the work for her as your orgasm ripped all strength from you. Her arm still keeping your leg flush against her torso, clumsily rocking her hips against yours in just the right way, some dirty talk still grumbling from her but never to be processed by you.

And once yours started to die down, Ellie's had reached its peak, meaning your clit and groin were being used for her own gain and left you over-stimulated, twitching, whining.

Her brownish-reddish hair was damp around her hairline from sweat and stuck to her face as her head lolled back and her face scrunched in euphoria. With a few shaky pants you knew the kind of stimulation roaring through her veins and so you let your body twitch and zing.

Finally, everything settled. Ellie flopped beside you and you both were gasping for air. Though you couldn't physically feel it, you knew your hearts were beating rhythmically as one and similar thoughts were pushing through your minds. Lovingly, you crawled your hand over and lazily intertwined your fingers, just to feel her again.

Still staring at the ceiling, Ellie rasped, "...so?"

A few heavy breaths later you answered, "I liked it. A lot."

You could feel her smiling, "Good. Me too."

#ellie the last of us #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #ellie x you

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skeleton-mischief · 1 month

Text

Ink Sans

Hey, pay attention now! The creator, your savior, is here. He has been waiting for you...

(Headcanons below)

- Official Height: 5'5

- He/They/It

- Follows theism, he must fulfill his duty to the true creators

- Friends with Many AU Sanses, or at least acquainted with them

- The God of Creativity, he is the physical embodiment of motivating artists and creativity to create AU's, AT's, etc

- He has mutual hate but respect for Error

- Easily Forgetful due to his multiple trips through AU's, Timelines, etc

- Very lonely, he has mostly hollow friendships

- Dreams of other versions of him, but he can never find them

- Very touchy, he doesn't care to respect those boundaries and they even push boundaries

- Good friends with Red, somehow

- Talks to himself out of loneliness sometimes

- He envies genuine connections that others have

- Magic smells of paint, magic tastes of skittles

- Brutally honest

- AuDHD

- He likes dogs and cats, any animal really

- Loves to twirl and do tricks with his paintbrush, dances with it

- His paintbrush is extremely light to him, but heavy to others

- Accidently teleports inside Nightmare's goop once and it was fucking terrifying

- Soulless, only Fresh and Error know that he doesn't have an actual soul

- Laughs at inappropriate times, he doesn't know how to react to things sometimes

- Doesn't curse often, but will use 'shit' often

- Highly flexible and acrobatic

- Sometimes interacts with other Sanses but it's strangely off-putting and intense, he has an off putting energy

- Highly devoted to Creators and Fate, scarily loyal and worshipping towards them. He must do what they intend from him, even if that means being truly neutral

- His kindness can be sincere, but it's rare. He has manipulated others with his kindness to further please the Creators, and his kindness often is unsettling

- Incapable of dying, he is the only one that can truly face Error

- His vials are his emotions, and without them he doesn't experience anything. It is unknown how he gets those vials and how they are restocked

- He carries a pair of scissors and uses them sometimes when he's caught in Error's string

- Erratic, unsettling, playful, confident, honest, perceptive, controlling, manipulative, social, self efficient, loud, nosy, individualistic, curious, dedicated, impatient, intelligent, creative, stubborn, and theatrical

- When he drinks his vials, he tends to also have a shift in appearance despite it being subtle. His eyes go to a shade of color his vials are and his expression will shift. Small details like his body language, his form of talking, etc will change

- He grows apathetic, monotonous, and more harsh without his vials. He gets like this near others, his way of even laughing sounding empty as if a husk is mimicking him

- He aims for mistakes and encourages it for creators only because he finds it perfect. They can do no wrong, even if some things are what he dislikes

- He hates when anyone tries to disrupt an AU, often masking it with a positive attitude and forcefully stopping them even if they're dangerous

- He easily can switch between emotions, especially when drinking more than one in a certain order. For example, he can drink a blue vile and then a yellow one, helping him transition between what he feels. The reason he doesn't drink them often near others is because he likes to appear "normal"

- He aims for perfection from others and despises any creator being disrupted, often dragging the issue away. He loves creativity, but that means also disrupting something to make sure his creators are happy

- He always has something slightly off about him, despite being a wonderful actor of sorts. Even when happy, he's just- different

- He hates being called out, especially hates if they're confronted about something he's masking

- He isn't afraid to lie to get his way, it isn't capable of feeling that guilty for long

- They can only be themselves when alone or if he's deeply connected with someone; which is nearly impossible

- He can never deceive Error, even if he tries it sometimes. Error is one of the every few to openly degrade him and in turn Ink finds ways to degrade Error

- A storyteller, he knows almost everything about each AU. He often isn't shy enough to drop lore here and there, watching acutely throughout each form of the multiverse

- He was created as an "adult" so he never had a childhood, but he has a backstory. He can't remember it, but they have drawn themselves without really thinking about it

- It has no defined age, stat, hp, defense, or LV simply due to not having a soul

- They quote a lot of things since he loves obsessively watching shows, AU's, etc

- Due to his lack of fear, he's extremely risky and impulsive. He'll just laugh and jump right in

- He grows fidgety, annoyed, and impatient when things don't go at a pace he's satisfied with

- Even if he's impatient, he's hard to actually piss off. A part of it is because he's so erratic and hard to read

- Stupidly has good balance, it's overall just weird how well he has the balance he has

- Paints and sketches regularly, no form of art is favored over the other

- Often seen with the same outfit, but he loves changing it up at times

- Loves to be in small spaces when needing comfort, often shifting his body in ways to fit inside because it doesn't remind him of the void - where nothing is present

- Hates empty spaces and lacks of creativity

- He's only motivated for what's right for the AU's or himself

- Can be extremely selfish and childish, but often his goals align with "good." He has helped the Bad Guys occasionally though

- It's hard for him to feel pain, since his pain receptors are all fucked up. He can be heavily injured and not realize it or even feel it unless he's worn out and loses/losing a battle against another "God"

- It's hard for him to hate someone, but he can heavily dislike them. If he chose who to hate the most, it would definitely be Error

- He has been childish in worse ways than possible, often helping creators make new AU's despite the cramped space. Sure, the multiverse is beyond humongous, but it only can handle so much before colliding other worlds together and even destroying those worlds. He and Error have overlapping goals, and only rarely will they work together since they're such opposite skeletons

- He loves to mock and mess with Error the most, especially when they battle despite neither one being able to die. Ink can get just as cocky as Error, and in fact loves to provoke Error

- Their vials can only do so much, as they can only temporarily fill in space for an emotion that one with a soul has. It can form in the shape of what's meant to be a soul in the color of the vial, but it's never permanent

- He'll often stare at others for long periods of time, usually in an obvious manner as he looks at them and their soul. He doesn't feel the need to blink, so it can be unsettling

- When his vials give him the illusion of having a soul, he will often cradle it and stare at it for long periods of time

- He never can run out of liquid inside of his vials, but they can break and this leaves him without that emotion until he fixes it through a long process

- He is willing to experience any emotion, as he just wants to feel it. He can optionally not have any at all, but it's rare he chooses that

- Narcotics do not affect him in any way

- Has an obsessed curiosity for humans, who he knows are capable of creating worlds. It's only the authors, the artists, he actively obsesses over

- Does not view creators or players as 'simply' human, but rather beyond gods themselves

- Adores having marker or paint on him

- Has a Doodle Sphere where time is slowed down and no one can reach him

- It struggles trying to find ways social skills work, especially since each universe has it's own standards

- Steals food and other trinkets from universes even if he has no need to eat

- Occasionally speaks French or Latin

- Does not understand gender roles, but they will wear more masculine and androgynous outfits with the occasional fem

- On the aroace spectrum, especially since being a God means that other things are too important

- STRUGGLES reading and writing

Closing Notes: He's so-.....GUAH. I actually didn't care much for them growing up, but I think that they're an interesting character deserving of exploration

#headcanon #undertale au #alternate universe #underverse #utmv #utmv au #ink sans #ink #he is bbg #hes so silly #i want to squish him #throw him like a splat toy #mwah mwah

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