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hcneymooners · 10 days ago

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⋆ down and out, you got me beggin' for thread.

milf!landlord!ambessa x oblivious!f!reader. men & minors dni. synopsis: in your defense, you just thought she was being an attentive landlord. and then the dinner happened. cw: landlord!ambessa, milf!ambessa, oblivious!reader, age difference, older woman/younger woman, domination, dom/sub, dom!ambessa, sub!reader, ambessa puts you in your place i fear, sweet!reader, oral sex, cunnilingus (ambessa!receiving), bessa has a clit hood piercing whoops, face riding, vaginal fingering (r!receiving), overstimulation, strength kink, praise kink, rough body play, reader is large-chested, cfnf (clothed female, naked female), crawling, kneeling, hair pulling, dirty talk, flirting, seduction, ambessa clocking your shit, she ain't new to this but she's true to this & she's gonna wear you out. notes: i have nothing to say for myself.

in your defense, you just thought she was committed to being a really lovely landlord.

you’d been somewhat isolated from the rest of your neighbors in the condominium, having moved in late and missed all the arranged social activities. they regarded you as a strange little creature—thick hair in an unruly shock, a mouth so full it seemed perpetually pouting. work kept you coming home late most nights, shoes in hand as you climbed the wooden stairs quietly, mindful of the many elderly residents whose comfort you took care not to disturb.

you lived alone, a choice that often worried your family but one you adored. walking through your door to complete silence, greeted by the heavy coffee-and-baby-powder smoke of your newest candle, made it easier to disassociate from whatever unhappiness followed you in from the world outside.

you’d made no effort to distinguish yourself among the residents. even moving in had been a seamless affair—a blur of efficiency as six absurdly lanky movers wrestled your antique french pieces (all dark wood) through the narrow doorway, your winces punctuating every scrape against the walls.

the flat was small but sweetened undeniably by your touch. the floor plan alone had elicited a stifled gasp of horror from your father when you’d sent it to him during a call—confirmation, if you needed it, that you’d made the right choice. your bedroom, however, was the crown jewel.

it was your favorite indulgence, an unapologetic display of your heart & taste, and just a touch of impracticality. the mirrored wall behind the bed was its most divisive feature, reflecting the soft, amber glow of the lamps into endless repetitions of warmth. your father would have grimaced if he saw it, muttering something about "too much light bouncing around," but to you, it felt decadent.

the bed, wide and heavy, was dressed in pale linens with a subtle fringe that seemed to collect light like dew. it was the kind of bed that swallowed you whole, that made you linger in the mornings even when you couldn’t afford to. you’d agonized over the exact shade when choosing the bedding—anything too dark would have clashed with the mirrored nightstands, which were precariously balanced between timeless and ostentatious.

the carpeting was thick enough to mute every footstep, though the faded champagne hue had long since been out of fashion. still, you loved it, the way it dulled the room’s sharper edges. a chandelier hung overhead, small but undeniably glamorous, its crystals catching the light like a handful of stolen stars.

t wasn’t a large room by any means, but it didn’t need to be. it was yours, unmistakably so, and that was enough.

so, of course, it would be the first thing to fall prey to maintenance.

the first drip was forgivable. pipes groaned in older buildings, after all, and you were nothing if not patient. the second drip came faster, followed by the slow, insidious spread of water along the grout of your ensuite floor. you pressed your palm to your forehead, sighed, and stared at the mirror, still smudged from a half-hearted cleaning spree earlier in the week. the bathroom had charm—aged brass fixtures, a vintage vanity—but that charm was waning fast as the puddle grew.

it was past midnight, but you decided you had no choice. wrapping your robe tighter around your waist, you picked up your phone and dialed the number your landlord’s assistant—did they all have assistants?— had given you at move-in, cringing as it rang.

“do you know what time it is?” ambessa’s voice came through, low and sharp, cutting through your groggy apology before you could finish.

“yes, and i’m so sorry, ms. medarda,” you rushed out, cradling the phone against your ear as you stepped around the puddle. “it’s just—there’s a leak, and it’s spreading. i didn’t want to call maintenance without your permission, but honestly, i think the bathroom could use some updating while we’re at it—”

“where’s the leak?” she interrupted.

“in the ensuite. just off the bedroom.”

a pause, long enough to make you nervous. “i’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

you blinked. “oh, no, that’s not—”

the line clicked dead.

true to her word, ambessa arrived twenty minutes later, sharp knocks echoing through your quiet flat. you’d changed into your cotton pajamas by then—a soft rosy brown set with little embroidered daisies, complete with a matching sleep mask pushed up into your hair. billie holiday crooned softly from your record player as you opened the door, clutching your robe around you and smiling sheepishly.

ambessa was the kind of beautiful that made you forget yourself. she filled your doorway as if she belonged there, her broad shoulders wrapped in a perfectly tailored coat that hung just so, framing her with an air of command. the silver threading her tight, thick cornrows caught the dim light, lending her a sharpness that bordered on regal, and her eyes—dark, unyielding—pinned you in place without even trying.

you noticed the subtle tension in her jaw, the way her gloves creaked faintly as she pulled them off with deliberate care, and for a moment, you felt ridiculous in your thin pajamas and mask pushed askew on your forehead.

she was all clean lines and control, the kind of presence that demanded your full attention, and you were too overwhelmed to do anything but offer her a stammered “hello” as if she hadn’t just marched into your space and stolen all the air.

“thank you for coming, ms. medarda,” you said, stepping around her to close the door. “god, you must be freezing. would you like some tea? or something else that’s warm?”

ambessa’s eyes swept over you briefly—taking in the retro pajamas, the faint scent of your cucumber tea steeping on the stove—before she stepped inside, her boots clicking against the hardwood.

“let’s see the damage first. and just ambessa is fine.”

she was taller than you’d thought, filling the space of your small flat with an effortless command. you trailed behind her as she followed the faint sound of dripping into the ensuite.

“it’s outdated,” you offered nervously, watching her crouch to inspect the base of the sink. “i mean, charming, but maybe too charming? i wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with renovations, so i didn’t want to call anyone until i asked you first.”

ambessa straightened, the corners of her mouth tugging upward just slightly.

“that’s sweet of you. do what you'd like.”

you blinked at her. “oh. okay! that’s—so nice of you. i didn’t expect you to be so—” you caught yourself. “i mean, i really appreciate it.” she gave you a long look, something unreadable in her expression, before brushing past you back into the kitchen.

“you don’t have groceries,” she noted, her gaze falling on the empty fridge as you scrambled to tidy up.

“i have emergency pasta,” you said quickly, pulling out a box of whole-wheat spaghetti. “and cucumber tea. if you’re hungry, i can make something—it’s the least i can do.”

ambessa didn’t argue, though the arch of her brow suggested she wasn’t accustomed to being offered emergency pasta at one in the morning. you served her a steaming bowl and poured her tea into your favorite ceramic mug, rambling nervously about how you’d heard through maddie of 44b that her daughter was an artist.

she stayed just long enough to finish the tea, her presence heavy and warm in the quiet of your kitchen, before nodding once and heading out.

“call if it gets worse before the workers get here,” she said gruffly, her hand on the doorknob.

the next evening, you came home to several paper bags of groceries neatly stacked by your door, the scent of fresh pink peonies wafting up as you picked them up. you smiled, setting the flowers on the counter next to the dying ones your mum had sent last week.

this place is so lovely, you thought, unpacking the groceries. the tenants are so well taken care of.

your coworkers didn’t believe a word of it when you told them about ambessa the next day.

“she's sweet on you,” one of them said, shaking their head.

“no, she’s just attentive,” you insisted. “maternal, even. she told me all about her daughter!”

they exchanged knowing looks, and you laughed it off, already planning to send ambessa a thank-you card for the flowers.

❅

you’d gone overboard, but what else were you to do? gratitude came naturally to you, maybe too much so, but how else could you thank someone who had quietly made your life so much easier?

the cookies sat cooling on the counter, golden and soft with just the right crisp at the edges. their sweetness filled the air, blending with the candle you’d chosen—rich sandalwood and rose. it was warm and grounding, just like her. you couldn’t explain why it reminded you of ambessa, only that it did.

maybe it was the way the scent lingered, heavy and grounding. stronger than you. your toes curled as you imagined her voice rumbling low, praising your thoughtfulness.

the basket had become a small labor of love. you’d lined it with a cream linen napkin embroidered with tiny vines, each stitch as deliberate as your careful arrangement of the contents. the cookies rested in one corner, their warm scent still faintly clinging to the fabric, and the candle nestled beside them, a handwritten note tucked just so: “thank you for everything. your kindness means the world.”

you’d agonized over the wording for longer than you cared to admit, erasing, rewriting, and second-guessing every line before deciding it was small enough to be safe, heartfelt enough to feel honest.

your phone buzzed where it leaned precariously against a jar of flour, the screen alight with your sisters’ faces. their voices were lively and full of mischief, the kind that made you want to laugh and groan all at once.

“wait, wait, wait,” one of them said, holding up a dramatic hand to cut through the chatter. “groceries, flowers, a new faucet, and she expedited your laundry machine?”

“and called you sweet,” another chimed in, her eyebrows wiggling in mockery.

“and showed up herself in the middle of the night,” your mother added from the background, folding laundry with a knowing smile.

“again,” your father said dryly, his voice carrying a weight of exaggerated patience.

“it’s not like that,” you protested, though your cheeks flushed. you fiddled with the bow on the basket, unable to meet their eyes. “she’s just… thoughtful. i’m sure she does this for all her tenants.”

your eldest sister laughed, the sound of sharp disbelief that made you want to sink into the floor. “baby, she’s courting you.”

“she is not!” you exclaimed, though the wobble in your voice betrayed you.

“oh, please,” another sister cut in, leaning so close to the camera you could see the shimmer of her eyeshadow. “and you’re wearing that outfit to ‘just thank her’?”

you glanced down, your lips tugging between your teeth. the dress wasn’t exactly subtle. it was black with a scatter of delicate flowers, vintage couture that hugged your waist before flaring just slightly. the neckline dipped low, displaying your cleavage warmed by a healthy amount of body oil, and framed by playful ruffles and slim straps that skimmed your shoulders. it was bolder than you’d usually wear, but you’d told yourself it wasn’t intentional. not really.

your jewelry was simple: a thin gold chain, just enough to catch the light, and small hoops that didn’t overpower the dress. your hair was loose, soft, and shiny in a way you tried not to fuss over, though you’d tucked one side behind your ear so many times it had become a nervous habit.

“god help me,” your father muttered in the background, shaking his head with exaggerated weariness.

you stuck your tongue out at him before signing off, their teasing still echoing in your ears as you slipped out the door.

❅

the basket was warm in your hands, the evening air crisp against your skin as you made your way to ambessa’s flat.

when she opened the door, her expression softened in a way that sent your pulse skittering. she looked… comfortable in a v-neck sweater and soft sweatpants, yet undeniably commanding. her gaze flicked to the basket, then back to you, a smile tugging at her lips.

“i brought this to thank you,” you said, holding out the basket. “for the groceries and the flowers and everything. you’ve been so kind in taking care of me, and i didn’t want to let that go unnoticed.”

ambessa’s lips curved, just barely, and she stepped aside to let you in.

“you didn’t have to do that,” she said, her voice low and steady, but there was something in her tone—something soft beneath the steel. almost affectionate. “lord knows this has to be your eighth one.”

her flat was not what you expected.

it was spacious, sleek, and surprisingly modern, yet somehow still warm. the scent of cedar lingered in the air, layered with something citrusy and clean. dark leather furniture anchored the space, and bookshelves lined one wall. there were other hints of personality tucked in the corners: a golden tray brimming with jewelry, a small tray of perfumes that looked antique, and a faint scent of something savory wafting from the kitchen.

“you’ve been keeping them,” you said, surprised, your gaze landing on the basket you’d left earlier in the week.

“i like them,” she replied simply, pouring you a glass of wine. “you have good taste.”

you laughed softly, smoothing your hands over your dress.

“i found it at a farmers’ market. i miss going so much.”

“there’s one in the next town over,” she said, her tone so casual you almost missed the implication. “we could go this weekend.”

your lips parted in surprise, a laugh bubbling up. “it’s three hours away.”

“and?” she countered, one brow arching in amusement.

she motioned toward the dining table, where two plates were already set.

“i hope you’re hungry.”

❅

ambessa had made a hearty stew, rich and flavorful, served with warm bread that you couldn’t stop tearing into. you’d expected something simple and utilitarian, but the care she’d put into the meal surprised you. the food was rich and delicious, her hands moving with practiced ease as she served you.

“this is incredible,” you said, closing your eyes as you took another bite. “i don’t even want to know how long it took you to make this. it’s perfect.”

ambessa watched you, her gaze slightly hungry, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

“i’m glad you like it.”

you talked easily as you ate, though you couldn’t shake the way her attention lingered on you—penetrating but not unwelcome like she was studying you. the conversation drifted into quieter territory as the night went on. you’d almost forgotten what your family had said earlier—almost. but then, as the wine warmed your cheeks, the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“my family,” you said, voice light with embarrassment, “they were saying you were courting me. that you have designs to snatch me up.”

her gaze didn’t waver. “and if i do?”

your heart stumbled, and you choked. the air felt charged, the quiet hum of the flat suddenly deafening. you met her gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt.

“i was…” you swallowed hard, your voice softer now. “i was only joking.”

ambessa’s smile was slow, deliberate, and devastating.

“i don’t think you were. i mean you came here all dressed up for me,” she said, standing with a fluid grace that left you breathless. “tits practically begging for my mouth. so, joking? no. teasing? yes.”

when she crossed the space between you, there was no hesitation. her hand brushed your cheek, and she gripped your jaw tightly.

“all night,” she said lowly, “you’ve been moaning over your food. i wonder, do you make the same noises in bed?”

you flushed, skin warm and tingling.

“i—”

“and,” she cut you off, “do you eat the same way?”

she thumbed over your bottom lip, pinching it and then releasing it to watch the blood pool.

“you seem so hungry.”

your legs squeezed together beneath the table, your neck straining as you looked up at her. her eyes narrowed as she tilted your head back, idly bringing up her other hand to feel you swallow. seemingly satisfied she stepped back, freeing you as she moved back toward where she was sitting.

struggling to calm your breathing, you watched as she dragged the char back to where you sat and arranged it several inches away from you. casually, as if you weren’t dripping across from her, she lowered herself and spread her legs open. your gaze focused on the space between them, imagining yourself fitting perfectly within.

“[name],” she murmured. “look at me.”

you did.

“are you full?” you shook your head, hands clutching at your thighs. “mmm. would you like a taste, sweet girl?”

you shuddered and closed your eyes, biting the inside of your cheek to remain composed.

“yes. please.”

“come here.”

you rose, anxious to please, but she stopped you with a raised brow.

“no. crawl.”

you balked, warmth spreading down your neck and into your stomach. she shifted in irritation.

“i’m not going to ask you again.”

carefully, you lowered yourself to your hands and knees making sure to arch your back so that your ass rose behind you like some erotic phase of the moon. ambessa watched as you began to slink forward, two fingers coming together to further push down the band of her sweatpants. by the time you made it to her feet, she’d done away with them altogether.

her cunt sat pretty and fat, lips winking in arousal beneath the soft thicket of black and silver curls. it was veiled by a gorgeous triangle of deep purple lace, the fabric darkened further by her wetness. she was so beautiful, so delicious that your mouth began to water.

you shuffled forward, placing a hand on her calf to steady yourself as you nosed at her inner thigh. she smelled thick and musky here, her clit gleaming at you as if a pearl in an oyster. it was a little large, but you didn’t mind. you found it as perfect as the rest of her.

tucking your legs beneath you, you settled down and laid your head on one of her open legs. silently you asked permission, your eyes wide and pleading—a bit puppyish. she curled a hand underneath your chin and leaned forward, coaxing a kiss from your lips.

you mewled and clung to her, pressing into her hold as you returned the kiss. she laughed meanly into your mouth and pulled back, slouching so that you had more space to conduct your task. you leaned forward, eager, only to be stopped yet again.

“please,” you whispered and she made a noncommittal noise, giving you a considering look.

“just a moment, little one.”

you furrowed your brow as she leaned forward again, this time with lower. with a rough, hard tug she yanked your neckline down so that your tits spilled full and plush into her palm. with a satisfied groan, she groped them, thumbing at your nipples till they strained into the pads of her fingertips. then, she pulled back and reassumed her position.

“leave them out.”

you grew hotter at the command, nodding quickly. finally, she nodded and you let out a little moan of excitement. you should’ve gone slower and taken your time, but god you were starved.

almost immediately, you tugged the fabric of her panties aside and licked a wide stripe up her pussy. she tasted ripe, sweet then slightly bitter, like a grapefruit, and you moaned into her.

“oh, fuck,” ambessa sighed and you nuzzled further into her.

the flat echoed with the wet sounds of your consumption of her, your mouth suctioning around her pussy to apply pressure. to your surprise the hood of her clit was pierced, a small ruby nestled comfortably atop it.

after a moment, you abandoned your initial plan to move further down, tongue gliding between her fat folds where the slick current of her arousal glittered like a jewel. you pointed your tongue and wedged it deep inside her, lifting a hand to drift along her defined stomach.

“mmmhmm,” she said, voice thin as she canted her hips. “just like that. you’re doing so well, sweet girl.”

the praise lit you up from the inside out, and you lapped at her with renewed energy. her hips bucked harder and a strong hand came to root itself in your hair. in response, you lowered both hands to the floor to steady yourself as you allowed her to control your movements.

“such a good girl. so eager to eat this cunt. so eager to please me, hmm?”

“uh huh,” you answered, the words muffled by her sopping pussy.

the vibration made ambessa suck in a breath and she suddenly yanked you forward, rocking into your tongue slowly before speeding up. eventually, she was riding your face as you stuck out your tongue, your tits exposed and bouncing as you met her in eagerness.

you strained to sink further inside her, whimpering as her thighs closed harshly around your head. she could’ve snapped your neck, and you would only have seen it as benediction. an early arrival to paradise.

“oh shit,” she whispered. “fuck. yes. yes. yeaaah.”

both of her hands were on the side of your head as she bent backward, squealing sharply as she began to cum. the sound was high and girlish, and you wanted to hear it again and again. her pleasure broke over her like a rising dawn and you closed your eyes, sucking at her clit until her legs began to tremble with overstimulation. still, you didn’t stop. instead, you swallowed the honey that dribbled from the apex of her cunt and brought two of your fingers up to rub tight circles against yourself.

with a rough moan, ambessa dropped her thighs from your face and tugged you up and into her lap. she huffed in displeasure and struck your hand away from your cunt, slipping two of her thick fingers deep into the cavern of your slick heat.

“no one touches you here except for me. not even you.”

you let out a startled gasp, mouth dropping in a perfect ‘o’ as she stroked and fucked your spongy walls. you began to follow her movements, bouncing faster to chase the syrupy warmth rising into your chest. the world flickered and your eyes caught on hers as she observed the way your body contorted and flexed the more she pushed you.

“that’s it, sweet girl. work for it,” she said, her lips curving cruelly as you gripped her shoulders to better slam yourself down. “come here. let me taste.”

you kissed her, wet and messy, and she licked along your teeth; sucked the remnants of her cunt from inside you. you felt a flash of irrational anger at the action. you wanted her within you forever, staining your tongue.

ambessa slipped a third finger into you and you wailed, spine snapping straight as you felt the stretch spread through your hips. a fourth drifted lazily through your soaked folds, languishing till it was gleaming, but then it soon disappeared. carefully, she nudged you closer to her, tucking your face into her neck as she trailed her other hand down the crack of your ass.

before you could fully process what she meant to do, she inserted the wet tip of her finger into the tight ring of your asshole and pressed.

your orgasm pulsed through you. from where you lay against her neck, you bit down.

for a moment she allowed you to rest, turning her head to press a warm kiss to your temple. her fingers began to re-curl along your walls. then,

“again.”

it was a direction. you followed.

#ambessa x you #ambessa x reader #ambessa x y/n #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda #ambessa league of legends #wlw smut #lesbian #sapphic #arcane fanfic #arcane smut #wlw #mine ; 🐎.

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wynnyfryd · 1 year ago

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Trailer park Steve AU part 26

part 1 | part 25 | ao3

cw: period-typical homophobia, recreational drug/alcohol use

He’s marching over the grass with a couple of varsity guys; two on his left, two on his right; V-formation like a flock of geese. Jason's at the head of the group, self-assured purpose of a leader, and it’s weird, seeing this little runt all grown up. The kid used to worship Steve; used to follow him around practices like a lost puppy, called him Captain before he’d even earned the role.

“Is this freak bothering you?” Jason asks. His voice is harsh, winded, winding up for a fight. Steve can see it in his stance: the tightening of his jaw, the clench of his friends’ fists. Plant your feet.

Steve’s gotta shut this shit down before it goes where it always does. Smashed plates, broken bones. All pissing contests flow toward the ocean or whatever.

“Nah, man,” he answers, standing up to dust himself off. The coke zips under his skin, makes him jittery and hot. Hard to play it cool. “We’re good. Busted my ass on the rocks; Munson was just helping me up.”

Munson. Like they’re buddies. Like Eddie’s thumb isn’t still damp from Steve’s tongue.

Jason doesn't seem to buy it. Little pastor-cop in training, he narrows his eyes and turns on Eddie. “Were you following him, Freak?”

Eddie's eyes flash in warning, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Steve shifts his weight to stand in front of him, and his fingers twitch around empty air. He wishes he had his nail bat with him; kind of wants to glue the handle to his palm.

Never know when monsters will come crawling out of the woods.

"Well?" Jason barks, "Answer me!"

His lackeys all pipe up then, the guy to his right sneering, "Not so talkative without his lunch table to stand on, is he?"

"Look at him shaking," adds another.

"Think he was trying to do some Satanic ritual shit while no one was looking?"

"I don't know," says the guy on Jason's left. "Looked like they were sucking each other off to me. Hey, maybe Harrington’s turned fag.”

“Andy!” Jason warns, and Steve—

Steve staggers forward with three arrows in his chest. One for every letter of that stupid fucking word that's been haunting him for years; raging fire in a black box in the far reaches of his brain, belching thick, black smoke, singing his fingertips whenever he gets close enough to touch it.

He wonders if Andy can taste the sulfur in it, too.

“No, go on,” he seethes, voice deadly calm when he lays a hand on Andy’s chest. Steeple his fingers, tips his chin. “Say it again; don't think I heard you right.”

Andy swallows hard, grinds his teeth; tenses to square off for the fight, but Jason throws an arm in front of him. "Easy," he says.

Easy. Down boy.

Andy snarls and backs off.

Jason lowers his voice, searching Steve's face. "You sure you're good? Can't be too careful with..."

His gaze slides over Steve's shoulder, his nose wrinkling in disgust. Steve's never wanted to risk a concussion more. "I'm fine," he grits out, balking at the diplomatic bullshit that's about to slither from his mouth. "Really. Thanks, though, man; appreciate you looking out for me."

Jason gives him a serious nod. "Any time."

—

“So, uh…” Eddie squints at Steve once Jason and his goons run along. His arms are hugged tight around his middle, and he's biting his lip; nervous jiggle of his leg. “How, um— How are we playing this, exactly?”

Steve scrubs at his face; swoons where he stands. Feels like all the blood's drained out of him without the adrenaline to prop him up. Goddamn, he's still so drunk. “Playing what?” he asks, confused.

Whatever it is, it’s already been played, hasn’t it?

Fight’s over; Steve’s exhausted. He just wants to go home.

But then Eddie shakes his head and tuts softly at the ground, his expression gone sour and sad, and there it is again. That feeling that Steve’s fucking everything up somehow.

He’s so tired of that feeling.

Slowly, so slowly, he reaches out a hand. Skims Eddie's side; leather jacket, bony hip, and then he hooks his pinky finger into the belt loop of his jeans. Tugs, just a little. Not hard enough to topple him, just—

Enough.

He hopes.

—

part 27

tag lists in separate reblogs with the tag "#trailer park steve au taglist" if you'd like to filter that content, comment and let me know if you want me to add you tomorrow (21+ only, please confirm your age if you're asking to be tagged)

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #my writing #my fic

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chaotic-orphan · 14 days ago

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Heyyyy I was wondering if maybe you'd consider writing about a Hero that gets so depressed they start getting reckless in their fights, maybe going so far as to try and do themselves in. And can Villain or someone save them? Please? I feel a bit like Hero right now and I could use a Villain haha haha hahahahaha

Bestie this is why I write so many suicidal heroes getting saved by villains… I think we all relate to those Heroes sometimes, and y’know what? Most of the time, you have to be your own villain💛 but I’m writing this Villain to save you Nonny, don’t self destruct please, and do something nice for yourself x

*~*~*~*~*

“Hero! You’re here!” The Fire deputy said.

“Yep,” Hero said through clenched teeth, blood dripping down the side of their head from their previous altercation with Muscle Villain who was enjoying the luxurious experience of the back of a police car right about now.

“Flame hero is already in there, rescuing civilians but you’re—”

Hero nodded. “I’ll see if I can help.”

The Fire deputy protested but Hero was already in the burning building, their arm over their mouth and nose to lower the effect of smoke inhalation. Not that Hero was sure it mattered or not. They weren’t exactly trained for search and rescue in fires, but they could do it. They could help.

They heard crying from upstairs and they glanced up, the smoke singed their eyes and they let out a hiss as the heat licked at them from the flames. Wood crackled all around them as Hero went to the stairs. They grabbed the railing and cursed as their hand sizzled against the heat.

Fuck! Fuck! That hurt— shit…

“Hero?!” Hero glanced up to see Flame Hero, concerned eyes behind their signature goggles. Probably for the eyes. Hero should have gotten some before they charged in. ��WHAT ARE YOU—”

Before Flame Hero could scream more a support beam crackled and groaned and fell, shaking the building. Hero had to jump out of the way as the a square of the second floor disintegrated and debris and dust descended, going up in a puff of smoke and catching Hero’s lungs. Hero coughed, their throat burning as they wheezed out the smoke.

“Hero!” Flame Hero cried through their mask. Probably filtered smoke from their lungs. “Are you okay?”

Hero blinked in the heat. The support beam had swung down between Hero and the stairs. “Yeah!” They screamed back. “I’m fine! I’ll look for survivors down here.”

Hero didn’t wait for a response. They started to get lightheaded, but they were lightheaded after their fight with Muscle Villain too, so they could take a little bit of smoke damage, right? How many minutes did people usually have before their lungs gave up? A few minutes? Under ten? They could do this. They’ve only been in here two minutes.

They turned the corner and the flames roared as a pipe exploded and Hero was thrown backwards and out the window of the ground floor out into the street. Their back hit the brickwork of the alley, stealing the last remnants of oxygen from Hero’s chest with a thud an a strangled oomph.

They were pretty sure they blacked out a moment on impact, because next thing they knew they were on the ground, on their stomach gasping and coughing as fresh air assaulted their senses.

Fuck… they really were lightheaded. But… they would be fine. They’re always fine. Hero got onto all fours and groaned as they pushed their legs out so their feet were stretched behind them in a plank. They pushed themselves up and got halfway before stumbling into the wall, grabbing it clumsily and falling again, scraping their side against it.

“Fuck…” they whispered, letting out laboured breaths. Their back was aching and did not appreciate Hero putting all their weight on their arms. Hero gasped as they felt something sharp pierce the skin of their palm and yanked their hand up to see a shard of glass. They glanced around and the alleyway was littered with broken pieces of glass that glittered like stars in the moonlight, reflecting Hero’s face back up at them.

Their knee also reflected Hero’s face and they hissed as they grabbed that big shard and yanked it out. They grabbed their roll of meditape that they used for just about everything and wrapped it around the knee to stop the bleeding. For now… at least. Then they tried to get up again.

Forgetting about the shard in their palm Hero let out a pained grunt as they felt the glass dig further into their skin on the ground and they threw their head back to stare at the black, velvet sky, tears pinpricking their eyes.

“Hero?!” Flame Hero demanded. Then there was the sound of footsteps and crunching glass and hands on their upper arms dragging Hero to a standing. Flame Hero looked angry. “What the fuck were you doing in there?! Huh?”

“I…” Hero began then descended into bouts of coughing.

“You could have died! You don’t even have a mask or goggles or anything! You could still die from the short amount of smoke inhal—” Flame Hero looked down at Hero’s hand. “Christ Hero! Your hand!”

Hero blinked, dazed. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine!” Flame Hero hissed. “Look at me you thick skulled idiot, you are not fine! You are going to the hospital.”

Hero shook their head and pushed Flame Hero away with their glass-less palm. “No hospital.”

“Hero, you’re not really in a position to be arguing right now,” Flame Hero hissed. Hero batted Flame Hero’s outstretched hands away.

“Here,” Hero mumbled and grabbed the glass shard.

“Hero! No, don’t pull—“”

“Agh! Fuck!” Hero cried.

“I told you not to touch it!”

Hero pressed the flat of the glass into Flame Hero’s glove. “Did you save all the civilians?”

Flame Hero’s eyes hardened. “Yes.”

“Then nothing to worry about. Leave me be. Help the fire department,” Hero said and started to walk in the opposite direction of the fire department and trucks and paramedics.

“Hero!” Flame Hero looked back at the burning building and then down at the reckless hero’s retreating back. “Hero! Just… don’t do anything stupid!”

Hero waved them away but didn’t answer, limping down the alley until they got down the hill to Flood Street. Fuck… they were tired. When they got out onto the street they got out of Flame Hero’s sightline and pressed their back against the wall, then their head, closing their eyes.

Just for a minute… they just… they just needed a—

Their radio crackled to life. “Supervillain has appeared at the Industrial state by the port!” Hero’s eyes shot open. “We need every available hero to support—”

And then they were running again.

They were exhausted and their back was screaming at them as they pumped their arms to gain momentum. The port was only a short distance from them. Maybe if Hero got there first, they could—

Their vision tunnelled to a slit and the world swayed and Hero blinked and then they were on the ground.

What?… A warm nausea shot from their stomach through their throat like a bullet and Hero barely had time to turn and hurl the contents of their stomach out on the pavement.

Halfway through Hero had a brief respite from heaving, leaning back on their hands and moaning before the warmth returned with a vengeance and Hero was gagging and spewing again. They retched and coughed, saliva black and grey from the fire and when Hero wiped their mouth black soot stained their hand.

Fuck… they thought as they pushed themselves up, one hand grabbing the nearest wall and yanked themselves off their feet. They stumbled again but the wall caught them and Hero sighed as they felt strong hands hold them up.

“Thanks…” Hero mumbled, dizzy with exhaustion, their vision hazy.

“Anytime, Darling.”

Hero froze. They turned their head to see familiar blue eyes staring down at them and Hero lurched forwards. Fingers fisted through their hair and dragged themselves off back into a street out of sight from the main road and down again, turning a corner while Hero hissed and grunted at the pressure on their head.

When they rounded the second corner so they were parallel to the street with a building blocking the view, Villain slammed Hero against the wall and pressed their forearm against Hero’s throat when they tried to push away from the wall.

“Villain,” Hero said, voice scratchy from the vomit. Or the fire. Or being choked by muscle villain. Or all of the above. Their larynx was exhausted. So were they, but they had to keep moving. Keep going. “Come to kick me when I’m down?”

“Not at all, love, I can kick you down when you’re up just as easily,” Villain smirked. But it wasn’t his usual smirk. Hero swallowed hard but their throat burned and they grimaced after. There was something terrifying behind Villain’s beautiful face. Something lethal and dangerous and cold. Something Hero had never seen hidden behind his expression before.

Villain wasn’t fucking around.

This wasn’t a social visit then.

Hero gulped again at the long silence. “Hey… hey, Vil, I kind of have somewhere to be… if we could wrap this up quick then—“”

Villain’s eyes flashed dangerously. His smirk widened. “Oh I know, Hero. You do have somewhere to be. In a hospital, or your own bed at the very least.”

Hero scoffed. “What’re you, my mom?” They pushed against Villain’s arm on their neck, but Villain leaned all his weight forward on it until Hero was pressed flush against the wall, head angled to try and keep breath flowing through their body. “Vi—Villain.”

“Yes, Hero?”

“Can you…” a wheeze cracked the sentence and caught in Hero’s throat as they coughed, strangled by Villain’s arm.

“Can I bring you home and make sure you can’t get out of bed until you’re rested? Yes, Hero. Of course. So good of you to ask.”

“Mmph,” Hero protested, eyes wide as they grabbed Villain’s wrist and elbow and tried to shove him off. Villain, in reply, grabbed Hero by their jacket and threw them further into the alleyway. Hero tumbled, head going over heels until they landed on their back and groaned.

“Or we can go until you pass out, Hero, and then you’ll regret that I put you on bedrest. You’ll find I can be quite persuasive.”

“What’re you doing?” Hero demanded hotly, struggling to sit up. The world swam in their vision and they repressed a groan. “I need to—”

“Fight Supervillain? In this state? Where were you before this? You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“What, were you cleaning chimneys? Fall off the roof?” Villain demanded, pointing to the dried blood pooling from Hero’s hairline. “I just found you throwing up like a drunk in the side of the street.”

“Whatever,” Hero grumbled. “You don’t know anything,” Hero said, getting to their unsteady feet and wiping their face with their sleeve. Their gaze hardened, filled with resolve. “I’m going to fight Supervillain. Even if I have to go through you to do it.”

Villain let out a barking laughter that went straight through Hero’s hazy head, piercing their ears uncomfortably. “You’ll go through me? Darling, please, gravity is proving to be too strong an opponent for you in this state.”

“Shut up.”

“No, Hero.” Villain said, a storm flashed across his expression and it scared Hero. “I have to take matters into my own hands now, don’t I?”

Hero gulped but didn’t risk a step forward. They weren’t entirely certain that they would stay standing if they stepped towards Villain, or away from Villain. They were stable standing in place, no risk of falling like this.

“I am a person perfectly capable of making my own decisions thank you very much! I don’t need you to coddle me or—”

Villain was in front of Hero in a second a hand on their throat and then they were slammed against a wall again. Hero’s breath ripped from their lungs as they gasped on the smack of their back against the brickwork.

“I am either bringing you home to get some much needed bedrest, or I am checking you into a psych ward Hero, because I don’t trust you not to hurt yourself in this state.”

Hero let out a scalding laughter. “Hurt myself?!” They demanded, hot tears welling up on their lower lid and blinding them as they started to fall. “You’re hurting me, Villain!”

“Violence is the only thing that gets through to you, Hero, for fuck’s sake!” Villain roared. Hero shrunk back, but Villain followed them, their face an inch or two from Hero’s but his eyes burning with a terrible helplessness. “You can barely fucking stand without assistance and you’re mad at me for stopping you from fighting Supervillain?! Of all people! She’d kill you with a snap of her fingers!”

“GOOD!” Hero screamed back, their voice high, and pitchy and desperate. “At least then my life could MEAN something! At least then I’d have died for a good cause! And be remembered as a Hero! At least then SOMEONE WOULD CARE!”

Maybe it was a trick of Villain’s gaze in the moonlight, but for a second it looked like Villain’s eyes were filled with tears. It was a brief flash, before Villain’s head darted close to Hero and something soft was on Hero’s lips.

Hero flinched.

Then melted.

Oh… villain… was Villain…

Hero kissed them back with a ferocity that they didn’t know they possessed. Something hot and wet hit Hero’s cheek and they didn’t know if it was their tears or Villain’s, but they didn’t care.

Villain was just as fearsome in kissing as he was in battle. He pressed his body against Hero’s, pinning them against the wall, their free hand going to Hero’s cheek and holding their chin up so Hero couldn’t pull away even if they wanted.

And they didn’t want to.

Their hands in turn went to Villain’s hair, his beautiful hair and around his neck and tried to pull him impossibly closer.

And all too soon, Villain pulled away, resting his forehead against Hero’s. Their breath mixing with the cold of the night, and Hero was dizzy for a different reason now. They don’t know how long they stayed like that, their chests rising and falling erratically until they calmed down again.

Then, in the cover of the night air in this back alley, Villain whispered: “you mean something to me,” and Hero stiffened. Fresh tears formed and flooded down their cheeks. “You mean the world to me, Hero. And I would let the world burn just to see you smile… to warm you up when you’re cold. I’d lock you up in a cage if it meant you’d never leave my side again.”

Villain’s hand tightened on Hero’s chin and tilted their head up to meet Villain’s burning gaze.

“I care about you, Hero. I have always cared. And I won’t just sit back and watch you destroy yourself like this, do you understand?”

Villain leaned down and kissed Hero again. A small, sweet peck of the lips. “I won’t let you go. So you’re coming home with me, whether you like it or not.”

Hero sniffled in the air. Something too big and too much to put into words unwound from Hero’s chest and all tension left their body at Villain’s words. A warmth they hadn’t felt in a while pumped from their heart out and around their body and they relented.

It would be so nice to have someone take care of them for once.

“Okay,” they whispered, because it was too great a thing to admit louder. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Villain said and scooped Hero up in their arms like a baby. Hero blushed.

“That’s not necess—”

“It’s okay, darling. You can admit I made your knees weak. That kiss was…”

Hero hit their chest while they cuddled into Villain’s shoulder, using it as a pillow. “You’re such an asshole.”

“I know.”

But they didn’t mean it, and Villain and Hero both knew it. “I know. But the world won’t fall apart without you for a long needed break, Hero.”

Hero swallowed the lump in their throat, they were even too tired to feel the guilt at not fighting anymore, of letting themselves be saved.

Maybe Villain was right…

Maybe… this one time… they could let themselves be saved instead of saving someone else. Hold on a little longer so they would be able to save more people in the future.

They couldn’t be selfish and end their life in a blaze of glory… all the lives they could save if they just took a break, rested for a… a little while. Until they were better again.

Hero’s eyes grew heavy as Villain walked. The rhythmic tapping of Villain’s feet against the pavement a lullaby and for the first time in weeks, Hero slept peacefully.

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bodhrancomedy · 5 months ago

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The Bard Who Returned to Fairyland in Search of a Name by Bodhrán M.

It was the ferryman who met the bard first, a beardless lad in a ragged cloak, broadbrimmed hat, and carrying nothing save an iron knife and one small pack across his shoulders. He watched with mild interest as the bard picked his way down the grassy knoll and onto the black-wood of the small dock, coming to a halt directly before the little boat.

Neither of them moved for a long while. Somewhere in the distance, an eagle screamed.

Finally, the bard spoke.

“I wish to cross the river,” he said.

The ferryman leant on his oar and regarded him with rheumy eyes, pushing a lank hunk of wire-grey hair from his face. “Is that so?” he replied. “Do you have payment, my boy?”

“Yes, I do.” The bard withdrew a coin purse from beneath the green cloak.

“Coin won’t do, boy. Not what I dabble in.”

“I know,” the bard said quietly. He had an odd voice, the ferryman noted, with no hint of fear or trepidation or awe. “I bring seashells from the coasts of Ireland,” he continued, “filled with the songs of the selkies. I bring spices from the borders of India and China with many healing powers beyond that which we can understand, and a trollish crystal gifted by the giantess-queen of Iceland. I deal as little in money as you do.”

The ferryman was impressed, even if he didn’t show it. He dug a filthy black pipe from a salt-encrusted pocket and stuck it between his teeth. He waited, but the bard made no move to light it for him. Finally, he took a tinderbox from another pouch (this one being an oilskin gifted many years ago by a Swedish princess) and struck a spark.

“So,” the ferryman said, his words curled about the billowing black smoke, “you know what is across this river?”

“I know.”

“And yet you wish to cross it.”

The bard shrugged, almost as if to say that the statement was obvious enough that it did not need to be said. “Have I brought enough to pay for passage?” he asked.

“Of course,” the ferryman said as he stepped aside to allow the man to board.

But the bard did not. Instead, he gripped the brim of his hat and pulled it further down over his eyes. His voice was as steady as before, but lower and intertwined with steel. “Both ways?”

The ferryman’s eyes narrowed.

The bard stood there, waiting for an answer, one small hand on his knife.

Hemming and hawing, the ferryman felt a sting of disappointment and suspicion in his gut. He had ferried more hopefuls across this river than he had ferried back and there was almost nothing which he liked more than the faces of those who had returned to his boat having not taken the first precaution. They had thought ahead enough – many of these wanderers and seekers of mysteries and gold – to have gotten his word not to throw them into the cold water or have their treasures taken before they reached human land again, but they had not thought about payment for the return journey.

But seashells and spices were twice the payment for a crossing – and he had never owned a troll-crystal before. He’d heard that they could outshine the sunrises even in the frozen northern plains, that they were rainbow stars from deep within the ground. It would be something to treasure in the dark.

It was through gritted teeth, therefore, which he gave his answer. “Yes,” the ferryman said.

The hat bobbed as the bard nodded. “And I will reach each shore in the same condition as I board your boat, sir? Each way.”

“Yes,” the ferryman agreed sullenly. Then he thought and tried to not brighten in anticipation.

The bard either did not notice or did not care, but he stepped aboard with the ease of one used to the pitch and swell of river boats. He sat in the prow, half-turned so he could look across the water and still see the ferryman.

Clever, that.

Carefully, the ferryman untied the mooring rope and then pushed off the knoll with his oar. He began to pull through the water with broad, powerful strokes and so it was a matter of minutes before they reached halfway.

It was then that the ferryman felt safe in speaking again. Too soon and sometimes the young fools would see the error of their ways and pitch themselves into the water. Once you reached halfway, you were falling into enchantments rather simple cold. It did make him laugh, sometimes, to see them flail and splash their way back to safety. He liked to wave at the ones who lived, standing sopping wet and humiliated on the dock, and sing mocking laments at those who did not.

But he did not think that this young man would do so. Still, he waited.

“You off to fairyland, boy?” he asked cheerfully, “Here to see for yourselves the wonders your bardic forefathers taught you? To see if they’re as real as they say?”

The bard tilted his head and the ferryman saw a flash of white teeth from beneath the hat brim, bared in a savage grin.

“No, sir,” the bard said, “I am not merely going to fairyland, sir ferryman. I am going back.”

“Well, that’s a thing!” the ferryman exclaimed. He rubbed his chin with his free hand and added, “Not many people wish to test their luck twice.”

The bard shrugged again.

“And why have you returned?”

The hat tilted back and suddenly the ferryman saw the bard’s face clearly for the first time. It was even younger-looking than he’d expected, suntanned and heavily freckled, but harsh and set in furious determination. “That is my business and my business alone, sir ferryman,” the bard replied in cold tones. “For I know what you are as we have met before, and you told me in the mistaken belief that we would never cross paths again. And I know that changelings would do what they can to gain favour in the eyes of fairyland’s mistress. I would not give up my slightest advantage to satisfy your curiosity.”

Knocked back a little by the intensity of this speech and suddenly slightly afraid of why he would not remember this young man, the ferryman opened and shut his mouth a few times and said nothing in reply. He rowed on in silence, feeling sweat prickling on his brow. Either this passenger was a grand sorcerer of some great power, or he was an overconfident boy with a head full of stories. But he could not place a finger on either option without some unease. Neither felt right.

“It was curiosity, nothing more,” the ferryman mumbled. “I meant no harm in asking.”

“But you did mean harm in knowing,” the bard replied lightly. “And you could make harm in telling. I am no child, sir ferryman, and I understand how this all works.”

#the bard who returned to fairyland in search of a name #writing #writeblr #long post #fairytales #fairy tale

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artificialdaydreamer · 8 months ago

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Cinderella retelling drabble (original story)

The woman smelled faintly of wood smoke underneath the perfume she wore, some floral scent the Prince didn’t recognize. So many of the ladies at the ball wore so much perfume that it made him want to sneeze, but not her. It was such a strange thing, to smell of smoke without any explanation for it. She did not smell of bread, or spices, or anything that might indicate she worked in a kitchen, and their conversation provided no further clues. Still, this woman who smelled of woodsmoke and flowers had been the only one he didn’t walk away from after their first dance was finished.

The clock tower began to chime, the great bells ringing twelve times, and the woman stiffened. “Are you alright?” The Prince asked, trying to compensate for her distracted dancing.

“It’s midnight.” The woman who smelled of smoke and flowers replied, her voice trembling almost as much as her hands.

“The ball won’t end for several more hours-” the Prince started to say, but the woman let go of him, and when he reached out to grab her wrist his hand passed through empty air.

“I have to go, I promised I would be back before midnight.” She sounded genuinely scared, and the prince wished he could pull her into a hug, protect her from whatever it was- whoever it was- that caused such a reaction. “I’m sorry, and goodbye.”

“Can I at least get your name?” The woman who smelled of smoke and flowers did not answer, instead she must have started to run, her footsteps were loud and fast on the tile floor. The crowd of people who had been dancing mere moments before made noises of alarm as she no doubt pushed through them, and she must have then made her way out of the ballroom judging by the direction of the shouts. The prince followed cautiously, hoping he didn’t accidentally bump into anyone in the crowded ballroom, but the guests let him pass through them unhampered. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, chasing after her, or what he’d do if he caught her, if he even should try to catch her. She was already so scared, and he didn’t want to make things worse. He just wanted to help her.

He knew he had entered the hallways when the sound practically disappeared, and due to the drastic change in volume the Prince realized couldn’t hear her footsteps anymore. Had she left or just hidden somewhere? “Your highness, is everything alright?” One of the servants asked, his voice concerned.

“That woman-” the prince started to say, but was cut off.

“Did she steal something from you?” A different servant piped up, her tone icy. “We can try to stop her from escaping, she just started down the front steps.”

“No, I just want to talk to her.” A thought occurred to him. “No harm comes to her, she’s frightened enough as it is.”

“Understandable, sire.” The prince made his way to the palace entrance as fast as he was able and thought he could make out a shape on the steps, but it was hard since the garden was bathed in darkness. Everything looked the same.

“Miss, is that you?” He felt foolish for dancing with her for so long and not even getting her name. “Are you hurt?”

There was a rustle of fabric and the sound of shoes on stone, but they were lopsided somehow. His pace was slow as he made his way carefully down the stairs, and by the time he’d reached the bottom the woman had disappeared through the gate, but she’d left something behind on one of the steps, which he found when he stepped on it and almost lost his footing. Upon picking the object up he found it was a small slipper, made of silk judging by how it felt, and smelling faintly of wood smoke.

She was gone, leaving only a shoe behind. Even as he struggled to process the last five minutes, a new realization sank in and filled him with dread. His father would be furious for letting her get away, the only woman he’d shown any interest in all night. The King would want to track her down, force her to marry him, even if she had no such desires.

Still, it would be hard to find her without a name. It wasn’t like the guards had much else to go off of, either, he wasn’t sure if any of them had seen her face clearly. How could they look for someone using a slipper, a description of her voice, and the fact she smelled of wood smoke and flowers?

The prince wanted to cry, for letting the one person who hadn’t cared about his title or his ailment slip away. For letting her go back to whatever it was that scared her so much, for not trying harder to learn more about her. It wasn’t as though he loved the woman who smelled of smoke and flowers, but he’d become fascinated by her from the moment she began guiding them through the crowded ballroom with clumsy steps and promised not to tell anyone that he was blind.

I just like the idea of Prince Charming being blind and that’s why he couldn’t recognize Cinderella after the ball. I’m going to do a decent amount of research to write a good representation, and it’s hard to find spoons to write anything lately. Still, blind Prince Charming and Cinderella with PTSD is a story idea I’d love to finish someday.

#my writing #original work #fairy tales

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honeylullaby · 1 month ago

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“What do ‘ya want me to do to ‘ya?”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by a sweet anon 🫶🏽 / Hellbent on pleasing you after an argument, Declan allows you to take control…

18+ FANFIC / SMUT! Short work! Something a lil different for Declan 💋 Reader character aged at 21.

Observing the most magnificent view from the bedroom window of The Priory, your heart leaped at the wintery scene — blankets of glacial snow covering the vast lawn, snowdrops billowing in the arctic breeze & tiny badger prints making a path under the grand oak tree. “Feeling better yet?” A familiar voice spoke from behind you. No, I am not, you thought to yourself. It was often that you and Declan had arguments, but they were monumental when you did — thunderous screaming matches that often ended in Declan having one too many a whiskey and you, retreating to your bedroom in a rouge mass of tears. “Ahh, come on. You’ve got to speak to me at some point.” He huffs, puffing on his briar wood pipe. No, I don’t, you think to yourself again.

Eagerly catching sight of the badger that had created the tiny path, you gasp in amazement and shuffle to the end of your bed. “If ya’ won’t speak to me, at least let me make it up to ‘ya.” Declan tuts, sitting next to you now, clouding your vision with pipe smoke. Not waiting for your response, Declan takes hold of your arm and lays you down on the bed, drinking in as much of your body as he could from under your thick, emerald-green woollen jumper and black trousers. “What do ‘ya want me to do ‘ya?” He asks, voice gruff and wanting. “Oh, come off it, Declan. You hate not being in control.” Eyes rolling as you mumble. “But you love bein’ bossy. Just tell me what to do.” He urges you, kneeling beside you.

“Hmm, well. I’m not in the mood, really. So, maybe lick me to get me ready.” You begin shuffling out of your trousers, but Declan takes over, removing them and subsequently peeling your vile paprika-orange pants from your cunt. Lying between your legs, Declan wrapped his rugged arms around your thighs, drawing your heat closer to him. “How do ya’ want me to do it?” He asks, hazelnut moustache bristling against your folds, making your thighs tremble in anticipation. “Gentle and slow. Like how you did it when we first got together.” You respond, grabbing at your own breasts lustfully. Declan began to circle your pink bud with his pointed tongue, flicking haphazardly after a moment and waiting for your soft whimpers. His coated lips took your clit between them, sucking softly. Your slender hand gripped firmly around his ringletted curls, moans increasing in frequency. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that.” You groan, back arching in ecstasy. “Good.” Declan spoke through a mouthful of your wet cunt. “No, I don’t want to cum yet. I want to sixty-nine.” You moan, prompting Declan to free himself of his beige outfit. “Top or bottom?” He questions, devilish smirk creating tension in your stomach. You point to your soft belly, and Declan lowers himself onto you, being careful not to apply all of his weight.

The scene that played out was nothing short of heavenly. Declan’s cock was buried inside your throat, restricting your breathing and releasing a stream of tears from your glassy eyes. The Irishman, however, was treating your cunt like the most delectable banquet, grunting under your heat and leaving a trail of saliva hanging from his lips. Gyrating your hips towards his mouth, you rode out your orgasm in deafening moans — or the most you could manage through the girth of Declan’s cock. Thereupon, your moans were stifled by the emergence of Declan’s hot, sweet load pumping into your throat, making your eyes bulge from the sockets with pleasure. His orgasmic grunts rose to the most magnificent crescendo.

Pulling back to lie next to you, body sticky with sweat, Declan lit a cigarette and panted in exhaustion. “You’re rather good at following orders.” You joked, eyeing up his cock, still proudly at half-mast. “And you’re fuckin’ good at being bossy. Like I said.” Declan replied.

#rivals #rivals fanfic #rivals fanfiction #rivals disney+#rivals disney #declan o’hara x reader #declan o’hara fanfic #declan o hara #declan o’hara #aidan turner

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m0remor1 · 1 month ago

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Who’s Birthday Are It???

Logan Howlett x FtM!Reader

NOTES: FINALLY i’m posting my first oneshot! i’m crazy new to this but i really wanted to post something Wolverine related considering i never shut up about him…,.,,… hope yall enjoy!!

WC: 1,668 words

TAGS: hurt/comfort, Comic!Logan (I def used some of his Origins’ backstory though el oh el), established “friendship”, ALMOST make-out scene, no smut, reader is basically the same height as Logan, really slight description of violence, a little unserious and silly

October 12th.

It used to be a somewhat fun occasion back when Logan was still Jimmy the sickly little Victorian boy. His family was well off enough to afford him gifts and heaps of food that he could barely stomach while showering him in attention he wasn’t all that present for. Could’ve been out of pity or something, but there’s no way of him knowing that now.

The earliest memory of his birthday that stuck after taking three rounds of adamantium between the eyes was Sabretooth hunting him down. The biting cold of bum-fuck nowhere, Canada, the actual biting and tearing of flesh, the hours of endless beatdowns that left Logan in a heap while his torn flesh weaved together layer by layer.

What’s even worse is that the rat bastard made this a tradition.

And considering Logan’s as old as dirt, there’s only so many birthday punchies he can endure from a bloodthirsty maniac before he starts to loathe it. He does his best to block the day out of his mind, ducking the other X-Men to avoid any pointless—and frankly annoying—birthday wishes from them. It’s almost impressive how absent he manages to be on his own birthday.

Cut to what feels like his billionth ‘special day’—he’s shacked up in a seedy dive bar nursing what’s now half a bottle of Jack’s while awaiting his inevitable crashout with his feline freak of a nemesis. His leg is bouncing off the stool, his hand is clenched hard around the glass he’s refilled countless times, and his muscles are tensed in preparation.

You, however, didn’t seem to get the memo.

Well—you did. You’re just politely ignoring it. A completely inconspicuous excess of cash magically found its way to your pockets after a couple battles with anti-mutant thugs, and you’d been hanging off Logan’s shoulder long enough to take note of his favorite brands.

And thank fuck you garnered as much money as you did, because the man’s tastes were almost disgustingly expensive.

And now, here you were with a small box held behind your back while you finally found the bar Logan was brooding in. Took a good couple hours to track em’ down, but a win is a win regardless.

“…You know I ain’t celebratin’. Get lost, bub.” Logan pipes up the moment he catches your scent sneaking closer, a scowl pinning itself to the burned in plasma screen bolted to a high point on the bar.

“Oh come on—you’re not even takin’ gifts? I had to study for this, man.” You huffed in complaint, hovering over the stool next to him.

And before Logan can press you to leave, the box you held behind your back slides into view and thuds softly against the wood counter. It earns a side eye from the older man, a glimpse of shock chipping away at his stoned mask just a teenie bit at the sight of the box’s logo.

“Bribin’ me with a couple smokes ain’t gettin’ you anywh—“ The minute Logan unlatches the box and opens it, he’s met with the sight of a FULL box. Stacked to the brim with tightly wrapped cigars that held the brand’s shiny sticker. He gives you a fully stunned look, almost slack jawed as he quickly shut it and cursed under his breath.

“…I’d make a real shit cop.” He mutters as he taps the worn leather of the seat cushion beside him in a silent demand to take a seat.

And you’re SAT. It’s almost comical how fast you scurry into the seat. You’re lucky it’s bolted to the floor, or else you would have conked your head on the grimy hardwood real hard. There’s a beat of silence as Logan takes a cigar from the top of the box and almost glares at it in an attempt to spot something wrong. But he finds nothing. Shit—they don’t even smell off. He extends a claw halfway to snip off the ends, reaching into his pocket for a lighter.

FINALLY you get to show off again.

You bring a hand to stop him, fishing through your own pocket to fish out the second half of your gift.

“Hollon—“ You whip out a silver zippo lighter. “Ta-da!”

…

“How empty is your wallet right now?” Logan questions, taking the lighter from you and scanning each detail of the silver embossments on it.

“…I think a moth or three is in it right now.” You jest, watching as he drags a finger over the detailing.

There’s a traditional Japanese-style dragon curled on the front, the silver metal darkened in the crevices to look grungy. The rest of it is black, save for the engraving on the side. The letters of his name are straight and jagged, each shiny silver line meant to look like a claw had scratched it in. He’s almost mad at how much he likes it, because it means he has to admit that one—he really is an art nerd, and two—he’s getting soft. His stomach twists a little, but not in the ‘there’s perilous danger incoming and everyone’s gonna die’ way. More in the ‘this stupid kissboy’s worming his way further into his good graces’ kinda way. And he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“This is dumb, y’know. Ain’t a reason for a lighter t’be this extra.” He grumbles as he gives it another shift between his fingers.

“I mean—f’you don’t like it I can jus’—“ You reach for it, but Logan snatches it away before you can even graze it. “Aht—Back off. Yer gonna have t’pry this from my cold dead hands in 200 years.”

He hunches over the lighter slightly, clinking it open and striking the little wheel a couple times before it came to life while you stifle a giggle. The cigar eventually starts to glow a faint red at the tip, and Logan drags in a hefty breath that he holds. It takes a moment before the smoke billows from his lips, and something in you lurches with glee at the sight of said smoke framing his bearded face. His blue eyes dart to you, watching with a raised brow as you pretend to look anywhere else but him. And poor soul—instead of catching on to what were probably some FREAK nasty thoughts—he thinks you want to bum a puff of his cigar. His hand tilts to offer it over, but you shake your head.

“M’good. I’d probably cough up a lung or two.” You don’t wanna admit you hate smoking in general.

Because if we’re being honest, it’s kind of a lie. Sure—if you walked past strangers you’d cough like you had pneumonia to make em feel a little guilty. But with a scent that didn’t make you want to dry heave and a lethally handsome face behind it, you could only bring yourself to pretend that the cigars were too strong for you.

But this… this old man has to go and insist.

“…Could always shotgun it.” It’s aggravating how fast you wanted to blurt out an okay. “Wouldn’t mind sharin’ my gift a lil.”

This little bastard knows what he’s doing. He HAS to, considering there’s a ghost of a smirk on his face at the sight of your shock. You clear your throat behind a clenched hand, trying to play nonchalant and failing horribly.

“I mean—yeah, sure. Whatever, I guess...” You can’t even look at him properly it’s that embarrassing.

Your face runs hot when you lean a little closer, eyes squeezed shut as if you’re ready to get punched or something.

“Good god—relax, bub. Y’look like I’m handin’ you a pipe bomb.” Logan leans in too, but his free hand grabs at your collar and pulls you even closer.

Words are failing you fast, leaving whatever retort you could come up with in the dust before you even thought about the first word. Your eyes peek open, watching his chest puff as he took another drag off the cigar and held it. He lets the smoke die out a little before dragging a calloused hand up the front of your jacket and to the junction between your neck and shoulder.

His large palm presses against the side of your neck, the pad of his thumb swiping across your plush bottom lip and earning a breathy sigh from you. When his hand moves to your jaw to keep your head still, you shiver at the slightly rough drag of his worn fingertips against your skin. Your stomach is doing gymnastics and the both of you can probably hear the drumming of your heart against your ribs. Your hands find purchase on his thighs to keep you upright while you’re leaned forward, and you thank whoever’s up there for giving you an excuse to do so. You part your lips as he gets in your face, blowing the sheered out smoke into your mouth and maintaining crazy amounts of eye contact while you inhale it.

Hands clench at his muscled thighs in a bid to keep you grounded, but it’s mostly just because you’re trying to resist closing the non-existent gap between you two. However, before you can even think of kissing him, your lungs start to burn and you turn away to cough and sputter as transparent smoke puffs out of your mouth.

“Y’ain’t supposed ta breathe it in like a shitty cigarette. Yer supposed to taste it.” Logan can’t help a snicker as he pats your back while you hack up the smoke in your lungs.

“Gee… thanks, you little—“ Whatever expletive you had for him gets lost in another coughing fit, complete with a little wheeze that finally seemed to help clear you up.

You glare over at the other man next to you, but your anger feels unfounded when you catch him almost full on grinning. Sure—it was kind of at your expense—but you got him to smile. On what’s usually the worst day of his year, no less.

…Man—you’re really great at this whole birthday thing.

#logan howlett #logan wolverine #wolverine #x men #comic logan #wolverine x reader #trans reader #mlm #i heart gay people #kissboys #bisexual logan truther #male reader #transmasc reader #self indulgent ngl #I heart wolverine #shotgunning #james howlett #logan howlet x reader

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starks-hero · 2 years ago

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The Beauty of Chance

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Dúnedain!Reader

Summary: Whilst finding respite in Beorn's home, certain relevations are had. Or; you and Thorin do a little more than just talk things through.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: feather-light smut, the reader smokes a pipe

a/n: Reader is Dúnedain because I'm physically incapable of writing a middle earth fic where the reader isn't Dúnedain. Once again I used Irish as a replacement for the Dúnedain's native tongue because trying to translate Númenórean Sindarin is a nightmare :)

Beorn's home offered a sense of comfort and safety of the likes you hadn't felt since leaving the Shire. The high walls eased your nerves and you found your hand no longer instinctively reached for your sword. It served as a quaint port amidst the storm, a chance to catch your breath. And it had come long overdue.

After a breakfast sweetened with berries and honey and made up of foods far finer than anything you'd seen since passing Bree, you decided on spending the morning exploring Beorn's home in all its subtle splendor.

Everything seemed to dwarf you in size, from the furniture to the settlement itself. It was an odd feeling, one that stirred up a strange sense of nostalgia; wandering into your father's forge as a child and toying with tools far too large for small hands. You supposed it also offered a glance into the life of your companions.

You reached to undo the lock to the back door, vowing to never poke fun at Bilbo's height again when the plank of wood fell snugly back into the lock despite your best efforts.

You passed through the stables instead, petting the manes of the mares that resided there as you did.

The gardens, just like the rest of the skin changer's dwellings, were evidently tended to with no shortage of care. A small warren of rabbits dozed comfortably in the ryegrass and blooming flowers brushed your knees. You simply stood among it all for a moment, feeling the soil beneath your feet and the sweetened air in your lungs.

The outskirts of the garden were bordered by two oak trees, mature and proud. Their canopy provided a small shadowed patch and you quickly found respite against its bark and beneath its leaves.

With the company out of sight, you breathed a pained sigh.

Your muscles ached and your body felt stiff. It was somewhat difficult to convince it to relax after so long spent prepared to fight at a moment's notice. Shifting against the tree bark, you undid your shirt enough to reveal the unpleasantly long gash that ran across your shoulder and coiled down your arm. The fine work of an orc blade. The bleeding had all but stopped now, but the wound's edges were jagged and an angry red. And the horrid stinging that accompanied such injuries was yet to go away.

You undid the bandages and bound the wound in fresh cloth. It was by no means your finest work but others in the company had sustained far worse wounds during the scuffle on the cliffside and Oín only had two hands and a very limited amount of supplies. You wouldn't seek out care when your friends needed it more.

Besides, the blade had caught your weaker arm. You could still hold your sword, still carry out your purpose.

You'd manage.

Relacing your shirt and silently vowing to put your stubbornness aside and seek help should a fever set in, you sat back against the bark, shifting until you found comfort.

It felt nice to finally rest. To close your eyes and not fear for your company's safety. You reveled in the quiet. For all of two minutes.

The sound of brambles snagging on leather and stones shifting beneath heavy boots had you up and alert and despite all logic, your hand still grasped at your empty sword belt.

You calmed when Thorin rounded the tree. He seemed startled at the sight of you.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude,” the dwarf said, words genuine. He stepped back, as if ready to turn on his heel should you ask him to.

“Searching for some peace and quiet?” You asked instead. Such moments were few and far between. “It would seem we both had the same idea.”

The king's head fell forward in a nod and when still he made no move to leave you motioned to your side.

“Sit.”

His hesitation was brief. He settled beside you, then all was quiet again. A sudden breeze, warm and tinged with the scent of autumn, rushed through the leaves. Thorin took a deep breath before releasing it in an uneven sigh.

It was an odd sight, seeing him at ease. You'd go as far as to call it unnatural. His relaxed shoulders and gentle expression seemed foreign and uncanny. But you couldn't deny the youthfulness that seemed to soften his features now. It was not unlike the glimpses you'd caught of him during your shared night watches when both of you were too stubborn to let the other stay up alone.

A quaint stillness began to settle and when Thorin still said nothing, you decided neither would you. You were happy to sit in silence at his side.

From your pocket, you produced your pipe, old and worn around the rims but still trusty enough to serve its purpose. You ran your fingers along the polished wood, all the way down to its blackened base. Generously stuffing it full, you held a match to the green leaves until they kindled and began to smolder.

Bilbo, bless his heart, had offered you what was left of his pipe-weed. ‘The finest you'll find anywhere south of Bree,’ he'd promised as he handed it over without a second thought after discovering yours has been lost to the greedy hands of goblins.

The first exhale of smoke left lips that were turned up in a smile. The generosity of halflings would never cease to amaze you.

The taste of tobacco sat heavily on your tongue as you blew out wisps of grey smoke and watched as they were carried off on the afternoon breeze.

“I owe you thanks,” Thorin said suddenly, shifting beside you. “The courage you showed on the cliffside, your willingness to help this company, it's not something I take for granted. You have done a great deal for us and we- I am grateful.”

“You don't have to thank me, Thorin.” You exhaled another flurry of smoke.

“But I do. When I called on my own kin for help they turned away. But you, a soldier of Man, a ranger, you answered. You didn't have to, by all means of sanity you shouldn't have. But you did.”

You chewed anxiously on the tip of your pipe. “I know what it's like to be without a home,” you said simply. “And it is not a faith I would wish upon anyone.”

Thorin only nodded in response. His gaze shifted to the tree roots beneath his feet.

You hadn't spoken much of your past, although by the way you carried both yourself and your sword, Thorin knew that your life until this point had not been one without hardship. The race of men were as dependant on each other as a fawn to it's mother; venturing out on ones own was strange for your kind. Gandalf had not indulged him with your story, only what he needed to in order to convince him to accept you as one of the company.

But Thorin knew what a renegade looked like. He'd lived as one long enough to know what the dreariness in your eyes and your indifference to battle and death meant. Part of him wanted to tell you that, to form that middle ground and hope it offered some comfort.

“Regardless, I am glad to have you with us,” he said instead.

At your feet, a lone beetle made its way through the undergrowth. You watched in bemusement, shifting your boot to clear its path. You turned to Thorin and found his own eyes trained on the bug as it continued on its journey. In an odd moment of catharsis, you saw the dwarf beside you not as a king, but a friend and fellow soldier. You offered him your pipe.

When the dwarf noticed your extended hand he smiled almost fondly. The sight made the aches in your muscles ease. He took the pipe in gentle hands, pressing the mouthpiece to his bottom lip and filling his lungs with the finest pipeweed the Shire had to offer.

He pushed the grey cloud past his lips in one deep breath, the smoke taking the shape of a perfect ring before disappearing above the tree.

You raised an unamused brow. “I would not have offered had I known you'd take the opportunity to show off.”

“Lying is not becoming of you, master ranger,” the dwarf responded smoothly, his eyes closed and lips turned up in a satisfied smirk. His hair splayed out around his head like a darkened crown, white strands catching in the sun like silver.

For no reason other than to make watching him an easier task, you shifted against the tree so that you faced the king. The resulting pain that lashed up your arm in doing so had you hissing through your teeth. Thorin's eyes were on you in a moment.

“I'm alright,” you dismissed quickly.

The dwarf looked entirely unconvinced. He reached for the collar of your shirt and when you made no attempt to stop him, pulled the fabric down.

“Mahal,” he said the word like a curse, low and rough. “How long have you kept this hidden?” Struggling to fall somewhere between a convincing lie and an honest under exaggeration, you decided against answering altogether. With a grunt, Thorin pushed forward and onto his knees. He took the hem of his undershirt in one hand and tore off a strip with less than a second thought.

Just as you hadn't answered him earlier, you said nothing as Thorin began to tend to you.

The bandages, already tinged pink, fell away easily in his grasp. A single line of blood seeped from the open gash and trickled down the swell of your bicep. Thorin swiftly decided the best he could do was simply rebind the wound. Despite their broadness, his fingers worked nimbly, carefully gracing over your arm and masterfully retying the bandages.

“You're a fool,” he said eventually, finishing the bindings with an unnecessary tug. “I believed your selflessness to be honorable, now I'm more inclined to think it idiotic.”

You huffed a laugh and winced.

Thorin took up the torn strip of blue linen from his shirt and carefully looped it around your arm, tying it taunt against your shoulder.

“Where did you learn that?” you asked. With the added support, the aching throb in your arm had all but ceased.

“I learned many things during my time in the Blue Mountains and in the villages of Man. How to properly dress a wound was one. It would appear that was a skill you did not pick up during your time on the road.” He answered with a smirk.

“Healers usually work in silence,” you reminded him.

He smiled at your words despite himself. He looked younger when he smiled. His eyes brightened and shone silver. You found yourself wishing it was a sight you could see more often.

There was something about the way he tended to you that set a deep ache in your chest.

He finished his work with one more tight knot and a satisfied hum. “It will do for now. I'll have Oín treat it once he has a moment to spare.” His hand ran down the length of your arm before falling away at the bend of your elbow.

“I'll manage,” you said. The words were almost second nature now.

“You always do.” Thorin's voice was soft. He regarded you in a manner so gentle the ache in your chest flared, a pounding against your ribs. But when his eyes caught your own, the look vanished and he stood. “I've intruded long enough, I'll take my leave.”

“Why not stay?” You were embarrassed by how quickly the words jumped from your throat.

“Because if I do I fear I'll do something rash.”

“Thorin–” you rose to your knees, reaching out and grasping his forearms. The action surprised you both.

You failed to find any words to confront him with, anything that would translate the fierce fire he set in you. How he regarded you not just as an equal but as someone to be respected, admired. How he tore the very clothes on his back to stop your bleeding. How the action was almost instinctive. Even the simplest things. Like how he hadn't complained once about how the earth dug into his knees as he tended to you. How he still hadn't pulled away from you now...

Gravity seemed to give way beneath you and you pushed yourself up on your knees further till your lips brushed his. Thorin was still for a fleeting, terrifying moment; before he returned your affection with a fierce passion.

The earth bit into your knees and you rocked forward. Thorin's hands grasped your waist and anchored you against him. The feel of his palms against your side was grounding. You swore the world had faded into the great void at the end of time and this moment was all that was left.

When you parted, a shaking breath passed Thorin's lips. “You are far braver than I.” His voice was quiet, hoarse.

“Brave?” you grinned. “I thought you'd settled on idiotic.”

The dwarf laughed, full and hearty, and gods what you wouldn't do to hear it every day for the rest of your life.

“I think, perhaps, both can be true,” he said, and his lips were on yours again.

His advance was softer this time, fixed on feeling you against him, marveling at your touch. He kissed your neck, just above the beating of your pulse. His lips turned up in a smile.

You watched him in absolute awe; a descendant of Durin touching you as if you were carved from gold, a king willingly on his knees for an outcast.

The ache in your chest seized your heart.

Your hand rushed up his arm, fingers running past the swell of his shoulders and gently catching in his hair. Thorin gasped sharply, the bridge of his nose pressing tautly against the curve of your jaw. In a single grounding moment, you recalled the significance of hair in dwarven culture as well as the boundary you'd just overstepped.

You rightened yourself against the tree, forcing Thorin to pull away in turn.

“Forgive me, I didn't mean–” you swallowed. “Thorin if you want this to end you need only say so. I won't take offense.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortably thick. You sat unmoving as the dwarf regarded you with something you couldn't quite place. It left you feeling uncertain whether he was going to reach for you again or stand and leave.

“Why do you do that?” he asked instead. “Doubt yourself. Ask for forgiveness as if you have done something wrong. Do you truly find the thought of me wanting to touch you, to be touched by you, so difficult to accept?” He caught your chin with gentle fingers and raised your head. “I can think of nothing I want more.”

His touch ghosted your neck and you shuddered. Words could not tell him how much he meant to you, but you hoped your lips against his own and your heart beating frantically against his chest would.

Thorins knees began to ache, straining and giving way. You pressed a steady hand to his back and guided him forward until his legs slot over your own and your height balanced out. He surged closer, you could feel the tree bark biting into your back. You ignored it with ease.

The kings hand ran along the underside of your arm and the feel of it drew from you a soft breath. Your hand brushed over his braid, gently thumbing at the strands. You combed your fingers through the knotted locks behind his ear; the knowledge of what the act meant to Thorin, the intimacy of it all, made your head light.

Then, your fingers tapped almost unnoticeably against the base of his neck, right above his pulse where the dwarf's blood rushed so fast he was almost certain you could hear it. Your mouth parted in an unasked question and Thorin grunted a low ‘yes’.

Your lips traced his neck, kissing down his collarbone and ensuring to leave each of your marks below the collar of his shirt. Thorin steadied himself against you, breathing a sigh against your temple.

“Tá tú go hálainn, a grá,” the words were so raw, came from somewhere so primal within you, you hadn't noticed they'd left you in your mother tongue. “Tá m'chroí agat.”

Thorin managed a shuddering breath, a weak sound that caught in his throat. “I assume you will not be telling me the meaning of your words.” His hands shook as they moved against your back.

“Consider it reparations for each time you have spoken to me in Khuzdul with no intention of telling me what it is you'd said,” you smirked against his throat, recalling each time he'd addressed you in his native tongue. How the words always seemed natural and unmistakably genuine. He didn't feel the need to tell you the meaning behind those words now. He felt you already knew.

Thorin chuckled, boyish and light, and it set fire to your heart.

The sun had sunk behind the mountains and turned the air cold. But with Thorin laying by your side and a bed of grass at your back you swore you had enough warmth to last you the night.

The dwarf's arm rested beneath your head, hand tracing patterns you didn't recognize against your bandaged shoulder. Even now, his lips still brushed your head.

His other hand rested against your stomach and you bid your time tracing his palm, slowly and with purpose.

Thorin shifted beside you. You could hear the careful workings of his mind as he forged his next words on his tongue. “Should we succeed in taking back Erebor, where will you go?” He asked. His words were heavy.

“I don't know,” you answered honestly. “South? Towards Rohan and then wherever the road leads.”

It took the dwarf a moment to respond. Your words hollowed out his chest and set an ill feeling in his stomach. The thought of you alone stirred up a deep sadness Thorin had not felt in an age. You, with your spark for storytelling and devotion to others and your incomprehensible ability to simply make a difference. To bring light to whatever situation you found yourself in, to join a company that was all the better to have you. To stumble into the life of a downtrodden king and singlehandedly remind him he deserved his throne.

“If we take back the Mountain, I want you to know that you are welcome to stay, should that be something you wish.”

You took a deep breath, holding it till you were certain Thorin's words had not caused your heart to cease beating. As the true weight of the offer set in, you released Thorin's hand.

“I would not think I'd be wanted. I have no right-”

“You have every right,” Thorin said, his words instant and forceful, convincingly so. “As much right as any dwarf that refused to help us in our hour of need.”

You huffed a sigh that fell somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“Someone like me staying in the sacred halls of Durin's folk. A lowly ranger...”

“You are so much more than that.” He said the words slowly, as if they were the most honest thing he'd ever spoken. “You are a descendant of the Men of the West, a member of this company.” He paused. “You are Amralimê. My love.”

You shifted to look at him. A dwarf who by all means of faith and sense you should never have crossed paths with. But by the beauty of chance, he'd entered your life and reminded you, in all his subtle ways, that it was worth living. That you were worthy.

You dared to retake his hand in yours. “You'd have me?”

Thorin simply smiled.

“Above all else.”

Thank you for reading! <3

authors notes:

Irish translation: tá tú go hálainn, a grá - you are beautiful my love. Tá m'chroí agat - you have my heart. Phonetic pronunciation for those interested - taw two guh haul-in, ah graw. Taw muh-kree a-gut.

#sincerest apologies for pulling a 'fade to black'#thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin x reader #thorin oakenshield x you #thorin imagine #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit imagine

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coughloop · 1 year ago

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Twilight: she likes to think of herself as the most sophisticated stoner and she loved to smoke before reading a long letter or writing analytic prose about the migration patterns of different seabirds. I think she would smoke a long pipe, hand crafted made of wood that Celestia gave tk her as a parting gift when she moved to ponyville. It kinda sucks and it's basically just a spoon pipe but long and made of crystal wood that doesn't do anything but when you smoke through it it sparkles and shines so she loves and takes good care of it only buys top shelf premium ounces to smoke through it cause she thinks that what Celestia had in mind when she gave it to her

Pinkie pie: do to her insane tolerance after years of edible usage pinkie basically starts every day by eating 10 or so 20ng edibles and she doesn't even feel it but it's like a delicious treat and she basically just macro doses edibles all day long and it tastes so good she loves the taste of weed she loves it

Rarity: she is always changing up with whatever she's smoking out of. she has a room where she predicts the current trend of whats hot to use and whats not and is always following the latest designer smoking fashions but secretly her favourite is gravity bong but she would never admit and she hides it away behind like a million aromas and perfumes but believe me she has one terrible homemade gravity bong she loves more than anything in the world

Fluttershy: her animal friends use their more dexterous paws and prehensile tails to roll little joints for her and she smokes them like cigarettes she never litters the filters though she is very careful to never ash anywhere but directly into her tray and smokes on the roof outside so the smoke cant harm anything she lets Angel take a hit thoough cause he can handle it but he always hogs cause hes a jerk and im getting mad thinking about it

applejack: as grassroots as possible, simple ground herb smoked out oof whatevers available. granny taught her how to pack a bowl with apple seeds mixed in to give it an extra kick and she and big mac chill the fuck ouot every night with a rustic bong made of aluminum with lead paint on the outside but those dont have negative affects for horses so its fine and she lives a long and healthy life like all smokas should

rainbow dash: shes been buying straight oregano for years and still has no idea. she doesnt listen when anyone tries to tell her

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worldofsmoke · 2 years ago

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daryltwdixon · 3 months ago

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The Ruins of Us: Epilogue

Crickets chirp around you, the warm fire casting red and orange light across the faces of those gathered. Along the highway, Rick had made the decision to camp for the night due to the lack of gas after a long few days of travel. No one really wants to do it—being out in the open is dangerous—but exhaustion has caught up to everyone. There was no food, no gasoline. The cars were running on fumes when everyone Rick decide to stop.

Hershel's hands gently press against your ribcage, carefully assessing your injuries, but despite his gentle touch, every breath still sends a piercing pain through your torso.

“Unfortunately, the only thing we can do is let them heal on their own. It’ll take a few weeks,” Hershel says quietly, his voice barely above the crackling of the fire. You nod, wincing as you pull your shirt back down and lean against the rough bark of a tree.

Daryl appears from the dark, quick and purposeful, throwing more wood into the fire before coming to sit behind you. He places a steady hand on your shoulder, guiding you forward just long enough to slide behind you, offering his chest as a more comfortable place to lean. His arms wrap around you, his legs on either side of yours, and you let out a soft sigh as you relax into him, the familiar scent of leather and wood replacing the acrid smell of smoke. You close your eyes, feeling at ease again.

“We’re not safe with him,” Carol’s soft voice breaks through the quietm making your eyes flash open again. She’s sitting beside the two of you, her face etched with worry. “Keeping something like that from us… how can we trust him?”

You knew the group was upset about the news Rick dropped on everyone. The virus–whatever made the dead come back alive, hungry for human flesh–was inside everyone. It didn’t take a bite or a scratch. Anyone would turn once they died. Maybe it was the shock still numbing your senses, but you hadn’t been surprised by the revelation. It should’ve been devastating, knowing that everyone was doomed to become one of them, a walking corpse. And yet, that truth seemed to settle quietly in the back of your mind, waiting for the right moment to break you under its weight. One day, you’d crack from the pressure of it all. But for now, you could only push it aside, another harsh reality in a world already brimming with them.

She looks into the dark before locking eyes with Daryl. “Why do you need him? He’s just gonna pull you down.”

Daryl’s reply is simple, “No. Rick’s done all right by me.”

Carol��s eyes narrow. “You’re his henchman,” she says bitterly, her tone making you scrunch your nose, but she continues, “And I’m a burden. You deserve better.”

Daryl’s gaze sharpens, and he looks at her carefully before asking, “What do you want?”

She hesitates for a moment, searching for the right words. “A man of honor,” she finally says, almost as if she’s unsure of the answer herself.

“Rick has honor,” Daryl shoots back, his voice rough but steady. He pulls you closer, rubbing his hands along your arms to fend off the chill in the night air.

Then you hear Maggie pipe up, “I think we should take our chances,” she’s looking to Glenn, Before he can respond, Hershel’s firm voice cuts in, “Don’t be foolish—there’s no food, no fuel.”

Suddenly, there’s a rustling in the darkness. Beth lets out a small yelp, her eyes wide with fear.

Daryl’s head snaps toward the sound, “Could be anything—raccoon, opossum—”

“Walker,” Glenn finishes grimly. The others are standing now, hands finding their weapons. There’s a quiet panic, people thinking we need to leave, the sound causing more chaos than relative to the situation.

“The last thing we need is people running off in the dark,” Rick says sharply, his voice full of authority. “We don’t have the vehicles. No one’s travelin’ on foot.”

Another branch snaps, and everyone holds their breath. Carol, visibly on edge, demands, “Do something.”

“I am doin’ something!” Rick snarls, his frustration boiling over, “I’m keepin’ this group together–alive,” he pauses, his weight shifting with intensity, “I’ve been doin’ that all along, no matter what. I didn’t ask for this. My best friend is dead because of me. I planned it. For you people,” his lip is curled, teeth bared as he reveals the truth to the group. Everyone looks over to you for a brief moment, taking in your reaction. You try your best not to flinch at his words, but Daryl’s grip tightens on you, protective, hackles raising. But the group is silent at Rick’s admission–scared, shocked… They didn’t know the whole story, but Rick was taking the blame. Even though the true guilt sat in your chest like a brick.

Rick continues, “You saw what he was like–how he pushed me, pushed everyone,” he pauses to look at you, “how he compromised us–how he threatened us.”

His eyes remain on you, and you meet his gaze unflinching.

“The Randall thing was staged, he wanted to kill him himself, we all knew that. But he went for Y/N, attacked her. Left her with no choice. It was supposed to be me, but I didn’t get there in time–so she had to act in self defense–look at her! Look at her neck, people. She has broken ribs, a cracked jaw for Christ’s sake!” His one hand holds the gun in its holster, the other points as he gestures to you, guilt lacing his voice.

Your pulse is skyrocketing, and you refuse to meet the gazes of the other’s as they take in your appearance. The bruises had fully set in on you, dark purple and blue fingerprints on your neck like a horrid necklace, and the side of your face where he punched you swollen and red. Your eyes are narrowed on Rick as he continues, “He gave us no choice,” he spits, “He was my friend, but he went after her. I was supposed to take care of him–I knew he was coming for me next.” Carl’s soft sobs carry through the air, and Lori pulls him in close, her eyes brimming with tears as she tries to comfort her son.

“My hands are clean–and so are her’s,” he growls, and pauses for a moment.

Looking to the ground with heated eyes, he says with heavy emotion, “Maybe you people are better off without me–go ahead!” he points into the darkness, “I say there’s a place for us, but maybe it’s just another pipe dream. Maybe I’m foolin’ myself again. But go ahead and find out yourself–and send me a postcard!” His voice is filled with anger, the heaviness of the last night on the farm weighing on every word, “Think you can do better? Let’s see how far you get.” Everyone stood still, breathing in deeply.

“No takers?” he quips, “Then let’s get one thing straight. You’re staying? This isn’t a democracy anymore,” he looks to Lori then, her eyes wide at the man before her. Before he walks away, he looks over at you and Daryl once more, then disappears into the dark.

You felt the air shift then–things were never going to be like they were–the farm had been a temporary refuge, but safety is an illusion now. You close your eyes, leaning into Daryl’s warmth, feeling everything you have lost and still have to fight for. Things were going to be very different going forward. Rick had changed because of that night.

But the thing was–so had you.

notes: THANK YOU! To all of you who read, commented, liked, reblogged! I haven't written fan fiction in over 10 years, let alone write anything, honestly. It means the WORLD to me to see all of you enjoy my work.

So truly truly truly: from the bottom of my heart, thank you!

Keep liking, reblogging and commenting <3

love, AR

#daryl dixon #daryl #twd daryl #the walking dead #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl one shot #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixion imagine #daryl twd #the ruins of us

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francixoxoxo · 5 months ago

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୨ৎ Silver Soul 𓆝 𓆟

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝

𝐏𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞!𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐗 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫.

𝐓𝐖: 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐄, 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭

Ever since you came into Billy’s life, he began seeing in color.

You made his dreary, murky future feel a bit more appealing. Brighter. His work didn’t seem so gritty when he had your face painted in the walls of his mind. Hell, he whistled while he worked.

You were engraved into his heart like marble, written into the pages of his story. There wasn’t a way around it, you had him under your spell. His mind was filled with memories of your head against his chest, your lilted voice telling him all about yourself, your sisters, your life beyond him, and asking about his own world. The smell of your dark tresses, like sea salt and amber. The smooth warmth of your skin under his calloused palms, the wistful look in your eyes as you gazed up at the sky.

These memories were a comfort while he was away at sea. When he closed his eyes for a brief respite against the bustle of the crew, or the brutal sun beating down on his back as he tied the lines until ropes were burnt into his splintered skin, your face was behind his lids. Hanging over him like a rosary.

Billy found comfort in the image of those rosy cheeks and heart-melting smiles as he sat up in the crows nest. It was a particularly scalding day, he sighed wearily as he pushed his damp hair back, putting his hat back onto the smoothed locks. He held a barometer in his hands, Jesse was a particular stickler about keeping an eye on the air pressure.

Well. Atleast he wasn’t busting his ass on the deck, he thought as his gaze dropped to a few of his crew mates tying lines, mopping the wood and, what truly made Billy grin, Ollinger’s punishment of re-nailing the uneven screws in the floorboards. Served that bastard right.

“Feel sorry f’ya mama, Kid.” Bob had snorted, shaking his head as he leaned over the deck on his elbows. He was smoking from a pipe, the putrid smell curling Billy’s lip. He barely remembers what biting remark he even spat at the older man. Not like it made a difference.

“All that trouble f’ya t’just end up here?” Ollinger whistled, shaking his head. Billy’s nostrils flared. White hot anger was clawing at his core, toiling like a storm under his skin. “I bet that poor mick is rollin’ in ‘er grave.”

Billy drags a hand over his eyes and down his face, sighing heavily. The worst part was that Ollinger was probably right. His mother probably wouldn’t be happy with the path her son set out on. Well, her son wasn’t too pleased with himself either, so nobody’s happy.

He dreams of running off with you. He’s not even sure how it’d work. Maybe he’d build a special house for the two of you, half in the water and half above the ground. Billy would find a way. His future was brighter because you had come into his life, because there wasn’t a possible future for him without you in it. He’d live out of a dingy if it meant he could hold you close at night, live beside you, no matter what he had to do. If he could, he’d cut himself gills to live in your world.

From what you’ve told him, it’s a hell of a lot better than Billy’s world of gypsies, tramps and thieves. Of pirates and pillagers, rotten crooks and wry thieves.

Billy’s so caught up in his own head that he doesn’t notice the commotion on the deck below. It’s not until Dick calls up to him, climbing up the rope ladder halfway to get his attention, “Billy! Billy, come on down! You gotta see!”

“See what?” Billy whirled around, his forehead creasing as he peers down at his crewmate. But he’s already focusing on climbing down. He doesn’t even think to look out from the crows nest to see what’s going on down there before he’s coming down the ladder.

About halfway down he throws his head over his shoulder, the crew is crowded around the object of their attention, nearly blocking it from his view. But Billy’s got the altitude to see, and he nearly loses his grip on the ladder. His sapphire eyes are buggy and wild, his chest heaving in a raw kind of fear.

Writhing in a net, crying like a baby, a woman with dark hair, struggling ‘gainst the ropes as they scathe her bare skin. Her hips melt into iridescent scales. A mermaid.

A mermaid, caught in a net.

A mermaid, surrounded by pirates.

A mermaid, laughed and poked at as she cries.

Billy practically falls down the ladder more than he climbs down. He’s shoving aside his crew, gaping at the mermaid. He lets out a breath upon seeing that no, it’s not you, but it’s still a mermaid. Still somebody just like you, with lighter eyes and paler cheeks and darker scales, but just like you.

“Jess— Jesse, Jesse, what’re y’doin’? What’s this?” Billy scrambles to Jesse, the captain, the one eyeing the mermaid like a blank check to cash in.

A grin split Jesse’s face. “Bucket o’gold, Billy, that’s what this is!” Billy follows the blonde’s gaze to the mermaid again, terror painting her features. Her eyes are glassy and wide, trained on him. It puts bugs under his skin but he can’t make himself look away.

“What.. what d’you mean, Jesse, what’s.. What’re we doin’?” Billy feels as though his head is clouded, his mind hazy and his thoughts narrow. His eyes are buggy with a visceral horror.

Jesse does a double take to the younger man. “Well, what d’ya do when y’catch a mermaid?” The blonde grimaces as if Billy is the strange one here. Billy shakes his head, his voice dead in his throat, cut off by Jesse anyway, “Dick, Dick, nah, that ain’t good karma. C’mon now.”

“What?” Billy whips his head to look at his crewmate, wielding a cutlass with a slight curve to it. Like a scythe, he thinks lamely, picking the words out from the murky water he’s trudging in. The mermaid can’t seem to stop crying, saltwater pouring down her cherub cheeks as her chest heaves and brow furrows. She hardly notices as Dick undoes the ropes, looking up at Jesse, ignoring Billy completely.

“I thought they ain’t feel pain?” Dick huffed, carefully bringing the sword to the mermaid’s nape. Billy can’t tear his boots from their spot on the deck, he can’t move, he wants to scream for him to stop, but his tongue is cut from his mouth. He makes eye contact again with the woman.

“I think they do, heard somebody say they scream like crazy,” another crew member shrugged, Jesse grunting in agreement.

“Jess.. Jess, please, we ain’t gotta..” Billy pleads, turning to Jesse again with pleading eyes. Jesse shoots him a look with a sharp and clear purpose. Be quiet and don’t mess this up.

Her eyes are round and hazel, pleading for something he knows he could give, Billy knows he could do something, but at he same time he can’t. He can’t do a damn thing. And he knows he’ll hate himself to the day they pour dirt over his grave for it. “I mean, it’s kinda gruesome t’get straight to it anyhow.” Dick muses, as if they’re talking about how they take their tea.

“Get straight to what?” Billy breathes, blinking some haze from his vision. He can’t break away from the mermaid’s stare. Still, nobody is hearing the soft voice of the youngest man in their midst.

The blade moves, swipes, Billy’s eyes begin to water, because all he can see as he’s looking into this mermaid’s eyes is humanity.

How strange is that? To find something so human, something so familiar in somebody so mythical. Somebody nobody on this boat can find even a little bit of sympathy for.

(Would they find sympathy for you?)

Dick is clutching her locks in his hand a moment later, a whimper passing the woman’s lips. She wraps her own arms around herself tighter as the conversation about her body continues to pass around the men. “‘Cause the hair’s good luck.” Jesse explains beside Billy, an excited smile parting his lips.

Billy feels a sickening bile rising up his throat as he listens to the last wail the mermaid lets slip from her pinkened lips, the sound like a drizzle crashing into heavy, oppressive sheets of rain. Dick is pressing the blade against her jugular, her weeping dying in the air as the cutlass slices through her skin like a fin through water, vermillion and like sea foam bubbling at the crevice in her throat, staining the deck maroon.

He’s dizzy with it all, watching but not seeing thick blood spill. A brighter color than human blood, he thinks quite lamely. A passionate vermillion.

(What had her name been? Everything has a name, even when it leaves this world, but Billy supposes every name must also be forgotten.)

Billy blinks, granting tears passage down his cheeks. Jesse hasn’t a word to breathe about it.

(Was your blood that same hue? He didn’t want to know.)

Dick hands the cutlass off to Ollinger, Billy watches through hazy eyes, eyes that hardly feel like his own. The cutlass connects with her hip, where scale meets taupe skin, the sickening sound of blade cutting through tendon, bone and tissue. Sickeningly slow, the sword's wielder struggling to wedge the blade twixt her bones, wriggling the metal, cursing and shaking off a crewmate who offers his help. Skin tears like ripped linen and organs peeking like pearls in an oyster. Bile rises up Billy's throat, boots thump on wood, he vomits over the deck as screws his sapphire eyes shut to ignore the contents of his stomach floating away on the surface of the water like a carcass.

Her eyes are permanent carvings on the back of his eyelids, her weeping etched into his mind like the grooves of a music box's drum. Vermillion is a color that paints each crevice of his brain, the sight of a knife gutting a living, almost human being like a fish something no drink can wash away.

Billy feels a familiar ache for your warm hands on his arms, your fingertips scrubbing discontentment from his skin.

(Why didn't he do anything?)

But with a crashing wave of perturbation, some horrific thought is unearthed. What great danger is he putting you in, for his own selfish yearning for you? His love was a death sentence.

(Did you know the risks? Did you have any idea of what macabre gutting he just witnessed?)

All Billy knows, as his lips part to throw more bile into the rushing sea, is that he'd never forgive himself. You might. God may. But he would throw himself into the ocean, his body limp and resigned, he'd wave off passersby and call, "There ain't a point for me no more." He'd slit his arms vertical-like and let his body decompose into the sand, let the seagulls make dinner of his sun-freckled skin.

He's hunched over the railing like a beggar, purging his body of everything ailed until the only disease remains in his mind, behind his eyes, in shades of gray and striking vermillion. There is only one way, he decides, to keep his woman safe. To keep her eyes bright and her hair flowing, her heart content and most importantly beating. Billy will live with a broken heart if it means your own will go on.

A woman's body, mutilated and stained, cut at the hip and at the hair, crashes into the ocean like discarded refuse and sends sea spray into Billy's eyes.

It was the third day you laid in the sand, closing your eyes against the sun, perking your ears to the seagull's cawing and disappointing yourself with every glance down the shore.

Billy hadn't come to you in three days since his ship docked. You knew for yourself The Seven Rivers was at port, you'd watched it come into harbor with your own eyes. A handful of shells were clutched in your hand, your thumb brushing thoughtfully over the delicate ridges of one in particular. So very many questions had piled up in the corners of your mind. What were these spots and blotches appearing on your arms and shoulders? Your skin had been red and angry for a day, but now it was darkened, why was that? A word in one of the novels he'd given you; Totalitarianism, what did that mean?

But they all went unanswered, as the third day came and went listlessly. You watched the sun as it reclined in the sky, worry embedding itself into the deeper recesses of your heart. Could something have happened to him? Was he held up somewhere? You didn't want to consider that maybe, just maybe, he didn't want to meet you. Perhaps he was tired of you now, he'd had his fill, and moved on. Moved onto a girl he could hold in the night, a girl who fit better with him. A human girl.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine. You weren't sure what possessed you that night, the pearlescent moonlight drizzling over the basin of the sea or the unease brewing in your gut, willing you to glide through the navy waters, coaxing the bravery out of you as you swim to the marina, find his crew's boat, search for a slat in the side of the hull. What are you thinking, you wonder lamely as you peer over the desk, relieved that Billy'd been truthful when he told you he often took the night shift on deck. He'd admitted to you that it gave him a moment's respite to think. You feel a swell of relief at seeing his handsome face, illuminated by the moon as his eyes turn up to meet her demure light halfway.

But the relief doesn't come unscathed by the prying hands of doubt, her fingernails digging crescent moons into your arms. If he was alive, well and free, then why hadn't he come to see you? The Billy you loved wouldn't spend a moment away from you if he didn't have to. Unless his love had waned? Unless his heart was turning to face another's? Unless he didn't want you anymore?

You swallowed down a dry sob, the very thought of such a tender love being gifted to you just to be torn from your hands was earth shattering. Billy wouldn't just be stolen from your grip, but ripped from your heart, the deep sutures keeping him stitched into the fabric of your being ripped apart for you to bleed away, sink to the bottom of the sea. The worst part? He'd still be out there, out somewhere in the world, just not with you. Living, but not at your side. Existing, just out of reach.

Your name spoken in a hushed tone snapped you out of your thoughts. You lift your gaze from the wood of the deck to see Billy's large frame looming over you, those sapphire eyes bright even when swaddled in the darkness of midnight. They dart over you, you think you see a shine to them, before he reaches over the railing to lift you by under the arms. You don't protest as he hoists you to sit on the railing. Billy's hands clutch at your arms long after you're steady, your name falling from his lips again like a prayer.

"You're here." He breathed, his brows lifting and a faint smile crossing his lips. His hands smooth over your arms as if to assure himself you're material, you won't blow away like sand under his fingers.

You nodded simply, a strange feeling brewing. A feeling you've never had to name before now, and now that the time's come, you aren't sure what to call it. "Where have you been, Billy?" His expression falters at your whisper. "I've been waiting for you, and you never came."

Billy shakes his head, lips pressing almost nervously. "I couldn't. M' sorry, I wanted to, but... you shouldn't be here." You could name the feeling now as it licked at your insides like flame. Indignation.

"What do you mean?" You huff, curling your lip and drawing your brows.

Billy throws a glance over his shoulder as if he expects a bear to come up from the depths of the boat, ignoring your question. “You need to go, baby.”

When he turns back to you, his eyes avoid yours. Could his sentiments have changed so quickly that he can hardly look at you? It's oil on the fire in your belly. "You could have at least told me to my face if you didn't want this anymore!"

You watch as horror plays across Billy's face. His eyes, the deepest cerulean, a color you'd found endless comfort in, are buggy and wide as they fall on yours, his nostrils flaring, you guess to fight off the growing shine of those eyes. He shakes his head adamantly, hands roaming upward, one to your shoulder, the other to the back of your head, finger's carded in your wet hair. "I'll want you forever. You won't get it, baby, that's fine, but even when you ain't with me, you're with me. I love you more than anything in this world. Don't you doubt that."

There he goes. It's a bucket of ice water, dousing your anger, replacing it with a shiver. You wrap your arms around yourself, discovering that dripping hair and wet skin didn't bode well against the cold night's wind. You think Billy might kiss you, might press his lips to yours in the flurry aftermath of his confession, but he only stares. After a moment he pulls away from you, to your dismay, shrugging off the maroon cardigan over his button-up. Tenderly, with a lingering brush of fingers against your shoulders, he pulls the warm fabric around you. You murmur a soft thanks, he only nods.

"If you love me," Billy nods once again, taking the chance to wrap his arms around you, your tail wetting the calf of his trousers, "then why haven't you come to see me? I thought.. I thought you didn't like me anymore. Or that you'd been hurt." You whisper, your cheek finding a home on his shoulder.

Billy's strong palm rubs up and down your back over the cardigan, his other hand pulling your hair out of the neck and combing his hands through the tresses. Oh, how you missed those hands. You watch his Adams apple bob as he swallows hard, his voice gruff, "I just... I don't wanna put you in danger, sugar."

"Danger?" You snake your own arms around his back, feeling the firm expanse of him. Finding comfort in it.

"I..." Billy hesitates a moment before he goes on, his resolve melting away in your presence. "I saw somethin'. The other day. N'.. It was terrible." A soft breath is sighed into your hair. Your hand drifts to his arm, squeezing him in what you hope is a comforting gesture. "I can't stop thinkin' 'bout it." Billy admits in a whisper.

You push your cheek closer to his neck, his stubble scratching your forehead, a familiar and warm sensation. "What'd you see?"

The air is silent as the night is navy. Billy holds you just a bit closer to his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. You were strong, you could handle the truth of the image stained behind Billy's eyelids. But an overwhelming need to keep you safe from the world surges in him, a duty to trim all thorns that could prick you. In fact, he knows he'd let you use his own chest as a shield, take a bullet, an arrow, a cannonball, it truly didn't matter to him; if it was for you, he would swallow them all.

He simply can't choke out the words. You'd want nothing to do with him after they broke the threshold of his lips. He can bear it on his own, he tells himself. "You don't wanna know."

A frown creases your face. You pull away from his chest, it feels like tugging at two magnets. "If it's about me, then I need to know." You murmur, shaking your head. Your hands roam over his shoulders aimlessly until they find themselves cupping his face. Billy's gaze falls, avoiding yours. Absently he draws his cardigan closer around your frame, thought tightening his expression. "What'd you see, Billy?"

Your thumb rubbing over the stubble on his cheek crumbles his resolve as if it had been made of nothing. Nothing at all, in the face of your gentle soul. "They caught a mermaid." Billy's eyes search yours for a sign that you might show him mercy, let his voice die in his throat. You don't, and so he goes on. "N' killed her. Slit her throat and they.. Cut 'er at the hip. Jesse's finding a buyer for the tail."

You feel, suddenly, like you swallowed an anchor. Your face goes lax, but the rest of you tense. Billy nods, whispers lowly and draws you back into his arms, "I know, I know, baby." He nestles a kiss into your hair. "I know."

It put a feeling under your skin that you couldn't scrub away; you had a price tag. Men'd kill you and sell you like an animal, like you hadn't a heart to feel, eyes to see, a mind to wonder. How could it be? Billy held you like a bird, a hollow-boned and delicate little thing, yet what he told you confirmed your mother's warnings. Men were vicious creatures, money clouding their sense. In a sea of dirt and pollution, your Billy was a sapphire.

You hadn't realized just how rare of a thing you possessed until now.

"Is that why.. You stopped coming?" You whisper against the fabric of his button-up, his musk filling your nostrils soothingly. Billy grunts in confirmation. Another kiss is dropped to your scalp.

"S' safer for you, sweet girl." Billy mumbles, though you hear the reluctance. "M' bad news."

"Is it wrong to say I don't care?" You fist your hands in his shirt, the material soft under your grip. He sighs your name, you can sense the impending conversation, so you rush to cut him off. "I don't want to be without you. I don't care what the risks are."

"I care," Billy huffs, but he only holds you tighter. "I don't want to ever, ever see you in a net. I'd-- I'd kill myself before I let that happen."

You lift your head from his chest. His aquiline nose bumps yours as he looks down at you, his brows drawn taut. "Then we'll be careful."

"Baby-"

"No. I'm not letting this go. Not letting you go." You shake your head hurriedly. Your voice is firmer than you thought it could possibly be. Billy's eyes dart twixt yours, his lips pressing together.

"You know what you're riskin'." He murmurs, his calloused fingers brushing a wild strand of hair behind your ear. You nod. "And you still wanna be with me? You'd still choose me?" Billy huffs, eyebrows lifted and a faint, almost self-deprecating smile playing at his lips.

You allow a smile to grow on your cheeks. Because it's true, true from the deepest crevice of your heart, true from the furthest reaches of your soul. Of all the things you've found on the Earth, of all the flowers, of all the birds, of the sun, moon and the constellations, this is the most precious thing. This was something worth dying for, you thought with a rosy lightness as you press a kiss to Billy’s lips.

Every time, the kiss said. Put a million beautiful things at my feet, and I will choose you, every time.

#billy the kid #tom blyth #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid x you #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid pirate au #pirate billy x mermaid reader #pearls in the sand #billy the kid imagines #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid series

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bunny-jpeg · 11 months ago

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by the fire - astarion ancunin

pairing: astarion ancunin x fem!reader rating: 18+ summary: ”Astarion.“ You said, ”C'mere."

He looked at you and he saw what was in your hand. You were holding a small pouch and between your pointer and middle finger was a small pipe. His red eyes looked at you and he smiled, “I see someone was expecting to have fun tonight.”

tags: pwp, drug use (d&d weed), outdoor sex, exhibitionism, high sex, sloppy sex, 2.7k words a/n: don't do drugs

”Astarion.“ You said, ”C'mere."

While most thought that it was just grass, the herbs that grew south of the nearby town could be smoked. And In all honesty, you enjoyed the after effects of it, even if it left you with a small headache come morning.

It was just the two of you, all alone in the big forest. Might as well have a little fun.

The fire was bright as you two sat on the shared bed roll together. You had the pipe, a pack of matches and the herbs. Astarion was already on you as you tried to put the ground up herbs into the pipe.

“You're going to make me spill it, asshole.“ You giggled as his teeth scraped your neck. You couldn't be mad at him for long.

He used to be prudish towards your consumption of something more recreational, that was until he had your blood. It turned out that the high could be passed if he drank your blood. While you smoked it, he simply had a sip of that sweet blood.

You used the match to light the pipe. You inhaled and your mouth filled with smoke. You coughed as you exhaled, the pungent smell of the smoke filled the air. As you coughed you tried to hand the pipe over to your lover.

He chuckled, ”No, no, I'll get my taste when I bite you.“ He smirked against your neck before he threatened to bite down on the skin.

You took another inhale and felt a shiver run through your body. You felt in a daze by the third hit. You were certain whatever lived in these woods could smell your good time. While wine was nice, as was mead, there was something about getting your hands on the herbs. It was a special occasion.

You felt a throb in your core by the time you were done. Everything felt like it had a soft hue to it. You were clearly not in a focused state of mind. You gasped when Astarion kissed your neck again.

”Astarion.“ You said quietly.

”I know, I can smell your blood.“ He smirked, ”So sweet, it made me almost lose control. Sometimes I want to devour you entirely. He could taste the high in your blood before he took his taste.

You giggled and fell to the side onto the bedroll. You laughed even harder which made Astarion pull away and stare down at you. You covered your face with your hands as you felt the heat rise in your cheeks.

You heard about people who could do many things while high, but not you. You ended up in a mess of giggles and beyond turned on. But Astarion was more than happy to relieve that.

“Look at me, my love.” He smiled down at you. He moved the pipe away from your hand so you wouldn't burn yourself. Those red eyes only seemed brighter by the campfire, “Look at me.” He said softly.

You marginally moved your hands away from your face so you could look at him. You noticed his eyes before anything which made you swallow. Your heart skipped a beat.

“I thought it took a while to take effect.”

“I think I took too much.“ You replied, ”I was given a lot. Now every time I look at you I can't help but laugh. You're making me blush.”

He crowded your space and gently kissed your cheek, “Well then, let me help you with that. Be a good girl and stay still for me.”

“Astarion.“ You drawled out but before you could cover your face again, he pinned your arms to the bed roll and went for your neck. You moaned loudly at the sensation of his digging into your neck.

You gripped onto the bed roll under you and arched your back. It made your pulse quicken from the sensation and felt like it was stuffing cotton in your brain.

”Shit.“ You moaned as you pressed your body against your lover. Your breathing was ragged as he had his fill of your blood. You heard him moan against your neck.

He held onto you tightly as he feasted. He could feel the high in his system. This was so much more efficient than smoking. He rubbed his clothed cock up against you as he sank his teeth deeper.

You whimpered, knowing there would be a bruise in the morning. You felt a bit of blood drip into the collar of your shirt. You clung to the bedroll as he finished up his drink.

He groaned against your skin and rested his head against you. He felt the pulse under his lips. He licked at the wound gently to stop the bleeding. His breathing was heavy as he gathered the last bit of blood on his tongue.

He threw his head back and exhaled, ”Shit." He panted before he looked down at you. His pupils looked bigger than before and there was a haze in his gaze at you. He let go of your wrist and brushed a hand through his hair. ”Perfect.” He said.

You swallowed and let him touch you gently. His hand quivered as he touched your face, you leaned into the touch and gazed up at him. You felt your heart in your throat.

”You are perfect.“ His lips were a little more loose as he felt the effects of the drugs in his system. He exhaled deeply, ”I mean it, I look at you and I see the whole world in front of me.“ He smiled, ”I can't get enough of you.“

“You’re such a sweet talker.” You giggled, “You just want to get in my pants.” You moaned when he placed one last kiss on you. When he pulled away you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him in for another searing kiss.

Astarion looked at you with lust in his eyes when he eventually pulled away. Under the light of the fire, he had an expression on his face that made it very clear that he was inebriated. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he started to get his shirt off. He exposed the scars of his back to the open night air.

You swallowed and reached out for him. You draped your arms around his neck, you felt some of the scar tissue under your fingertips. You relaxed onto the bedroll as you watched him toss the shirt to the side. Your eyes met once more and you smiled.

You felt the high course through you as you laid there. The night air felt nice against your heated skin. You breathed deeply as you felt a slight pain in your lungs from smoking. You touched the scars on his back when he came closer once more.

“Let us get out of our clothes. I feel like we’ll be more comfortable.”

You smiled and kissed him once more. The high became more intense once you parted. He gave you room to get your clothes. He gazed at your naked body for a brief moment before he started to undress further, you had to help him as the high made it a little difficult to keep balanced.

Once he was nude, your eyes lingered down between his legs. His cock was impressive, a little under eight inches and rather thick. He was erect which only made it slightly more intimidating. But you weren’t afraid, in your high state, you were elated by the size of it.

“Does my love like what she sees?” He asked as he reached down and grazed a finger across your jaw, “I can see it in your eyes, you want me.” He chuckled, that soon became a full laugh, “You look like a lost puppy who needs cock.”

You blushed, “It’s not like that. I love you, Astarion. For more than just your body.” You moaned when he closed the gap between you too and left kisses all over your chest. Your nipples grew hard from the sensation as he cupped your breasts in his hands. You kicked out your leg slightly but he kept you down on the bedroll.

He groaned against your heated skin as he felt pre-cum drip down from the tip of his cock. His kisses were plentiful as he scattered them across your chest. He sighed before he continued kissing. He eventually focused his attention on your right nipple which he gazed at with his fangs which made the bud harder.

You yelped and tried to move back but he kept you pinned. He dropped his hips against your thigh where he rubbed his cock up against you in anticipation for what was to come. He could feel the throb in his body as he sucked your nipple. He eventually left it bruised before he went to the other one.

“Stay still.” He said quietly. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth before he went back to pleasing you via your chest.

You moaned, “Please, Astarion. It feels so good.” Your voice was so meek and small, it aroused his further. Your nails dug into his back as he licked your nipple with broad strokes of his tongue. You could feel the stutter in your heartbeat the more he pleasured you.

“I want you.” He said, 'You have given me the best high of my life.’ He nipped your chest, careful not to break the skin. Any more blood and he would sleep a lot earlier than he hoped. With one last kiss over the center of your chest before he pulled away.

He gazed down at you as his chest rapidly rose and fell. He pushed the hair out of his eyes before he grabbed you by the waist and rubbed his cock up against you. He could feel heat settle in his body as his cock throbbed for you. He wanted you, he needed you more than he needed air.

You held onto the bedroll under you and let him guide you in the position he needed you in. You hooked your legs around his waist as he rubbed his erection against you. He teased you for a little bit, then built the anticipation for sex. He was always theatrical like that.

“Do you like that, my love?” He asked. He felt fuzzy all over, but his cock felt painful. He knew he couldn’t keep the teasing up for much longer or else he wasn’t going to last. He swallowed back a hard groan as he felt the wetness between your legs.

“I do.” You whimpered. The high was a thrum in your body, paired with the pleasure of sex you felt almost dizzy. You squeezed your eyes shut as you felt him insert his cock inside of you. But once he was all the way in, you were able to relax.

“Shit.” He sighed, “You feel so good.” His hands were back on your chest as he started to thrust in and out of you. His aw tensed for a moment as he felt the pleasure pool in his gut. Sweat cooled on his back as he massaged your breasts.

You whimpered and moaned loudly in the night air. You tried to meet his pace with quick rolls of your hips. Your eyes squeezed shut once more as you repeatedly moaned out his name. You felt excitement for being so intimate with him.

The heat consumed your body as you rutted against him. Your nipples remain hard as the two of you move against one another in a situation of passion. The high in your body only heightened the pleasure between you too.

His eyes were on your breasts as they moved with each thrust. He licked his lips at the sight of them. You looked like a dream. You were his in every sense of the word. Mind, body and soul. But you had the same as him in return. Bound together like a pair of souls. Linked until the end of days.

He craned his neck to look at your face. He got closer until he was kissing you once more. You could taste the residue of your blood in his mouth. Which in turn made your pulse race. Your toes curled in your socks as the pleasure built up between you two. He raked his nails down your chest and abdomen as he moved. You gasped into the kiss as his cock hit just the right spots. You left red lines on his back as you tighten your legs around his waist.

Out in the woods, just the two of you in an uncompromising position. Any being could see what you were doing by the campfire light. Out in the open.

Your head felt abuzz, the high was starting to taper off due to the rush of blood in your body and the movements of sex. But the high of sexual pleasure kept you feeling content. You loved having sex with your lover, your Astarion.

The hard ground was tough on your back, but the intimacy with your partner made up for it. You felt the edge of orgasm creep up on you. Your heartbeat quickened as his cock dragged against your inner folds.

The kiss continued, he left them all over your face with special attention to your lips till they felt tender to the touch. You panted wildly, you clenched around him. Your grip was tight on him as he thrusted his cock into you.

“Astarion.”

“My love.”

Two lovers, it was that simple.

You moaned into his kisses, your arms dropped to the bedroll and kept a tight hold of it as you arched. With a few more thrusts of your lover’s hips, you clenched around him tightly and climaxed. You let out a loud moan as you came.

He admired your beauty as you climaxed. A cold shiver of excitement went through his body. He held onto your hips, feeling the soft flesh, as he started to thrust inside of you. The overstimulating of him fucking you left you almost squealing from the heightened feeling.

Your head spun as he continued to move. You could hear his heavy breathing but your head felt full of nothing. Everything had a heightened yet fuzzy feeling to it as the strength of the herbs plus the pleasure made its way through your body. You laid there while he fucked you, unable to do much but accept the continued pleasure from Astarion.

He humped against you, his cock ached with a want for a climax. His breathing was heavy and he felt sweaty in the open forest air. He continued to bounce you off his cock as he attempted to achieve orgasm. He could almost feel your hammering heartbeat as the two of you fucked under the stars.

A vampire and his lover, having sex like animals under the vast night sky. It made him smile briefly and with one last hard thrust he finished inside of you. He let out a hiss through his teeth as he released into you, and painted your insides white.

He dropped your hips and almost fell on top of you as he managed to steady himself. The rush of the high and of the sex left him feeling dizzy for a moment. His mouth felt dry as he let out a harsh cough in an attempt to come to his senses once more.

Soon you both made yourselves comfortable on the bedroll. You had no intention of getting dressed just yet, you laid there admiring your naked beauty. You occasionally kissed even though your lips felt numb. He rubbed your ass in small circles as he held you.

“We should get dressed or else we’ll pass out like this.” You said drowsily.

“I’d usually say who cared, but the idea of someone seeing you this way makes me feel a little… Jealous.”

You giggled and yawned, “Never change, my Astarion, never change.”

#bunny writes #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate #bg3 x reader #bg3 x you #baldurs gate astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #baldurs gate 3 #astarion x you #astarion smut

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clitorises · 1 year ago

Text

You’re leaning back against my chest, hands bound in front of you, head resting back against my shoulder. Your eyes are half-lidded already, your breathing slow and rhythmic, the smell of sweat and smoke heavy in the air.

I’m holding your pipe in my right hand, my nails deep red and offset against the dark wood, while my left hand slides up your side, fingers splayed over your bare chest. I hold the pipe up to your lips. Again. You’re so obedient, and my head tips back with pleasure as I feel your ribs expand beneath my fingers, lungs filling, hesitating at the top of the breath before you exhale, smoke spiraling from between your pink lips—you snuggle closer, pressing your back into me as I dig my nails into your side, praising you softly. I feel you shudder as my hand trails down your body, my fingers barely teasing under the waistband of your briefs before your hips start to rock. Please—

I pull my hand back and lift your pipe to your open mouth. Again.

Your hips don’t stop their slow, smooth thrusts into nothing as you inhale. I chuckle against your ear as my hand slides from your side to your bicep, trailing up over your shoulder, nails skimming your collarbone before wrapping around your throat at the bottom of your exhale. You let out a long, delicious whine, and I tighten my grip, letting myself suck your earlobe, the first time I’ve put my mouth on you since tying you up. Your whole body reacts, your hips pitching as you moan, and I feel your heart racing under my fingers as I set your pipe down beside us and begin teasing the waistband of your briefs again. You squirm when I snap the elastic, and I can’t help giggling. You’re cute when you’re this pathetic. As soon as I touch your cunt over your briefs you start grinding up into my hand, and I pull back sharply—be still, baby—but my voice catches a little, and I can feel lust curling in my core just from feeling your hard clit through the fabric. Be still. I touch you again, licking and nipping at your jaw as my hand cups your soaked cunt, the fabric slick and hot, and as you shiver from the effort of resisting thrusting into my hand I let my eyes fall closed, feeling the weight of your body, soft and pliant, leaning back against me. My hands roam all over you as my mouth moves to your neck, sucking hungrily as you writhe from the sensation, curses turning into wordless moans as I dig my nails into your thighs, raking up to your hips.

My hands find the ropes binding your wrists, and I untie you slowly, murmuring in your ear while you pant from anticipation—I love making you this stupid for me, baby, that’s my brainless fucktoy—and I take my time massaging your wrists and hands before roughly shoving you out of my lap, turning you until you’re facing me—kneeling between my legs, looking up at me with a blissful and empty expression. Your cheeks and neck are beautifully flushed, pupils dilated, mouth slightly open as you pant, your eyes flicking from my face to my cunt as I slowly spread my legs.

Think you’ve earned it?

It’s your choice, Goddess.

I lean forward, hooking my finger under the padlock that hangs from a chain around your neck. It’s warm from your skin, and I tighten my grip around it as I tug you forward to kiss you, tasting the smoke in your soft mouth. My other hand moves to your hair, tangling and pulling as I start to suck your tongue, your mouth falling open as my head bobs. You whine against my lips, lost in the sensations as I claim you.

When I pull away I don’t give you a chance to catch your breath before I yank you forcefully by the hair into my cunt, and you dutifully run your tongue up my slit, moaning as you taste my arousal, nose bumping against my throbbing clit as you take my soft labia into your mouth, tugging gently, sucking, pressing your face tighter against me, my wetness spreading across your face. Each soft sound vibrates across my folds, and I tighten my grip on your hair, wrapping my legs around your head as your tongue finds my center, plunging in deep as I gasp—you’re so easy for me, dumb cuntdrunk slut, your mouth is mine, fuck…

Your eyes are closed, lost in service. I know every sensation is intensified for you, every touch and taste, your mind blissfully empty of anything but pleasure. I spread my legs again, freeing your shoulders as I reach for the side table, my fingers wrapping around the lighter and deep red candle that wait for me there.

I feel you smile against my cunt when you hear the lighter flick.

The wait for the wax to pool feels like an eternity, but as I tip the candle over your shoulder, watching the scarlet hit your freckled skin, the sound you make makes it worth it. You press your forehead to my inner thigh, your fingers digging into my hips, eyes screwed shut with pain and pleasure. I can barely look away from you, the expressions you make each time I drip more wax onto your back and shoulders are so delicious, your mouth open, your skin glistening with my wetness—mine—and when I’m not watching your face I’m watching your hips, your neglected cunt dripping in your briefs as you thrust into nothing.

Say thank you.

Your eyes are adoring when you look up. Thank you.

I tip the candle over and over, turning your shoulders into a bloodied landscape of peaks and valleys, reveling in your reactions each time the burning heat strikes your skin. Your hands move over my thighs in worshipful strokes, your moans muffled by my cunt filling your mouth. I stroke your hair with my free hand, murmuring—you like being my toy?—and your soft mhmm sends a little shiver up my body.

Touch yourself for me, baby. You moan with relief, and I start thrusting up into your mouth as I watch you… you look so good on your knees with a hand down your briefs, rubbing your hard clit as you suck mine, shoulders covered in hardening wax. That’s my perfect slut… fuck me, be a good dildo for me, be my easy fucktoy…

The sensation of sliding your fingers into my hot, dripping cunt, my clit throbbing on your tongue as your other hand rubs yours, every sensation intensified by your high, pushes you over the edge, and you come with my folds filling your mouth, shaking as I wrap my legs tightly around your head. You’re shuddering, panting.

Who does your cunt belong to?

You, Goddess. It’s yours.

All mine to play with. I tug roughly on your hair, making you squeak before I lean down to kiss your forehead. Get back in my lap—I’m not done playing with you yet.

#c.txt #intox #butch sub #domme femme

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