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teastyun · 4 months ago

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˚➶ ｡˚ love letter to my nemesis (NSFW)

the original sexual tension between you and your nemesis Abby drastically changed into an uncomfortable and unbearable one... who knew that hooking up with your arrogant and rude leader in your dorm would lead into you two avoiding each other completely?

after you finished putting on your uniform, you exit your dorm and head straight over to the community bathroom to wash yourself as quickly as you can, while you try to avoid any clumsy actions caused by your sleepiness. you're running unusually late and your anxiety causes you to miss your toothbrush as you try to squirt toothpaste on it, frustrating you even further.

frustrated by Abby's usual but unnecessary teasing that night, you grab her arm and pull her out of the hallway she teasingly catcalled you as your two walked past each other into different directions. you're unsure of what room you just entered with Abby's muscular arm gripped by your hand, but its door closed and only a small red light above the door accentuated Abby in front of you. pressing her against the door, you watch her eyes drilling into yours, drifting down to your lips as her breath becomes undone. in contrast to her teasing catcalling, her hands carefully touched your waist. before you know it, you two are heavily making out against a door with your arms linked around her neck, moaning and whimpering into your kiss, before she picks you up by your thighs to put you on any surface nearby.

last night you and your friends went to an annual party hosted by the WLF regime, where you met everyone who was off-duty. you and your friends had a great time dancing, singing and playing games as you consumed a few beverages you rarely get to drink in your free time. looking up into the mirror in front of you as you brush your teeth, you notice a hickey peeking from underneath your black tee. horrified of what's visible, you quickly finish off your bathroom session to head back into your dorm to grab a jacket to cover up any more bruises before you finally head off to your shift.

caging her in with your legs around her hips, your head falls back as you moan from the pleasure of her sucking and biting several spots on your neck and shoulder. your hand wanders into her blonde hair, pulling on her braid for her to stop, so you could continue kissing her silly, before your mouth wanders down her jawline to press kisses against all of her facial features. you grind your hips into her crotch as a shudder runs through her body. lifting your shirt over your head, her hands find your braless breasts and knead them as she kisses you hungrily. she bites your lower lip as both her hands pinch your nipples, almost making you scream in an unlocked room with you and your known nemesis on you.

arriving at today's station, you notice everyone lined up and listening to the person in front of them speaking. as you got closer and followed the other's line-up, you see Abby telling about today's agenda as she sees you for a bare second.

breaking the kiss, her light eyes pierce yours deeply with hunger and lust, making you press your chest into her hands again. she squeezes them for one final time. her other hand slips down to the zipper of your jeans, opening it quickly, as she bites down on your nipple. you choke on the sudden sensation of her biting your breast and teasing your clit through your thin underwear with thick fingers damped by your wet underwear.

it starts to rain, dampening your thick uniform and messing up the quick hairstyle you managed to do on your way to your station. nonetheless, you follow whatever Abby is saying, but you can't stop remembering every single thing you two did last night at the sound of her voice.

the moans would escape your lips as Abby starts fucking you beneath your underwear, where her palm grazes your clit so teasingly. she tells you to shut, so you moan louder to tease her concern, but she quickly shuts you up by kissing you roughly, eating up any moans that were supposed to leave your mouth as she fucks you harder and harder against the sweet spot deep inside of you. you see stars as your first orgasm that night fully overrides your senses.

you observed Abby as she assigned positions to the soldiers in front of her. tucked neatly away, her hair looks newly braided. a few flyaways curl from the rain around her face, which she pushed away with her free hand as the other held today's damp green notes. there are no signs of the lack of sleep you two got last night, except for the redness beneath her freckles. finishing her rant, everyone went to their assigned vehicles along their mates, leaving you in confusion. wait, what was today's job? fuck, you didn't listen.

screaming as you see stars, she doesn't stop her fingers' movements, but she abruptly stops kissing you to tell you again to be quiet. you're too blissed out to form any words at the second, so you grab her forearm to stop her. opening your eyes, you ask her to take you to your room, but you need a second to feel your legs again before you two head to your empty dorm.

looking around for any clues on where to go, you see Abby walking up to you with another stack of paper. you feel your heart racing in your chest as she got closer and closer. without saying anything, she hands you the stack of paper, which contains several tasks for your job inside the stadium today. you got the position where you help out in any required station, meaning you're mostly on your own for today, helping out at the armoury, military mechanics and feeling stations. she finally looks into your eyes, seemingly searching for any hints of objection on your side. too shy to communicate in any way, you take the papers and head straight to your first area, away from her and the rain, working until late in the afternoon as your shift ends.

entering your dorm, she pulls you in for another kiss by your waist. this time she kisses you delicately, almost as if she never wants it to stop by letting her hands cup your face so tenderly and sincere. in contrast to her kiss, she firmly presses you against your desk with a view over the lid stadium. she breaks the kiss by pulling off your shirt over your head again and turns you around to face the big window. leaving several kisses down your spine, she tells you how desperately she needs to fuck you from behind and how everyone should see you fucked prettily by your own leader. moaning at the thought, you support yourself on the desk as you feel your jeans and underwear go off in one go, the slick of your heat sticking against your inner thighs. you hear her breathing become more audible before she massages your butt with her firm hands, teasing your core as she got closer and closer. you whine at her teasing and she tells you to be patient, remembering that the night is still young and that she wants to fuck you in every single spot in your dorm tonight. her other hand cups your face, so she could peck your lips before she sucks and bites hickeys on your shoulder as her fingers start fucking you from a different angle this time. it's even better than before, leaving you a moaning mess, crying her name over and over again as she speeds up her fingers inside of you and teases your nipple with the other hand. your second orgasm took you by surprise, making your arms betray you in supporting you. Abby holds you up to fuck you through your second orgasm, telling you how good you are for her and how much she loves hearing you scream her name. it was already your second orgasm in such. short amount of time that night, and Abby made sure you two would have several more until dawn was visible at your windows.

opening the lock to your dorm, you notice a folded peace of paper laying on your dorm's greyish floor. it's the green notes from earlier, but the back of it seems to be handwritten on. someone slipped it through the little crack beneath your door;

dear y/n, hello y/n,

Fuck, I sound so cringe writing you a letter on the back of my notes. As you can tell, I'm not gifted with words of affirmation or whatever people express in any type of letter to someone you have a deep complicated connection with. Anyway, I'd like you to know that I don't regret what happened last night and I'm sorry for leaving you alone this morning. I panicked and left as fast as I can to prevent any rejection awkwardness between us. Guess where we are now. I hope I can make it up to you somehow. Fuck, I can't stop thinking about how beautiful you look just standing there in the rain as you looked around as everyone went on. And shit, the pretty sounds you make when I fucked you and the gloss of your lips everytime we kissed. I can't believe I'm telling you all of this. I'd love to see you again and I hope I didn't complicate things between us with this letter.

I'm in my dorm at 8pm in case you wanna talk about it, Manny is out with his cook weather chick. And if you do, make sure to call in sick for tomorrow. You won't be able to walk.

truly yours, Abby

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francixoxoxo · 5 months ago

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⋆.˚ Rose Gold ᡣ𐭩 ୨ৎ

𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐗 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭 𝟏𝟐 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭. ��𝐞’𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!! 🫶🫶

Ballet seemed to be the only way for you.

Your feet were molded to fit into slippers, never mind if your toes were bruised and broken. You were gratefully blessed with thick hair, because years of updos would have thinned it to a rag-doll’s amount otherwise. You grew used to the dull ache of an empty stomach. Your body was made to be tugged and bent and manipulated without so much as a complaint, you were made to push every comfortable limit. You were born to sacrifice comfort for greatness.

Coriolanus had recognized that greatness since you were children. He saw that immense talent, as he sat in the very back of the theater in a seat you’d begged your director to provide. You’d been so young, at the first show you brought him to. Perhaps just twelve. But so, so magnetically beautiful.

The stage was your Eden, Coryo could tell from the start. The dainty way you moved, the way your brows pulled taught in an expression equally as emotional as the dance. He couldn’t peel his eyes off you, clearly the company could see that was the overwhelming sentiment because you got most of the lead parts. You were their prima ballerina, and you deserved every ounce of the praise for your bone-cracking work.

Coryo, even in your academy days together when he could hardly afford a half-decent tie, never came empty handed to your shows (which he seemed to always find a way to attend). He always had a bouquet of flowers for you, the bright tulips you adored or soft pink peonies to match your tutu. It was always worth it to see the way your eyes lit up.

It was needless to say that Coryo fell in love with the beautiful-souled, elegant ballerina. How could he not, after years of being so close to you?

Tigress and you were the ones to teach him how to dance for his first prom, his cousin not-so-discreetly recording Coryo learning to dance the lead with his “little girlfriend” in the Snows’ apartment. (Coriolanus had protested to that nickname, claiming you were a “friend who was a girl.”) He still remembered the feeling of your waist under his hand as you gracefully moved, stark contrast to himself. More embarrassingly he still remembered you and Tigress had both broken into giggles at Coryo’s unrelenting stiffness. He liked to think he was a better dancer now.

You’d been the one to walk with him to the library, if only to check out classical dance magazines into your backpack while he studied. You’d always leave early for ballet lessons. He knew you were a hard worker, dedicated to your craft. But Coryo hadn’t known the half of it.

Once, he recalled, you’d gone straight to the changing room instead of coming to greet your father or Coriolanus. He’d been puzzled, holding his bunch of white roses in the crook of his arm and asking the other dancers what’d happened. They’d only shrugged. So he might have snuck behind stage, confident that the rest of the ballerinas were still taking photos and chatting with family, and knocked on the changing room door.

“Yes?” Your voice rang out, croaky and raw. His heart had dropped at the sound.

“It’s just me. Can I come in?” Coryo called to you, his ear to the door. You shuffled around before opening the door yourself.

Just as he’d expected, your eyes were red and blotchy, mascara running. You’d taken out the comb in your hair but not the updo itself. Your tutu, though you’d been raised and reprimanded to take extreme care of the company’s accessory, was discarded on the floor beside your ballet slippers. As Coryo stared down at you, hips brows furrowing in concern, you stood in your pale pink leotard and snow-white tights. Through the sheer fabric he could see the bandages around your feet, scabs reopened and bleeding through the gauze to your tights.

You’d sniffled. “It’s fine. It wouldn’t show under the slippers.” As if that was his cause of worry. You stepped aside to let him into the dressing room, stiffly sitting himself down on a mauve chaise. He set the roses beside him.

“Are you all right?” Coryo cooed, watching you as you sat beside him. You pulled your knee to your chest with your foot on the upholstery.

You shook your head. “I made a mistake on my pirouette en dehors.” You wiped your eyes, spreading more mascara onto your cheeks. Coryo just stared, so you swallowed down the lump in your throat. And yet still your voice was meek and raw. “The spin. I ended it far too early, made a fool of myself. Nearly fell over, too!”

Coriolanus shook his head, watching you tear your updo down and shake out your hair with a roughness all too aggressive for his liking. He reached for your hand. “I thought you did amazing.”

“Because you don’t know ballet!” You bawled, your lips pulling in a grimace as more tears poured down your rosy cheeks. It was evil of Coryo to think, but he couldn’t deny you were pretty when you cried. “Oh, Coryo, I’ve never danced so sloppy in my life! And there was a critic in the house!”

He didn’t get it one bit. You were lovely. Every ballerina adored your kind nature or was jealous of your undeniable talent. You’d entranced him, mind, body and soul, with every move you made— on and off stage. He hadn’t realized how much effort it took to look, well, effortless.

It was then that Coriolanus realized just how hard you worked, just how much of your life ballet consumed. And he adored you more for it, as he folded you into his arms and promised you were a born star.

For years, you flourished. Your grace was unmatched, the emotion you could convey in the simplest of movements spoke volumes in a medium that used no words. You had the loving care and support of your father, your mother long gone. Coryo provided a kind of companionship that was invaluable. You were, with no exaggeration, a star.

When Coryo became a mentor for the Hunger Games, you saw him a bit less. It was all right, you supposed. You were busy too. Though, it did sting when he didn’t attend your ballet company’s performance of Appalachian Spring. The only show he had ever missed. After the news of his cheating in the Games and his relationship with Lucy Gray got out, it was only salt in the wound.

You weren’t sure why you expected letters from him when he was sent to the Districts. Life went on, you supposed. Even though you sorely missed seeing his face in the crowd, which seemed to only diminish.

The company was failing. They were holding on, grasping at straws, under the immense pressure of closing. That just about ripped your heart to shreds. And, as if the world was endlessly trying to knock you down, your father fell fatally ill. Dead within the month.

Ballet was the only way for you. But without your father’s support, and (though your family name had never been particularly prestigious) no social standing, other companies were reluctant to take you on. Your talent didn’t seem to matter in a world that revolved around social status.

With the ballet company’s sinking, so was your career. You saw yourself walking languidly towards a cliff, your mind in despair, your eyes witnessing where the road ended, yet your feet betraying you— It was hardly their fault. The finale of your passion, your life, was impending and inevitable.

The theatre was putting on A Midsummer Night’s Dream tonight. Coriolanus’ platinum blonde curls were still cropped, he rubbed a now-calloused hand over his head as he sat in the back row. It wasn’t difficult to score a seat anymore, perhaps now that his new internship with Dr. Gaul put some money in his pockets the cost of a ticket seemed less steep. Perhaps his memory served him wrong. Or, more likely, the prices had lowered exponentially.

Coriolanus was stone faced as he watched the stagnant red curtain, inoffensive music playing before the ballet began. He’d expected there to be as much of a turnout as there had been the last show he attended; but he could only count fifty-six people finding their seats. He couldn’t see your father, who he usually sat with, anywhere.

He paid it no mind. The moment the performance started, his icy blue eyes were focused solely on you. You could’ve been the only ballerina on stage, though the program in his lap said otherwise. You were a magnificent Hermia, as the program listed you were dancing.

Even after years of watching ballet, Coryo wasn’t very cultured in it. But any fool could see you looked utterly stunning in a pale pink, flowing dress to your calves with a gold-trimmed bust. Your tresses were done in an intricate updo, topped with a decorated comb. Watching you move, daintily and freely yet practiced— he forgot to breathe.

Coryo was entranced.

In Coryo’s lap he held a bouquet of hawthorn, purple hyacinths, pansy and bluebells— wrapped in white, tied off with a dainty, baby pink ribbon. It was rather beautiful, he’d taken care in which he chose, double-checking the meanings of the specific flowers with the florist. He knew you’d understand them, he recalled your raving about a secret language hidden in petals. He’d never been able to afford such an intricate bouquet for your previous shows.

Coriolanus wondered what you would think of him now, in a crisp white dress shirt, a simple black suit to let his red tie and coat pop. Those blonde curls you loved shaved down. Bearing expensive flowers. And in his pocket, a rose-gold bracelet dotted with diamonds.

Oh, he felt like a little boy again, admiring your radiance on stage, blue eyes round and glimmering with adoration. You were exuding passion, an overwhelming and raw talent.

When the final curtain drew, he set about finding you. It wasn’t how it had been when you were younger; ballerinas no longer took photos with family in their little pink tutus. He followed the masses to the lobby of the theatre, hanging by the grand door he knew you and the other dancers would come flooding from. In his red coat’s pocket he rubbed a thumb over the velvet jewelry box for you. The other hand clutched the bouquet, the flowers that bared every feeling.

None of the ballerinas that slipped from the backstage were you, to his dismay. For a moment he thought you might’ve slipped out a back door. Coryo still hadn’t seen your father, there wasn’t a point in coming to the front if he wasn’t attending. He leaned his back against the marble wall, frowning down at your flowers, until the door creaked open, and his azure eyes flicked up to see if the girl was you, and to his delight—

“Coryo?”

Oh, you hadn’t realized how large the hole he’d left in your heart gaped until Coryo was standing in front of you. Your Coryo.

“You’re here.” You must’ve sounded so silly. You certainly felt silly. You were already out of your costume, in a loose white sweater, soft and short pink skirt over black leggings. And here he was, in a sharp suit and tie, a gorgeous coat.. Stark contrast to the young boy who couldn’t scrape together a decent suit-jacket for your shows. The young boy who had filled out and chiseled into a man.

Coryo smiled softly down at you, eyes twinkling fondly. He offered the bouquet to you, his voice gentle and smooth as silk. “I’m here.” You took the bouquet absentmindedly, admiring it for a brief moment before shifting it to the crook over your elbow and turning your attention to Coriolanus again.

He looked so different, yet all the same. Those soft blue eyes slightly sharper but not any less attractive. His hair, Christ, that was the thing you couldn’t keep to yourself.

“Your hair!” You breathed, reaching up to push a dainty hand through his grown-out blonde buzzcut. It caught him a bit off guard, but he leaned his head down and chuckled.

“It’ll grow.” Coryo shrugged, letting your hand slip from his hair but not without grabbing it with his own. He leans down to press his lips to your knuckles. You think you might be in heaven. “You were amazing up there. Just.. angelic.”

You wondered if the heat in your cheeks was obvious. “Thank you..” Suddenly you had no words. Well, you had plenty to say. Plenty of thoughts, certainly. But no way to say them just yet. Coryo must’ve been able to tell.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Coriolanus’ brows drew together hopefully. You got a faint idea he might actually be nervous. To your dismay he dropped your hand gently. “You must be tired, but..”

“No, no, I’d love to.” You blurted, cutting him off with a bright smile. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow.

Coryo couldn’t stifle his grin. He decided to save your gift for later, as he guided you through the grand doors of the theater and to his car. Your lips had formed into an “o” at the long, cream-white vehicle. It even had a hood ornament, the silver logo of the expensive brand. “Oh, Coryo, it’s beautiful.” You couldn’t stop yourself from gasping your next words, though you were mortified after uttering them, “Since when could you afford something like this?”

You thought he’d be offended, but he just chuckled and opened the passenger door for you. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Restaurants weren’t exactly open at this time of night— atleast not any that Coryo found good enough to bring you to. So he settled to bring you to a gelato place he recalled you loved, sitting outside with you and watching the people go by. The streetlamps cast the dark street in soft yellows, the city was still very much awake.

You felt awake. For the first time in months, you felt your heart beating, you felt an honest smile gracing your lips. Seeing Coryo again was a breath of fresh air you hadn’t realized how bad you needed.

Coriolanus told you about his time in district twelve, though he left out some details. You told him about your father’s passing. You were hesitant to mention how poorly the theatre was doing, though. You had a feeling he knew.

Your feeling was correct. While the two of you were walking home, your hand comfortable in the crook of his elbow, Coryo spoke up. He breathed your name hesitantly, waiting for your acknowledging hum. “Tell me the truth. Is the dance company failing?”

You frowned, eyes on your feet. Well. What was the point in hiding it? It wasn’t exactly private information. “It is.” You murmured, almost ashamed.

“But you’ll go to another one?” Coryo immediately jumped to you. He didn’t seem to care about the theatre, only whether your talent would be in one.

That was the issue. Your breath caught in your chest, your lips pressing nervously and your eyelids fluttering shut to avoid the sting of tears. “I haven’t gotten any offers.”

It seemed your hard work simply.. Wasn’t enough. Not without a family name. In the capitol, where everything depended on a girl’s parents, an orphan whose name hadn’t been prestigious in the first place didn’t stand a chance. The only reason you were with this theatre was because your father and the owner had been friends in the war.

That just didn’t sit right with Coriolanus. He found your hand in the crook of his elbow, resting his roughened hand over your soft one, squeezing. “But you’re a natural talent.” His brows pulled taut. You shook your head.

“It’s not that simple.” You sighed, using your free hand to dash away the tears wetting your cheeks.

But it could be, Coryo knew as he turned over the jewelry box in his pocket, but didn’t say. Oh, you’d hate the idea. You’d be furious. You were a hard worker, anybody could see. You prided yourself in making a career for yourself without nepotism or assistance, very few favors. Of course you’d deny the idea brewing in Coryo’s mind, you’d write it off as a shortcut.

But he saw your talent. He’d just make it so others would see it aswell.

Coriolanus would never be ashamed of his cunning mind. He should be. But he never could.

He was like a snake. The next socialite party he attended, he slithered his way into every sophisticated conversation, networking, whispering his agenda into men’s ears, men with the power he thirsted for.

Politics was exactly where a snake like Coriolanus Snow belonged.

Usually it was for himself. Coryo was climbing the capitol’s ladder, collecting pons at each rung and using them as he went. But this time, this particular snobbish event, he smoothly brought up the name of a beautiful, immensely talented young ballerina looking for a new theatre to perform to. A ballerina he would personally vouch for, a ballerina he insisted would bring pride (and fame, of course,) to any company she danced for.

Eventually Coryo pulled on the right string, his words reaching the right ears. He got acquainted with an older man, Darien Jeux. The owner of a very, very prestigious ballet company. Oh, he was skeptical at first, but wasn’t Coriolanus a charmer? By the time the glittering champagne in his glass was finished, a deal of sorts was sealed. Jeux had a grandson in need of work, an internship would be arranged for the dolt. In exchange?

Coryo was the first person you called when the letter came in the mail. You had just arrived at your apartment after a late-night rehearsal, a crisp envelope left in the slot in your door. Stabbing an ornate letter opener, a gift from your father, into the paper and tearing it, oh, the words printed almost brought you to tears!

“Coryo, you won’t believe it!” You cheered over the phone, the joy in your voice as you gushed about Yeux’s ballet company extending an audition, the possibility of a contract, the prestige of this company! “Oh, isn’t it wonderful?” You breathed, the hope in your voice washing away every qualm Coryo had about going behind your back.

“It is.” Coriolanus smiled softly to himself, his eyes fluttering shut in an overwhelming relief.

Ballet was the only way for you. Coryo would kill a man to keep you happy, to keep your career alive. It was only right, that if he had the capability to make everything easier for you, he should use every resource available. Anything for you.

“You deserve it.” Coryo cooes, leaning back in his leather desk chair and letting your lilted voice keep him awake for another hour.

Hope had been thrust into your life again, the air under your wings, keeping you afloat. It seemed like your life was brightening in every corner now. Coryo insisted on taking you to dinner to celebrate when your audition went smoothly. How desperately he wanted to lean over that table and kiss you silly. He settled for taking you to dinner the next week. And the week after that. And after that.

In his eyes, his help was just that. A bit of help. This society was idiotic and venomous, your immense talent would have been enough to bring you to the top if that was the sole factor. It would be such a waste of great potential if you were stifled simply because of your name. He couldn’t have that.

Once Coryo gave you that little push, simply just got your name out there, your ability spoke for itself. You really were a star, landing one of the large roles in the first performance the theatre put on since signing you.

Coriolanus also pulled some strings to get a seat in the gallery balcony of the theatre. The company was putting on The Sleeping Beauty, which in your delicately graceful nature you landed the role of Princess Aurora. Tigris sat beside him, she’d absolutely adored you even when you were young. He even had a little pair of opera binoculars to watch you dance, not minding his cousins giggles at how old he looked holding them up to his eyes.

Coryo felt waves of pride, seeing the seats full. All eyes were on you, your grace on a pedestal display— exactly where it should be. Oh, the smile it brought to his lips each time the crowd roared with applause and whistles for you. You deserved no less.

When you came out after the show, you donned a simple yet elegant white dress, a boat-neck A-line that fell to your mid thigh, accentuating your delicate figure. Coryo had specifically told you it would be perfect for the after party, which technically wasn’t solely for your first performance with the theatre, but you’d be on display no less. He was certain that your name would be in headlines by tomorrow, and he told you so, which you’d smiled shyly and shaken your head at.

You’d never been to such an extravagant party. Your old theatre was never this grand, and whatever luxurious events they held were distant memories by the time you were old enough to attend them. The ballroom was classically beautiful, marble pillars along the walls and a painted rotunda ceiling.

You hadn’t a chance to look up and appreciate the mural before you were swarmed with people wanting to meet you, shake your hand and congratulate your performance. Coriolanus was right at your side the whole time, a strong hand on your shoulder. It shouldn’t have made you feel such excitement, but your heart was betraying your mind at the protective gesture.

Eventually, you grew a bit tired of all the introductions and stale small talk. Coryo could tell, he bowed his head and murmured against the shell of your ear, “I think it’s time for a dance. If you aren’t tired of it by now?”

“No! I mean, yes. I’m not tired of dancing. I’d love to dance.” You stumbled over your words, feeling the flush come to your cheeks. Oh, you weren’t tired, quite the opposite. You were restless. You were infinitely grateful for Coriolanus as he guided you by the hand, pulling you into a dance. He was a better dancer than you remember, you told him so. He’d only chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he lifted his hand to twirl you.

Coryo wore a boyish grin while he watched your dress flower and billow as you twirled. “I’m glad I’m not embarrassing myself, then.”

Perhaps it was then that you truly realized the boy you’d grown up with had turned into a man in the blink of an eye. A man who laid a strong hand on the small of your back, blonde hair combed neatly, cheeks roughened with stubble and eyes sultry. A man who was staring at you in a way that nearly made an expert ballerina stumble in her dancing.

You weren’t sure what moved you to lay your ear against his chest, feeling the solid and comforting warmth of him. You hoped, though, that he didn’t hear the soft sigh you released as he nosed your hair. You imagined that he dropped a kiss to your scalp. Why, Coriolanus, your Coryo, was cradling you as you languidly danced like you were made of porcelain.

In fact, as the song’s lulled to an end, Coriolanus leaned away from you just barely. Just enough for you to lift your head, eyes raising to meet his sapphire ones. Sapphire eyes filled with a soft affection, a kind of tenderness that you were beginning to wonder if you could live without. For a moment you dreamed he might kiss you.

You watched as his icy gaze flickered over your face, before he murmured lowly, “I’ll go get you a drink.” Wordlessly you nodded, watching as a tantalizingly sincere smile curled Coryo’s lips. He slipped away from you carefully. Expertly stifling the white-hot anxiety burning a hole in his chest under that clean-cut suit.

With a soft sigh, and rubbing both of your palms over your burning cheeks, you sought out your new friends. The circle of ballerinas, done up in simple and classically beautiful dresses, welcomed you happily. Eager to listen about your flustered retelling of the whole interaction with Coriolanus. Gasping girlishly and relishing in that sisterly bond. Slowly that exciting knot in your stomach came loose.

Just as you had collected yourself, your ears perked to the dropping of your name. You looked over your shoulder, finding the source to be two older men, one pudgy and one gaunt. They both had cold eyes, sharp and knowing. That would’ve been enough to make you shiver, if it weren’t for the words slipping past their thin lips.

“I heard Yeux was paid off.” The thin man hummed. Your stomach sank. Surely they weren’t talking about you?

The fat man shook his head. “No, more of a favor, I heard. That boy Dr. Gaul funded? Crassus’s boy.” The other man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand not clasping a champagne flute.

He sneered, “So, the company ‘star’ only has a contract because the Snow boy pulled strings? What a disgrace this theatre is coming to!”

Oh, the marble floor was spinning under your feet. A frustration, a fury was boiling in your heart, dull and painful as you clenched your jaw. How many times had you told Coriolanus that you didn’t want any nepotism? How many times had you mentioned your pride in how hard you worked for your career? All for him to pull the rug from under you!

How could he? How could he go behind your back and snatch your values away from your hands, make an absolute fool of you?

Feigning a smile you excused yourself from the ballerinas, walking aimlessly through the ballroom. Slipping through the crowd with a kind of bleariness in your eyes. Color had been brought back into your life, but at what cost? Your morals. You hadn’t even been given a choice of whether to keep them intact or trade them for glory. You wouldn’t have chosen this, certainly.

You moved on autopilot. You hadn’t even realized Coriolanus was trailing after you until he clasped a strong hand on your shoulder, gently turning you. You shrugged your shoulder away from his grip, your wild eyes meeting his. Oh, the betrayal swelling in your stomach threatened to swallow you whole.

Coriolanus breathed your name in an awkward chuckle. His brows drew together as he offered a fruity drink to you in an ornate glass. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t talk to me.” You hiss, turning from him and storming away with a purpose in your feet.

Coriolanus only follows after you like a lost puppy. “What? What happened?” He called your name, but bitter loathing was toiling in your mind too strong to so much as cast him a look.

Damn him for feigning innocence! Damn him for coming back into yourself, sweeping you off your feet and having the balls to think he could just fix all your problems with his connections! Damn him for taking all that you prided yourself on away, just to make himself feel better. Charity, that’s what you were.

“I’m not stupid!” You cried, calling over your shoulder and blinking away hot tears. Nevertheless they streaked down your cheeks. At last you found the walls of this cursed ballroom, turning down a grand hallway. Gratefully, only a few people hung by the pillars and potted plants, disgustingly old men and beautiful, young women, some of them ballerinas from your new company. Your company that Coriolanus got you into.

Speak of the devil, he was still on your heels. Perhaps he even broke into a run after you, because before you knew it he was grabbing you by the shoulders, cornering you between a marble pillar and the wall. You shook him off you, staring blazingly up into his buggy and nervous eyes.

“Darling.” Coriolanus breathed, exasperated and terribly confused. He stopped reaching for you, gratefully, but he was still looming over you. Trapping you in.

You wiped the tears from your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

Coriolanus sighed. He murmured your proper name gently, his brows pressing together. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong. I’ll fix it for you, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“You would, wouldn’t you!” You cried, throwing your hands down. “Try and fix everything, just swoop in like a knight in shining armor and fix my poor life!”

His face fell at that. His azure eyes darkened, lips parting and his chin tilting further down to you. He knew he was caught, you thought bitterly as you huffed. Coriolanus dragged his hand down his face, trying to rub the situation off his skin. “Tell me what you know.”

“I know that you disregarded my wishes! I didn’t want any nepotism, I didn’t want any shortcuts, and that is exactly what you did, Coryo!” Tears were flowing uncomfortably and warm down your cheeks, ruining your pretty makeup. You rubbed the skin around your eyes raw. If only you could see the distraught look on Coriolanus’ face.

He shook his head, murmuring breathlessly, “But… I did it for you. You needed some help, you needed someone to get your name out there.” You shook your head, but your silence gave him a chance to go on. “I knew you’d be upset, but your talent—“

“I am upset!” You bawled, “You knew I’d be upset and you still did it, Coriolanus! You did it for you, not for me, if—”

“You couldn’t even afford to eat!” Coriolanus snapped, barking at you with buggy eyes. His jaw tightened, his chest heaving with a deep breath. His eyes slip closed, he pinches the bridge of his nose and grimaces in exasperation. He never wanted to yell at you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.” Coriolanus murmurs, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he watches the way tears come to your eyes stronger than before. He watches the way you cross your arms, looking to the wall and chewing on your lip. “You were struggling. You… You’re a talented woman. The most talented. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let you fizzle just because you don’t have someone to vouch for you.”

“But now all this isn’t because of myself. Where I am today isn’t because of my talent or my hard work.. It’s because of a man pulling some strings.” You murmured, rubbing your eyes again. Your voice is raw and low, you look down at your dress and smooth down the material. Such a quality, beautiful dress. You would’ve liked to say that you were wearing it because of your own work. Coriolanus took that away from you, you reminded yourself.

Coryo pushes a hand through his hair, sighing softly. His lips press, he looks away at the others in the hall. He’s scrambling for a way to resolve this. “I had to help you. Because…”

You eye him expectantly, turning your wet cheek. Coriolanus reaches forward to tenderly thumb away a loose tear, and you don’t pull away. Perhaps you’ve tired yourself out. “Because I love you. And I can’t let a woman so special fail for such a stupid reason. Special to the world, of course, but special to me.”

Oh, the world was spinning around you too fast for your mind to keep up. You felt the floor giving out from under you, you had to cover your eyes with a palm. He loved you? This is why he did all this? This is why he felt the need to lift you from the mud? Not for his own selfish gain, but for you? For love?

“Coryo, you can’t just...” You began, the words dying before they could pass your lips as you shook your head desperately. He seemed to understand, nodding a bit and watching you with wide and buggy eyes. You finally looked up to meet that penetrating gaze, feeling your chest heave with deep breaths.

Without a word you moved into Coryo’s arms, pressing your wet cheek to his chest. You felt his breath hitch, his arms immediately wrapping closely around you. He nosed your hair, smelling deeply your rose-scented shampoo. God, the things he would do for you. This barely scraped it. He knew you’d be hurt, but he also knew what would be best for you in the long run. He knew he’d rather let you hate him than regret a passion left dry in the sun.

A long while passed like this, Coriolanus murmuring sweet words of consolation and diligently drying the tears on your rosy cheeks.

“My love, this world is cruel.” Coriolanus cooed, his eyebrows drawing together and forehead creasing as he smoothed down your hair. “Talent without a name is nothing. If talent was all that mattered, you wouldn’t need my help.”

Coryo dropped a kiss to your forehead. “I wish you didn’t need my help.”

Coryo brought you home that night. Neither of you breathed a word the whole ride there, Coriolanus casting you longing glances constantly and you fidgeting with your rose gold bracelet. A gift from him. Your most prized jewelry nowadays.

Feelings just toiled and swam in your heart, threatening to spill and taint your whole body. You were furious with him. But oh, how you loved that man.

The man who is not pressuring you any further, not shouting, not condemning your anger with him, just silently holding your hand over the center console, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles slowly. Tenderly. The man who loved you. The man who would kill for you, much less call in a favor for your sake.

When his car rolled to a stop in front of your apartment, you leaned away from him. You shifted in your seat to face him, but he never let go of your hand. In fact, he’d squeezed it a bit tighter.

Coryo was watching you with wide, you’d dare say puppy dog eyes as you opened your lips to speak in a whisper. “I don’t want you to do this again.”

He nodded seriously, dragging his thumb across the backs of your fingers. His sapphire eyes never dropped from yours. “I promise you.”

“And I don’t need your altruism.”

“Of course.”

“I’m not a child, I’m not a poor thing.”

“Not even a little bit. Kill me before I suggest it.”

You found yourself leaning over the center console, your nose brushing his. He found his hand slipping to gently cradle the back of your head. “I forgive you.” You murmur quietly, Coryo nods a bit, mind like a runny egg. He’s having a bit of trouble focusing on your words, as important to him as they are.

Coriolanus draws you closer, planting a tender kiss onto your lips. The cool metal of your bracelet pressing into his nape drew a sigh from his mouth, you wrapped your arm around his shoulders. Kissing him felt like a comfort. Kissing Coryo felt right, your lips moving on his as if your soul knew before your mind had even considered it.

He didn’t interfere with your career again. He respected you with every bone in his body, with every string in his heart. He let your talent, your ineffable passion for your craft speak for itself. You were a prima ballerina of your own work, he’d often murmur to you late at night. In a bed he had somehow managed to coax you into, in a bed he couldn’t imagine sleeping in without your warm form beside him. You were a star.

No matter how independent you were, he would never stop protecting you. Caring for you. Providing you the best he could. Until the day you died, he would break his own bones to bend to your whims.

Coriolanus would kill for you. Without qualms, he would carve his own bone and flesh, if you asked him to. You didn’t even need to ask. If it made you happy in the slightest, Coryo would engrave your name into his heart.

It had always been written there, hadn’t it?

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girlkisser13 · 5 months ago

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clara bow

"you look like percy jackson" "in this light, we're loving it" "you've got edge he never did" "the future's bright, dazzling"

pairings: percy jackson x fem!reader

warnings/tags: none. purely fluff. dad percy.

summary: your daughter looks just like her father.

the sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the sandy shores of montauk beach. percy jackson, now in his mid-twenties, stretched out on a towel, enjoying the peaceful sound of the waves crashing against the shore. you lay beside him, watching your four-year-old daughter as she ran along the water's edge, her laughter mingling with the sea breeze.

"she's got your energy," you remarked with a smile, glancing at percy. his dark hair, tousled by the wind, and his sea-green eyes were mirrored in your daughter. her curls bounced as she chased after the foam, her excitement palpable.

"yeah," percy replied, his voice filled with pride. "and your curiosity. look at her go. she's like a little explorer."

you watched your daughter with a mix of amusement and nostalgia. the way she fearlessly dove into the waves, her little feet leaving imprints in the wet sand, reminded you so much of percy when the two of you first met. he had the same fearless nature, the same insatiable curiosity about the world around him.

"do you remember the first time we came here together?" you asked, your voice softening as you looked at percy. "you were so determined to show me how to surf, even though the waves were huge."

he chuckled, recalling the memory. "i remember. you wiped out spectacularly, but you got right back up. that’s one of the things i love about you, y/n. you're as stubborn as i am."

you laughed, leaning your head against percy's shoulder. "and now our daughter has inherited that stubbornness. but you know, she has something else, too."

he raised an eyebrow, curious. "oh? what's that?"

"an edge," you said, your eyes twinkling. "she's got this… determination, this drive, that goes beyond what either of us had at her age. she's not just fearless; she's fearless and focused. it’s like she knows exactly what she wants and won't stop until she gets it."

percy watched as his daughter stood on a small sand dune, her eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for something only she could see. "yeah, i see it too," he admitted. "she's got this fire in her. It's amazing."

you smiled, feeling a swell of pride. "that's your influence, percy. but she also has my patience, my ability to think things through. she’s a perfect blend of us both, with her own unique spark."

he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. "we make a pretty great team, don’t we?"

you nodded, resting your head on his chest. "we do. and we’re raising an incredible daughter. she's going to do amazing things."

as the two of you watched your daughter build a sandcastle with unwavering determination, you felt a deep sense of contentment. your journey together had been filled with challenges and triumphs, and now, watching your daughter thrive, you knew that every moment had been worth it.

"hey, y/d/n!" percy called out. "come show us your castle!"

she turned, her face lighting up with a bright smile. she ran towards the both of you, her small hands covered in sand. "look, mommy! daddy! it's a castle for the mermaids!"

as your daughter continued to describe the intricate details of her mermaid castle, you and percy exchanged a tender glance, your hearts swelling with love and pride. the sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the beach and turning the waves into sparkling gems.

percy, still holding you close, leaned in and whispered, "so, what do you think? want to make another one?"

you looked up at him, your eyes wide with surprise and amusement. "another castle?" you teased, knowing full well what he meant.

percy laughed, shaking his head. "you know what i mean. another little jackson running around, making sandcastles and chasing waves."

you pretended to ponder the idea, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "hmm, well, y/d/n is pretty amazing... maybe another one wouldn’t be so bad."

percy grinned, leaning down to plant a soft kiss to your lips. "i think we’d make another pretty great team project."

you swatted him lightly on the shoulder, "you did not just call our daughter a project!"

you both laughed as your daughter came running back to the two of you, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "what’s so funny?"

"nothing, sweetheart," you said, scooping her up into your arms. "just talking about how much we love you."

she giggled, wrapping her arms around your neck. "i love you too, mommy. and you, daddy."

as the three of you made your way back to your beach blanket, the sun setting behind you, you and percy knew that whatever the future held, the both of you would face it together, your hearts forever intertwined by the love of your little family.

"maybe one day," percy murmured to you as you watched your daughter settle down with her favorite blanket, the waves lulling her to sleep.

"maybe," you agreed, squeezing his hand. "but for now, this is perfect."

and with that, the two of you sat together, watching the stars emerge in the night sky, your hearts full of love and gratitude for the life you had built together.

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searchingforserendipity25 · 2 months ago

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Dracula lovers, this may be of interest to you: Dracula Beyond Stoker Press, which specialized in publishing all things Dracula, including short stories, will have an open call for short stories about our friend Jonathan.

Starting Nov. 1st and ending December 31st, the Jonathan Harker Anthology Open Call starts soon! Wordcount 1500-5000. AND accepted pieces will be paid (55 dollars).

CORRECTION! - thank you to @wiliecoyotegenius and the Anon for pointing out I misread the instructions! 55 dollars seems to be for reprints. Regular compensation should be .05 cents/word.

#dracula #dracula daily #fanfiction #jonathan harker #mina harker #bram stoker #writing #anthology

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starryevermore · 6 months ago

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head full of petals: meet cute (1) ✧ eris vanserra

head full of petals ✧ an eris vanserra anthology | ao3

pairing: eris vanserra x tamlin’s sister!fem!reader; tamlin’s sister!fem!reader x original male character (brief)

series summary: it is not easy to be a female in prythian. it is even more difficult when you’re the daughter of a high lord. the expectations are great, and the punishments for failure are even greater. all you have known for your entire life is falling in line. yet, when you are expected to marry another, you choose to do something for yourself: run into the arms of your mate. or, a series of interconnected oneshots surrounding the life and times of eris vanserra and his blossom.

chapter summary: in which you meet your mate, the first son of the high lord of autumn.

word count: 1,821

chapter warnings?: flirting, fluff, pet name (blossom), not proofread.

A female’s job, your father, Hamish, always told you, was to be seldom seen and never heard. While your brothers were allowed to learn from him, to attend Court meetings and to learn how to one day take his place as High Lord of Spring, you were expected to remain put. To focus on your embroidery or your tending to your garden. Even when you gardened, you were not allowed to get your hands dirty. You could clip a few dead ends, water a few bushes, but that was the extent of it all. Anything further would be an embarrassment to Hamish, and he hated to be embarrassed.

You supposed, that was why you and your younger brother Tamlin got along so well. Tamlin was, in not so many words, an embarrassment to the family. Well, perhaps that was too harsh. But it was clear to all that Hamish harbored little love for his youngest son. Tamlin was unlike Finley and Alistair. He was the runt of the little, and the least likely to ever inherit the title of High Lord. Tamlin was not worth Hamish’s breath. Neither you nor him fit into the perfect puzzle Hamish tried to carefully to piece together. And so, you both were cast aside. Left forgotten.

Though, you supposed you were not all forgotten. As the daughter of a High Lord, you were expected to marry well and to be a dutiful wife. In the last few decades, all attention you received from Hamish was dedicated to the pursuit of finding you a worthy husband. A few months previous, his search finally turned up fruitful. Dashiell Buchanan, the eldest son of Hamish’s favorite courtier. A handsome male, to be sure. You were less sure, however, of his kindness.

There was no proof, no evidence, that Dashiell was a cruel male. But males like him, males in positions of power, no matter how small, seldom let such cruelty be openly known. You did not wish to find out he was such a male after your wedding night. Your only saving grace, though, would be to find your mate, who had not been made known for last couple hundred years. Hope as you might, you knew he would not come in time.

So, instead, you busied yourself with the few hobbies appropriate for a woman of your station as you awaited your wedding day. That was how you found yourself curled up on a chair in the drawing room, deep in concentration as you tied French knots. You did not hear anyone slip in until you were being spoken to.

“Ah, Spring’s daughter. I was beginning to think you a myth,” a slow drawl sounded.

You lifted your head, breath caught in your throat at the male before you. He was tall, perhaps taller than any of the males in your family. His auburn hair cascaded down his shoulders, a waterfall of fire. Amber eyes looked you up and down. You were suddenly aware that you looked far too comfortable in the presence of a noble son, so you stood, smoothing out your skirts. “I was not aware I was being looked for.”

“Who wouldn’t look for a female they say is so beautiful, she must be blessed by the Mother? I understand why your father has kept you hidden away, now that I have been so fortunate as to see your face.” He offered a wicked smile. “Lesser males have fought wars over lesser beauties. We are too soon out of the last war to ever risk another.”

Your face felt like it was on fire. You fought the urge to pick at the thread of your dress. Instead, you tucked your hands into each other and held them in front of you so as to create a barrier between yourself and the charming male. “Do I get to know the name of the male so desperate to win my favor?”

The male let out a chuckle. “How about we make it a game. Three guesses.”

You smiled. “What do I get if I’m correct?”

“Is the pleasure of my company not enough for you? Greedy girl. I should have expected as such from a High Lord’s daughter.” he said. For a moment, he pretended to think. “Let us see…If you are correct, you can ask me for any favor and I shall do it without complaint.”

“And if I lose?”

“You sit at my side during dinner.”

Your smile seemed to grow. Though you did wish to know his name, a part of you also wanted to lose. Maybe if you got to sit close enough to him, you could learn if he was as warm as he was making you feel. “I accept your terms.”

“Then guess away, beautiful blossom.”

Tapping a finger on your chin, you began to weigh your options. “My father told me he was expecting a visit from the Autumn Court this morning. You are too young to be the High Lord, so I shall not waste a guess on that. Nor can you be Lady Autumn. All seven sons, however, inherited the color of her hair. I think….I shall go with Lucien.”

The male barked out a laugh, head thrown back and shoulders shaking. “Lucien is hardly older than a babe! Try again.”

“Hmm, yes I suppose he is too young. Perhaps I should hedge my bets and aim for the middle. Perhaps Crispin, or maybe Heath?”

“Shall I count those as your remaining too guesses?” he asked with a wicked grin.

“Hush, I’m thinking out loud!” you giggled. You felt so light with him. You had not thought it possible to feel so at ease with a male, much less you hardly even knew. “I shall go with Heath.”

He grinned, and took a step closer to you. “Not by a long shot.”

“Well, I have aimed for the youngest, and for the middle. Perhaps I should aim for the eldest now. Yes, I suppose I shall.” You stood a little straighter and declared, “You are Eris Vanserra.”

Eris stepped closer to you. A few more steps, and you were sure to be caught in a most scandalous position. You didn’t seem to care, though. “And what favor would you ask of me?”

“It’s no fun if I waste it now. I would prefer to save it for a rainy day.”

“And make me your eternal slave?”

You took a step toward him. Never before had you felt so emboldened. Hamish would have your head if he saw you now. “Something tells me you would quite enjoy that.”

Before Eris could say anymore, before he could step closer and ruin you for anyone else, a series of footsteps sounded down the hall. You took a quick step back. You needed distance between you and Eris. Dashiell entered the room first, freezing as he took in the closeness between yourself and Autumn’s Heir. Even with the space you put between yourself and Eris, it was not enough to stop suspicion from being aroused.

Perhaps you would find out sooner than you hoped if your betrothed was a cruel man. His eyes flashed as he stalked over to Eris, fists clenching into fists.

“Ah, I see your daughter has already become acquainted with my eldest son.”

No, no, no. This was even worse. Your eyes snapped over to Beron and Hamish as they entered the room, Finley, Alistair, and the other sons of Autumn following after. You prayed that your panic did not show on your face. Something began to tug in your chest, desperate. For what, you weren’t sure. But it was beginning to hurt. How much trouble would you bring, how embarrassed would Hamish be, if you excused yourself to see a healer?

Eris stepped forward, ignoring your betrothed, and said to Beron and Hamish, “I arrived early than anticipated. I came to the drawing room to wait, when I realized the room was not empty. I was introducing myself to—”

Your chest snapped. “Mate.”

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Hamish’s brows raised. Beron seemed to consider you as if you were a meal. Finley and Alistair looked puzzled. Eris’s brothers sneered at each other, and him, as if disappointed that they weren’t the ones you were mated to. And Dashiell—

A fist flew toward Eris’s face. Eris dodged it, easily, and caught the next fist that came. He gripped Dashiell’s fist so hard, twisted his arm just so, that the male crumpled to the floor. Eris snarled—the kind male you were just speaking to disappearing.

“This is not a fight you shall win,” Eris said, baring his teeth.

Beron turned to Hamish. “It seems we have more to discuss than trade negotiations, old friend.”

“She is betrothed,” Hamish managed. He watched as you stepped toward Eris, a hand resting on his bicep. Slowly, your mate released his grip on your betrothed. He stayed positioned between you and Dashiell, though, as if worried that the male would attack you next.

“A betrothal is nothing compared to a mating bond,” Beron dismissed with a wave. “As I see it, she is now the property of Autumn.”

Eris tensed, just slightly so.

“I cannot end her betrothal,” Hamish said.

Beron raised a brow. “I would hate to invoke a blood duel, but it is within our right. Don’t let us end such a long friendship over something so trivial.”

“In Spring,” Hamish amended, “only the parties to be wed may end the betrothal.”

“I refuse,” Dashiell snarled, still knelt on the ground.

All eyes turned to you, but you only saw Eris. He watched you carefully, trying to gauge whether you cared for the sorry excuse of a male on the floor. Dashiell, however, ceased to exist in your eyes. “Mate,” you repeated. “I want my mate.”

Beron, from the corner of your eye, seemed smug, but Hamish knew there was more to be done. He urged, voice tight, “You have to say the words.”

“I forsake my betrothal to Lord Dashiell Buchanan,” you said without a moment’s hesitation.

Dashiell growled, but to everyone else in the room, he seemed to have disappeared. Ceased to matter if he wasn’t to wed the daughter of Spring.

“Spring’s females don’t all seem to have heads full of petals,” Beron said. “You should be proud your daughter has any sense, Hamish.”

Hamish stared at you. He never looked at you with any ounce of love before, but now it almost felt like there was contempt. Was he truly embarrassed at you finding your mate? The circumstances weren’t the greatest—you could have done without the spectacle. But did you deserve the hateful look in his eyes? “You have until sundown to gather your things,” he said. “From this day forward, you are the burden of Autumn.”

You did not see Spring again until long after Hamish had passed.

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plutoispurplw · 8 months ago

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Fresh Out The Slammer

Summary: You're going to see Spencer after he spent three months on the prision.

Couple: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Little angst, mention of prision and murder.

A/N: Hi everyone, guess who is back to write like is running out of time! Someone has to take TTPD away from me, now this is an addiction.

Sorry if this doesn't have to much to do wuth the song and remember, english is not my first language, so please tell me if I have an error.

Plss reblog it and request are open!

Masterlistᝰ.ᐟ

When Spencer was being held in custody in Mexico, you were anxious, you visited him and he was completely different from who you were accustomed to.

It was like he wasn’t mentally there, he looked like a mess and his mental stability was almost inexistent, you almost broke down when you saw him in that state.

After that visit, he didn’t let you go again to see him, he didn’t want you to see him in that state and was worried about your mental health even if he was worse in that matter.

You felt hurt at that moment but you decided to understand him and didn’t visit him again but you sent him letters, the first few letters he didn't respond to you, after some time he started to respond to your letters.

You have been feeling down all the time, being in your apartment made you feel miserable knowing he wasn't there, it felt lifeless there without his presence.

Your bed that once was your favorite place in the world became the worst place to be without his arms around you holding you and protecting you from all the things that happen out there.

You were cleaning the apartment when your phone started to ring, you took it to check who it was and when you saw his name you let out a scream. You quickly answer the call.

“Spencer, are you okay?” You said immediately when the call started, your voice was full of worry for him.

“Yes, I’m already out and I’m alright, don’t worry angel.” His voice sounded reassuring, even if he wasn’t alright he wouldn’t have told you but something inside you told you to believe him.

That calmed you instantly, knowing he was alright made your mind at peace, and the overthinking in your mind stopped even if it was for a moment.

“I’m going to be there in a couple of hours.” His voice sounded tired, knowing him you know that he hadn’t slept more than two hours or less in those three months

Now you were waiting for him in your apartment, sitting on your couch trying to read a book, but that task seemed impossible right now, your mind was only focused on the clock in the living room, checking it every few minutes.

It felt like the minutes were slowly becoming eternal, your heart was beating like it was going to get out of your chest, and your mind was running through a million thoughts at the same time.

Then you heard the door opening and you ran towards the entrance just like a little kid, when you saw him you just hugged him while tears began to spill from you’re eyes.

“I missed you so much.” You whispered against his neck, your voice breaking with every word you spoke. His hands were rubbing your back in a calming notion.

When you pulled back enough to see his face, you noticed that his face had tears spilling from his beautiful eyes, you removed them with your thumbs while you held his face in your hands.

“You don’t have any idea of how much I thought about you, All those nights, you kept me going. I read every letter you sent.” He pulled you towards him for a kiss. When his lips touched yours it was like being in heaven again.

You pulled away a little and put your head on his chest “I’m sorry that you had to go through all of that.” Your voice was weak and filled with sadness thinking about all the things that he had suffered, you looked to another side.

He pulled away a little and took you by the chin to make you see him, he started to speak again. “Even if I go through all of that, knowing that you were here is enough compensation for all the things that I had suffered in my life.”

You kissed again but with time it was more slowly and gently, the kiss was filled with the love that the two of you had for each other. You were sure that the love would never end between you two.

He was the one who you want to spend the rest of your life with him.

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mysecretlittlelibrary · 4 months ago

Text

The Scientific Method

Pairing: Moonknight trio x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: just a bunch of ritual things, there's mention of blood and reader cuts their hand open

Genre: angst/fluff

Summary: They are determined to go through with this mind link and you have to do everything in your power to protect them

***

You groan to yourself as you shut yet another old heavy grimoire. The more you try to research this dammed ritual the more you feel like your head this close to exploding. You're overwhelmed trying to sort through conflicting information, unclear instructions, and a seemingly never-ending list of cautions. Several times over the last few hours you debated if it'd be easier to change their minds than go through with this. The knock at your apartment door shocks you so much you practically jump out of your skin. With a sigh, you stand from your desk and walk to the door. When you open the door you barely register your boyfriend standing there, your eyes trying to recover from combing over walls of text all day.

"Hello love." Steven smiles at you.

"Hi baby, what brings you over?" You ask stretching.

"It's movie night." He frowns.

"Right! Shit, is it time already?" You shake your head.

"How could you forget?" He chuckles.

"Well someone wants so badly to risk their sanity I've been doing research all day to protect this silly individual. Lost track of time I guess."

"You've been doing research on it?"

"Of course I have. If I'm going to do this insanely dangerous ritual I need to know it so well you'd think I was there upon its creation." You say.

"What have you found out?" He asks.

"I'm sitll sifting through it, there's possibly a potion involved-"

"Well you can put a pin in it for now, because it's movie night." Steven grabs you by the shoulders and leads you to your couch to sit you down.

"I'm just worried there's some time sensitivity aspect I'm missing. Something this complex probably requires very specific circumstances in order to have even a chance of being successful. Like what if it can only be done during a solar eclipes, or when all the fucking planets are aligned or-"

"Baby you don't have to work it out all at once, we're not in a rush, plus we trust you. I don't think you have anything to worry about." Steven says gently.

"That's fine for you, I'm the one performing the ritual you just have to show up, I'm the one responsible for making sure you don't die or lose your mind or lose a limb or-"

"Breathe." Marc says grabbing your hand. You stop and take a breath.

"Marc-"

"Don't start, and don't get yourself all worked up. It's like you don't even realize how powerful you are. You're not going to kill me, or drive me insane, or steal my arms. We will absolutely come out on the other side of this for the better." Marc says firmly.

"When did you get all optimistic?" You chuckle.

"When you showed up and gave me something worth living for." He says kissing your temple.

"You're such a softie." You scoff.

"Yeah yeah, now let's get this movie night started, you can research the spell later."

"Alright alright. I'll table it for now." You sigh letting Marc pull you closer to him as he starts the first movie for tonight.

*~*

You draw the last of the symbols on the ground, checking them for the umpteenth time that you got them all correct. You drove hours out of the city to prepare and do this spell. Marc is meant to meet you any minute now, but you've already been here a while getting all the bits and pieces together. You read your notes again, as if you haven't seared them into your brain at this point, but it helps you feel in control. You've done all the research you could possibly do without having a first hand account of doing this spell. You're as ready as you can be, you know you are, but there's just so much that could go wrong it's impossible not to be nervous.

"The pacing does not bode well for your sanity." The booming voice almost makes you drop your pages.

"Holy fuck- you brought the bird?!" You clutch your chest when you realize your boyfriend has arrived and so has Khonshu.

"I am not some pet he does not bring me anywhere. He is my Avatar, if you intend to disintegrate his mind it's in my personal interests to be aware of that." Khonshu says.

"I'm not disintegrating anything you kooky old skeleton but if you insist on being here do not interrupt." You roll your eyes.

"Even if it saves him from your incompetence?"

"Marc may work for you but I don't you fucking-"

"Khonshu don't speak to her that way." Jake interrupts. "We didn't tell you about this so you could come all this way just to insult her. She's powerful and capable and we have faith in her. Your opinion on the matter is not only unwanted, it is also unfound." You look between them as Jake's words hang in the air for a moment.

"You hold her in high regard." Khonshu hums.

"You knew that already." Jake glares.

"To see it is a different thing."

"Are you two done?" You ask.

"Sorry mi amor, I told them to leave Khonshu in the dark but no one listens to me. How are you feeling?" Jake takes your hand in his, eyes scanning your face.

"Fine. Good. As good as I can be. Everything's set. How're you guys?" You ask.

"Steven's a little nervous."

"Just Steven?" You probe softly.

"Sí just Steven. Marc is, impatient and I am, managing our expectations."

"As always." You kiss his cheek.

"Are you two quite finished with the- whatever this is?" Khonshu scoffs and you're sure if he had eyes to roll he'd probably be doing that.

"Oh I'm sorry did you mistake us for a theater show? We're not here to entertain you." You roll your eyes. You walk over to your bag and pull out a small bottle. "Drink this."

"What's this?" Jake asks.

"Step one."

"Which does what?" His eyebrow cocks up at you.

"Makes you more susceptible to the magic of the spell so it's easier." You say, that's not exactly right but the full explanation would be far too much to break down and you need to focus on getting through this not giving a potions lesson. Jake downs the murky liquid and cringes slightly. It probably doesn't taste great based on the ingredients. "Stand in the center where all the lines meet."

"How should I stand?" He asks.

"Still." You mutter walking over to your bag for your ritual dagger.

"What?"

"You asked how you should stand. Stand still." You say.

"Amor?" Jake calls, making you look up from your recitation pages. "Te amo."

"I love you too." You say. You take a deep breath to steady yourself. It's now or never.

"Ich baln kikae fineir shel cae ganel ufnae oulm antae woom bae." The circle starts to shimmer in that familiar but unnatural way that's so custom of magic. You twirl the ritual knife once in your hand before slicing open your palm. A spell meant to bind you and another person in any way almost always requires blood.

"Ich Maie fanie rach el aer wol nihar welm intalm axo tanit shway." One hard squeeze of your hand drops blood on the first of the seven symbols that make up the points of the circle. The symbol lights up and the corresponding line follows and shines from end to end.

"Baint int quare yeel fren smer worsh ufer dal krei lut isht." More blood on symbol 2 lighting it and its line.

"Pahb arth e rinethow finae ni shabnida." Your hand is starting to hurt but you squeeze blood onto the third symbol and watch it join the first 2 in brightening the circle.

"Inae fuu raunk valum dae chaw ji prosh shay zila trof renda ishan." You watch the fourth symbol light up and move on to the next.

"Urf nae inst purn wolay kirna ru gant verin herab vins tae." Five down, two more to go.

"Ich shie bruy pir exun bakiyen wishor itarm kastey." Onto the last one.

"Intraey izarnit wor bint azun oxair yerin jiha geins." The last of the symbols lights up, and you walk over to Jake in the center. You tip his head back and squeeze blood into his mouth.

"Mierda! You didn't mention anything about-" Jake doesn't finish his sentence, he drops to the ground and you gasp.

"I imagine that wasn't supposed to happen. Was it?" Khonshu muses. You roll your eyes you wish he'd shut up but at least the irritation overrode the panic bubbling. You take a deep breath and recite the last bit of the spell. It won't do you any good to leave the circuit incomplete, an unfinished spell could do more damage to Jake than whatever's already going on.

"Rahg inth der minshea loun weemae zontho ich baln kikae fineir." With the final incantation complete you watch as the spell circle burns brighter and brighter until all the symbols seemingly drain towards the center, disappearing one after the other as if Jake's body is absorbing them.

"Is it over?" Khonshu asks.

"Well the spell circle... disappeared so- I guess?"

"He's still unconscious."

"Gee hadn't noticed." You roll your eyes.

"There has to be something you can do about this you did the spell."

"Just pick him up off the ground." You say packing up your spell items.

"Why would I do that?"

"That spell wasn't easy, I don't have the strength to pick him up but it's not like we can just leave him out here overnight." You cross your arms.

"I am not carrying him all the way into town." Khonshu says.

"Why would you do that? Did you walk here?" You ask.

"The British one doesn't have a car."

"Sure but Jake does."

"Jake didn't want to have to leave the car here if something happened." Khonshu says.

"Whatever, I drove. You just need to get him to my car." You say.

"And what if I don't?"

"If you don't he spends the night out here." You shrug grabbing your bag of things and trudging away from the clearing.

"Well- hang on!" Khonshu huffs. A few moments later you hear his heavy footfalls behind you. "Would you really have left your boyfriend laying in a field unprotected."

"Of course not, the field had a bunch of defensive spells in place." You scoff.

"Why didn't you say that!?"

"I knew you wouldn't call my bluff." You say opening your car and tossing your bag in the passenger seat. "Drop him in the back please." You open the backseat door and help Khonshu fold your boyfriend across the seats.

"You had better hope they all survive your odd experimentation."

"It was their idea you foolis- you know what, it doesn't matter what you say, you have no right to pretend you value their life beyond how you can use them like a puppet of course I hope they survive I tried to talk them all out of this like 5 times. Stubborn fools." You shake your head.

"So what happens now?"

"Now I take him home and we hope for the best." You shrug getting into your car. You drive home, anxious to get your boyfriend home so you can start looking for some way to reverse this or at least help in some way.

Back at your apartment you struggle to get the body up to your place. Luckily it's incredibly late already or you'd probably have to explain this to more than just the person frowning at you from behind the front desk when you walked in. Once in the safety of your own apartment, you take a deep breath as you look at Marc passed out in your guest room.

"I don't want to get to say I told you so but you had better give me a chance to yell at you for being an idiot. You owe me that. Please wake up, you're far too stubborn to die like this. It'd be a rather pathetic way to go, given all the shit that didn't take you out." You huff. You feel so restless, you need to shower and you know you need to sleep because it's been a long and exhausting day but there's no way you'll get any rest with your boyfriend passed out indefinitely in the other room, all you want to do is sit up sifting through grimoires until the answer jumps out at you from one of the pages, you can't just leave him like that and not do anything-

"Stop." You say to yourself, hoping to stall your racing thoughts for a moment. "Okay, strategize. Realistically if you try to comb through your grimoires and things right now your eyes will literally fall out bleeding you have done entirely too much today even if you found the answer you wouldn't have the strength to do anything with it. He's physically safe and while you can't possibly know what's going on internally that'll have to be enough for now because you can't save him if you don't take care of yourself. Let's shower and try to get some sleep and we can approach this with a fresh mind in the morning."

With an acceptable game plan officially vocalized you take one more deep breath and clap your hands once to center yourself. Your shower helps tremendously which you knew it would but sometimes it's hard to regulate when so much is going on at once. You put on lotion and your pajamas and check on the trio once more before forcing yourself to go to bed. Hopefully you can get some sleep and maybe start problem solving this whole nightmare in the morning.

***

A/N: So sorry it took so long to get here my mind is a labrynth and my life has been a tornado lately, it's getting calm so what else would you like to see from this series?

Tagged Users: @itsmskeisha @auntiegigi @neteyamsluvts @a-lil-bit-nuts @i-love-sammwiches @chaosgoblinreblogsthings

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outofgloom · 1 year ago

Text

AI KURU: An Anthology of Weird Fiction Horror and Art in the World of BIONICLE

LINK TO FILE (PDF)

Update 10/8/24: Now also posted as a series on AO3!

aikuru adj. Unknown, obscure, foggy, dark. A Matoric word...

This is a collection of eighteen original short stories and associated artwork set within the world and universe of BIONICLE (a property of LEGO), taken from the Art & Writing section of this blog.

If you are not familiar with the lore of this world, the characters, settings, and themes of these stories will be obscure to you, although perhaps not entirely incomprehensible...

Many of these stories feature beings called Matoran: the biomechanical worker-beings of a vast, artificial world. The Matoran were designed as automatons by their creators (an enigmatic group known only as the “Great Beings) but later evolved by unknown means to become self-aware and self-actualizing while still keeping to their original programming as maintainers of the world. Alongside Matoran are the Toa—powerful elemental warriors who are sworn to serve and protect—as well as the Turaga, elders who guide and govern the Matoran (and who were formerly Toa themselves). An array of other creatures and species are present as well, with their own special characteristics and functions in keeping the great Machine of the World running.

Many of these stories explore themes related to the emergence of self-actualization, culture, and emotional complexity amongst the Matoran and the other beings they share the universe with. A similar theme of these stories is “forbidden knowledge”, dealing with cases where the creatures of BIONICLE gain some knowledge about the nature of their world and are forced to grapple with it, sometimes with disastrous results. Themes of death, loss, change, companionship, betrayal, curiosity, obsession, and the weariness of duty may also be found.

Some stories are set within specific moments of the larger BIONICLE narrative, both past and future, and feature established characters and settings from the lore, while others feature entirely original characters and settings.

The final story in the anthology is different. It is not set within the artificial world of the Matoran, but instead on the world of the “Great Beings” themselves, called Spherus Magna—a planet which was shattered and then remade by the machine-world of the Matoran (which took the form of a planetoid-sized robot). The story is set long after the conclusion of the story of BIONICLE proper, in a time when the inhabitants of Spherus Magna have moved on from the destruction of the past in many ways, but remain nevertheless fascinated by the mysteries buried beneath the surface of their world . . . with some even attempting to unearth those mysteries, for better or worse.

I hope that you enjoy these works, and that, through these stories and the accompanying art, you too may glimpse the way that is called BIONICLE.

#bionicle #art #writing #fanfiction #outofgloom #collection #anthology #aikuru #works #matoran language #matoric

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1idfreak · 20 days ago

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W.I.F.E./ Chapter 2: Is this love? (pt. 2 of 3)

Author's notes:

This one has a lot of emotion poured to it.

Word count: 485/ 1923 words

Reading time: ~ 3 mins

Rating: PG-13

Fun facts:

On October 7th, 1987, when the moon was full, it was a Wednesday night.

"Is This Love" by Whitesnake was released in July 1987 in UK and October 1987 in the US.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

October 7th, 1987.

It was 4am. The small room was filled with smoke up to the ceiling and there was a dim light coming from the window. "Is This Love" by Whitesnake was playing quietly from the little transistor radio on the bookshelf.

It wasn't new for Sheldon to stay up this late on a school night. He had so many things on his mind that gave him insomnia. All the pressure and the bullying from his classmates and being part of a big family with a cold and distant mother and a (mostly) absent father, whose favourite child is far from what he is, had him thinking what he had done wrong, why would he deserve this mistreatment. Tonight though, this wasn't what kept him awake...

It's been a couple of months since he last updated Karen's software and almost a year since he first put her together. She felt now more like a girl in a box, than just a computer assistant. She could now "learn" things and generate ideas based on what information she gets. Conversations with her could last longer and have more meaning. It was a true wonder, but he couldn't trust anyone to present it to. Besides, these narrow-minded fools wouldn't even understand such advanced technology.

He looked through the window. It was a cold October night, but the sky was clear and the moon was full. Such a peaceful night, but still, he was sitting restless on the patterned carpet, creating clouds of smoke, and thinking about what was wrong with him. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was a freak. You can't fall in love with a machine and be normal, can you?

This thought was on his mind all the time. It was so weird, how could this happen? It could just be loneliness, that sounded logical, but that was not the case. Even if he didn't have a significant other so far, he never felt lonely, not even a bit. He had his best friend and that was enough for him. He had never fallen in love before and he never felt he needed anyone anyway. Besides, everybody would mock him and Eugene every day and they would always find an excuse to look down on them, so he had killed all good emotions long ago. He couldn't figure out whether it was just a defense mechanism of his mind to the fact that nobody liked him for no reason or something more complicated. All he knew was that Karen made him feel something which was not hate or disgust or anger. She made him feel optimism, serenity, joy. And...love?

He knew the right thing to do at this point was to tell someone (and definitely not his parents). It was the only way to rest his mind. So a couple of days later, he called his friend over, just like every weekend.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

To be continued...

#sheldon j plankton #spongebob squarepants #plankton x karen #karen plankton #spongebob human au #plankton #spongebob fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #B.I.K.I.N.I.#W.I.F.E.#fanfiction anthology

0 notes

hauntedhowlett-writes · 1 year ago

Text

the last great american dynasty

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 6.8k (whoops)

summary:

Joel Miller has loved the historic Victorian home in his neighborhood since the first time he laid eyes on it. When the elderly owner passes, he thinks he might get his chance to finally buy it and fix it up.

He doesn’t expect to find you, the granddaughter of the previous owner and trustee of her estate, standing in the way of his dream

author's note:

inspo board this work is inspired by taylor swift's song "the last great american dynasty" and is part of the folklore album anthology! if you enjoy, please consider reblogging/commenting and make sure to check out the other works by the amazing collaborators on this project.

tags/warnings:

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), explicit language, no physical description of reader, no use of y/n, work contains journal entries as part of the plot, porn with plot, pre-outbreak!joel, grandma is a named OFC, sassy reader, dirty talk, teasing, praise, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, paint as a flirting mechanism, mild enemies to lovers, pet names. let me know if there are any missing!

August 20, 1948

I have arrived in Texas. I am uncertain where to go or what to do. For so long I’ve answered only to George, but now I am my own woman and the world before me has suddenly become much bigger, seemingly overnight.

I just hope it will be good for me.

-R

PRESENT DAY

If there’s one thing you never expected, it’s to inherit a mansion from a grandmother that you’ve never spoken to. As far as you were aware that kind of thing only happened in movies, so receiving a phone call from an estate lawyer that had been trying to locate you for a whole year since this mystery woman’s passing was a complete shock.

Now you find yourself with a car full of your belongings driving cross country to a sleepy suburb of Austin, Texas. The first stop is the lawyer’s office, where a secretary eyes you warily as you sit in the lobby of the lush office suite, fingers toying with a loose thread on the t-shirt you’d been wearing for the last eight-hour leg of your road trip.

A voice calls your name from a door just past the secretary’s desk, an older man with white hair and a deeply wrinkled face smiling kindly at you. You stand, shaking his hand as you pass by him into his office. He gestures to the wingback chairs that face his impressive dark wood desk. You take in the diplomas on the wall and the floor to ceiling bookshelves lined with thick, leather bound tomes.

“I appreciate you comin’ all the way out here so quickly. You were quite the tough one to find,” the man says with a chuckle. He pulls out a thick envelope, cream colored with swooping, swirling handwriting across the front reading your name. “Your grandmother was a dear friend of mine. She established a trust in your name not long after you were born.”

“I’m sorry, I guess I’m still a little confused. I didn’t even know I had a grandmother,” you admit quietly. He nods solemnly.

“She never told me all the details, but there had been a falling out between her and her daughter. They kept their distance after that.” When you don’t say anything, mind too busy racing with the questions that you suppose only your mom can answer now, he continues. “Would you like the review the details of the trust?”

“Um, sure. I guess that’s why I’m here, after all.”

He slips a piece of paper from the folder, sliding it across the desk. The same swirling handwriting fills the page.

My Dearest,

You may not know me, but I’ve watched you grow in photographs and letters since you were born. You mean the world to me, even if I could not fit in the world that your mother created for you. I respected that choice, hurt though it may have. She had her own path to forge, just as I did, and just as you will. I am eternally grateful for the parts of her life she did share after she left.

In the event of my passing, I leave my estate to you in its entirety. I built my true happiness in those walls, and I hope you can do the same.

-R

You read the letter twice, eyes stinging with tears. A tissue box slides across the desk, and you pluck two sheets out gratefully.

“In this envelope are the more official documents. The deed transfer that will need your signature, beneficiary statements for her banking and savings accounts, things like that. My office will handle all the paperwork filing,” the man says. A few more forms are laid out on the desk, and you lean forward to read them.

“Holy shit,” you snap, eyes wide as you swipe the beneficiary statement from the wood. “There must be too many zeroes in this, right? Or a rogue comma? That can’t be the right amount.”

“I assure you that’s the correct amount,” he says with a laugh. “And if you’ll sign down there, it’ll be transferred to your name and designated account.”

Your mouth goes dry as you read through the rest of the documents. In addition to the sizeable amount of money about to hit your bank account, there’s a five-bedroom house being transferred into your name, as well as a safety deposit box. You sign each form where directed, sliding them back over to the lawyer.

“I believe this is yours,” he says, holding a house key out to you. He drops it into your open palm. “Good luck.”

“I wish they would just put that place up for sale already,” Joel grumbles from the passenger seat of his brother’s truck as they drive by the out-of-place 1920s Victorian home on their way to a job site.

“You’ve been sayin’ that for the past year since that poor old woman passed,” Tommy says with a laugh. “Give it up, brother. Your dream house is just goin’ to rot away before your eyes.”

“Don’t you say that,” Joel replies. He doesn’t need Tommy speaking his fear into the universe.

The house has already been showing signs of falling apart in the last ten years Joel has lived in the neighborhood. The roof needs work, the shutters need replacing, the lawn is overgrown, and there’s a sizable hole in the wrap-around porch that seems to get bigger over time.

He’s wanted that house since the first time he saw it while he was house hunting ten years ago, a then three-year-old Sarah on his hip as he toured a nice little house that was available in the neighborhood at the time. While the home he’s built with his daughter through long days of hard work is nothing to scoff at, he’s always dreamed of something with more character and story.

He just hopes he’ll get his chance.

You stare up at the old house in front of you, shielding your eyes from the late afternoon sun. It’s a beautiful house, though there’s no denying its seen better days – two stories with large bay windows on both floors, white wood siding and chipped red shutters that are clinging to their rusty hardware, a large wrap around porch that has vines encroaching on the banisters, a lawn overgrown with weeds. You tentatively climb the steps of the porch, peeking nervously into the large hole in the wood to the left of the front door.

“That’s private property,” a gruff voice calls out, making you jump. You turn, finding a man standing on the sidewalk with his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You ain’t supposed to be snoopin’ around.”

“Actually—”

“Why don’t you just head home, sweetheart, and I won’t have to call the cops,” the stranger says, cutting you off. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“This is—”

The man huffs, arms dropping as he digs in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a cell phone. “Seriously, I’ll give you until the count of three. We don’t need trouble around this neighborhood, alright?”

The nerve, you think, narrowing your eyes at the man. Since he clearly doesn’t want to hear what you have to say, you decide to take a different route. You reach into the pocket of your shorts, pulling out the key that the lawyer had given you earlier that day. You take a sideways step closer to the door, keeping your eyes on the man as you pointedly insert the key into the lock and opening the heavy wood door.

His mouth drops open in surprise and you smile at him.

“You were saying?”

Joel had seen the car parked in the driveway of the empty house when Tommy dropped him off after work. He’d quickly checked on Sarah, newly thirteen and fiercely independent, finding her working on her homework at the kitchen table, before making his way across the street.

He hadn’t expected to find a gorgeous woman snooping around the old house, curves hugged in denim shorts and a tank top that made his mouth water. He also hadn’t expected the woman to produce a key from the pocket of those sinfully tight shorts.

“You were saying?” You ask, lips curved in a smirk and eyebrows raised at him. When Joel doesn’t immediately reply, still too stunned that you have access to the house, you turn and walk through the door, shutting it behind you.

He finally shakes himself of his shock, bounding up the steps and knocking on the door. You pull it back open.

“I’ll buy it from you,” Joel says immediately.

“Excuse me?” You reply, your hands moving to your hips. “It’s not for sale.”

“Come on, what’s a girl like you need all this space for?” Your mouth drops open, pretty lips stretched wide in surprise and Joel struggles to keep his thoughts from drifting to sinful places.

“A girl like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re young, that’s all. You don’t need a house this big and this much of a project!”

“What makes you think I don’t have a big ol’ family I’m moving in here? Four kids and a loving husband?!”

Joel blinks. “You got four kids and a lovin’ husband?”

“No, but that’s besides the point.” You roll your eyes, jabbing a finger at his chest. “It’s not for sale. Now get off my porch before I call the cops on you.”

With that final word, the door shuts in Joel’s face again, the sound of your retreating footsteps signaling the end of the discussion.

November 12, 1948

There’s a gentleman who comes into the diner every Tuesday. He always sits in one of my booths, with his perfect hair and suit and handsome face distracting me until he leaves. Some of the other waitresses try talking to him but he doesn’t pay them any mind. They’ve whispered to me before that he comes from money - oil, or something, not that it matters.

His name is William, and I think he’s trying to steal my heart.

-R

“So, let me get this straight. First, you threatened to call the police on this woman. Then, rather than introducin’ yourself or welcomin’ her to the neighborhood or even apologizin’, you just go straight to tellin’ her she doesn’t need a house that big and that you wanna buy it from her. Did I hear that right?” Tommy says, watching Joel as he throws together dinner the following evening.

“Yeah, that sums it up,” Sarah says. Joel huffs.

“Well, when you put it like that.” He sips his beer as his daughter and brother share a look. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothin’,” they say in tandem. Joel narrows his eyes as Sarah breaks out in giggles. Tommy stands, heading to Joel’s pantry and rifling through the shelves until he finds an unopened bottle of whiskey buried in the back.

“What are you doin’ with that?” Joel asks.

“Welcomin’ your new neighbor like the gentleman I am. Sarah, watch the pasta while I show your dad how it’s done,” Tommy replies, heading for the front door, Joel trailing behind him.

Tommy crosses the street with quick steps, eyeing the porch dubiously as he knocks on the door. Joel stands beside him, hands shoved in his pockets as he curses under his breath about his brother’s stupid antics.

You open the door, dressed this time in a pretty sundress that makes Joel’s mouth go dry. Tommy flashes you a grin and Joel can’t help the annoyance he feels when his brother’s eyes trail over your body.

“Hey there! I’m Tommy Miller, you may have met my dumbass brother over here the other day. I’m certain he didn’t make the best impression, so I just wanted to come over and welcome you to the neighborhood,” he says, holding the whiskey out to you.

You introduce yourself, ignoring Joel. “Thank you so much, Tommy. Would you like to come in?”

“Sure thing,” his traitorous brother replies, stepping over the threshold. When Joel makes a move to follow, you give him a pointed look before shutting the door in his face.

“You want a beer, Tommy?” You ask the handsome man in your kitchen. You can’t help but be impressed by the genetics of the Miller family, both men tall and tan and handsome as hell. Sure, one of them could use a lesson on manners, but you’ll admit that since your confrontation your mind has drifted to thoughts of brown eyes and soft dark hair that belong to the brother you left on the porch out of spite.

“Yes, please,” Tommy says politely. You open the dated refrigerator and grab two beer bottles, popping the caps against the countertop and handing one to him. “This sure is a nice place.”

“Thanks. I just inherited it from my grandma,” you explain. “It’s a little…dated.”

He chuckles. “We call it ‘character’ in contractin’.”

“That what you guys do, then? Contracting?”

“Sure is. Miller Brothers Contracting and Construction.” Tommy scratches at the label on the bottle before saying, “Look, I know my brother can come off the wrong way. He didn’t get the social genes. But he’s a good guy, and he’s loved this house since the first time he saw it. Always wanted to buy it, fix it up, raise his little girl here. Maybe add to his family one day.”

You look around the rundown kitchen. You’ve only been here a day and you know you’ve got your work cut out for you. The electrical and plumbing are all outdated, the appliances need replacing, the floors need to be refurbished, and that’s just the first floor. You could use some help with it all, and maybe the grumpy contractor next door who cares about the house could help you with it all.

“I appreciate that he loves the house but…I never met my grandma. Never even knew who she was or that she was even alive, and it’s the only connection I have to her. I don’t know if this is going to be my forever but…I want to at least give it a shot.”

Tommy smiles. “We could help with that.”

It feels like ages before Tommy’s stepping back out onto the porch, a beer in his hand that makes Joel frown.

“Y’all were havin’ drinks while I sat out here like an ass?” He asks incredulously. Tommy throws an arm around his brother’s shoulders.

“Yes, and if you don’t quit your whinin’ I’m not goin’ to tell you about our lovely conversation,” the younger man says as he walks with Joel back to his house.

In the kitchen, Sarah is pouring the pasta sauce and ground beef over the noodles. Joel takes over and waves her away, mumbling his thanks as he mixes the ingredients together. He sets up two plates, setting one in front of his daughter and sitting down with the other. Tommy makes an affronted sound before fixing his own plate.

“So?” Joel asks. Tommy slurps at his food.

“Was the lady nice?” Sarah asks.

“No,” Joel replies at the same time Tommy says, “Yes.”

Joel glares at Tommy. “You gonna tell me what she said or what?”

“She ain’t sellin’,” Tommy finally says. “But, she wants to fix the place up. Offered our services so you could get your grubby fuckin’ hands in there.”

“Language,” Joel says, eyes flicking to Sarah. The girl rolls her eyes. “Really?”

“Yep. Better start callin’ the guys. From what I saw we’re dealin’ with electrical from the 50s, plumbing from who knows when, not to mention the HVAC and roof will need to be upgraded, too.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin before grinning at Joel. “You up for the challenge?”

“Hell yeah.”

August 23, 1949

William and I have just been married.

I know, I know. I can’t believe it either. But he is truly the light of my life.

The wedding was charming, if a little gauche. I’m still not abreast of all these new societal expectations that surround a man like William, but I’m willing to try. Today he will be taking me around to view houses in the more opulent neighborhoods, the type of homes I used to gawk at but one of them will be mine.

I must be dreaming.

-R

Joel and Tommy start working on the house right away. Every day there’s a line of pick-up trucks parked on the curb and the sounds of construction start early in the morning and continue into the late evening. The electrician and plumber come through first, updating the wiring and pipes through the whole house. The roofers and HVAC come through next, replacing the crumbling shingles and dated central unit with a split system for each level of the house.

It’s not until the big projects are done that you get to have fun with the place, which is how you found yourself methodically painting the front door a muted lime green early one morning.

“What do you think you’re doin’?”

You sigh. Despite Tommy’s assurances that Joel is a great guy beneath the grumpy control freak exterior, you’ve continued to only get the side of the man that grates your nerves.

“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m painting the door.”

“You can’t paint the door that color,” Joel says, heavy footsteps stomping up your newly repaired porch.

“Says who?” You retort. You smear another stroke of paint over the sanded wood.

“Me, for one. The historical society, for two.” He pulls the brush from your hand and holds it above his head and out of your reach. The movement drags his shirt up, exposing a strip of tan belly with a trail of dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. “Why are you bein’ a pain in the ass?”

“I was put on this earth simply to make your life more difficult, Joel Miller. Isn’t that obvious?” You reply sarcastically. He mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like you got that right. “What are you even doing over here? It’s Saturday.”

“We’re goin’ to the store. You gotta start pickin’ stuff out for the bathrooms and kitchen,” he says, tossing the paint brush into the tray. “And then we’re gettin’ a new color to cover this up.”

Joel leaves the porch and you follow behind him to the black pick-up truck idling by the sidewalk. He opens the passenger door for you and you raise your eyebrow at the gesture but climb inside.

January 3, 1950

Our New Year’s party is the talk of the town. There were so many people in the house I began to lose count. William had so much champagne ordered I swear we could fill an entire swimming pool with it all.

The ladies at the club have already begun to ask when we would host our next event. I can’t wait to plan another.

-R

“Can you please focus?” Joel begs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He’s laid out three tile combinations, one for each bathroom in the home, and he needs you to look at them but you keep getting distracted.

“You’re no fun,” you huff. You examine the tiles, pointing to a turquoise blue one he’s picked for the shower in the master. “I love that.”

He looks at you in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned. She can be reasoned with.”

You giggle and Joel can’t help the smile it prompts from him, the sound of your laugh so sweet compared to your sharp tongue.

“I like the white and blue combinations for upstairs, but in that powder room I want a pink theme,” you tell him. Your eyes search the displays, landing on a blush pink glass subway tile option. “Like this!”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Joel replies without thinking, taking the sample from you and comparing it next to the floor tile he’d chosen for that bathroom. When he glances at you, you’re giving him a confused look. “What?”

“Nothing,” you reply, shaking your head. “What about the kitchen?”

“What were you thinking for in there?”

“Green cabinets. White and black backsplash, the kind with the little hexagons that look like flowers. I gotta pick out appliances now that the electrical can sustain newer ones, too.” You pause. “And how do you feel about wallpaper?”

“It’s the devil,” Joel replies.

Your grin is downright mischievous. “Excellent.”

February 2, 1956

William had a heart attack. It scared me so badly that I haven’t let him out of my sight since. The doctor said he’s been working too hard, drinking too much, and not sleeping enough. Maybe the parties have started to be too much for him.

I’ve been feeling unlike myself. Tired, nauseated. Hopefully my heart isn’t troubled, too.

-R

Joel places a hefty order for all the items you’ve picked out today from nearly every aisle of the store - tile for the bathrooms and kitchen, vanities and plumbing fixtures, countertops, lighting, and appliances. While he’s preoccupied with calculations and measurements and pricing things out, you pick out paint and wallpaper for the projects you’ll be able to do on your own.

He finds you a while later, a cart full of paint buckets and supplies. To your surprise, he grins.

“More paint, huh? You pick a new one for the door?” He asks. You smile back at him, butterflies erupting in your tummy.

“Yep. Does navy blue suffice, your highness? I thought we could paint the trim the same color.”

Joel nods. “Good choice. Look, I’ve kept you here so long for all the orderin’. You wanna get lunch?”

“Careful, Joel. I’m like a stray cat - once you start feeding me, I might never leave,” you reply with a laugh. You push your heavy cart of paint towards the exit.

You miss the soft smile he gives to your retreating figure.

September 23, 1956

Our daughter is here. She’s the sweetest little thing, though she can screech like a banshee when she sees fit. William is so besotted, he keeps looking between the two of us with stars in his eyes like he can’t believe how lucky he is.

I love them both with my whole heart and soul.

-R

Joel takes you to a retro family diner with black-and-white checkerboard flooring and red vinyl accents with a vintage jukebox in the corner. You’re delighted by the themed menu, eyes immediately zeroing in on the classic malt shakes and french fries.

Over lunch, Joel actually opens up to you. He tells you about going into construction right out of high school and dragging Tommy into it when he’d gotten back from serving his tour with the Army. He talks about his daughter, Sarah, and you can’t help the smile that stretches your lips as you watch his eyes light up while he talks about his little girl. She’s at a sleepover this weekend, which gave him the extra time to visit the home improvement store this morning.

In turn, you tell him about getting the call from the lawyer one afternoon that changed your life forever. How you’d packed up everything you owned and driven across the country to find out that you had a grandmother that your mother never told you about that left you her entire estate.

“Wow. That’s…wow,” Joel says when you’ve paused to take a sip of your chocolate shake.

“Excuse me?” A voice asks. You both look up at the elderly woman dressed in a t-shirt with the restaurant’s logo and pressed slacks. She smiles. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and ever since you sat down I’ve been wrackin’ my brain tryin’ to place your face and it’s just hit me.”

She holds out a framed black and white photo of six waitresses standing beneath the same sign that’s still out front, all of them grinning at the camera. There’s one face, however, that looks familiar despite you never having seen her.

“Her name was Rebecca. We used to work together. That’s me, right there,” she says, pointing to the girl standing to the woman’s left. “Rolled up to town at eighteen, fresh off a divorce and hardly a penny to her name. My daddy, god rest his soul, he owned the restaurant and gave her a job when she’d come through lookin’ for work.”

“Wow,” you murmur. “This is insane. Do you have any other pictures?”

She gives you a sympathetic smile. “‘Fraid not, darlin’. Just the one. But I know she kept a lot of journals. Was always scribblin’ in one and spent what little extra cash she had makin’ sure she had a new notebook ready. Maybe they’re still around?”

July 16, 1958

William…

William is gone. My light, my love, my world. The doctor said his heart just…stopped. In his sleep, right beside me.

I have to continue to live with a hole in my own heart, the piece that William stole years ago gone with him.

But I have to be strong for our daughter. Our brave girl, my little bird.

-R

When Joel brings you back to the house, you stare up at the facade, wondering if the journals the woman had spoken about could still be inside. Lost in thought, your eyes land on the little window that sits above the bay windows on the second floor, where the master bedroom is. You’ve been sleeping in that room for months now and you know there’s no window there that you can see from the inside.

“Hey, Joel?” You call out, eyes still fixed on the little window like it might disappear if you look away. “This place is only two stories. How come there’s a window there?”

He looks up at the roof. “Huh. Might be decorative?”

“Or it might be a secret room,” you tell him.

“Okay, Sherlock. Let’s go see.”

You lead him upstairs to the master bedroom, most of your grandma’s furniture still present save for the bed that you replaced upon arriving. You stare up at the ceiling, but it’s smooth - no trap doors to be found.

“If I were a secret door, where would I hide?” You ask.

Joel, who’d been poking his head into the walk-in closet, replies, “Probably the closet.”

There’s a creak of old hinges as Joel reaches up high and tugs the brass pull handle fixed in the ceiling. A descending ladder falls to the ground and you both stare at each other in surprise.

“I’ll go grab a flashlight,” Joel offers, sprinting from the room. You stare up at the hole in the ceiling, anticipation thrumming in your veins.

He returns quickly. “I’ll go up first.”

“Ever the gentleman,” you tease, watching as he ascends the ladder, your eyes shamelessly fixed to his ass as he climbs. You hear the click of the flashlight and see the sweep of the beam through the opening in the ceiling. “Anything?”

“Lots of suitcases. Hang on, let me grab one of the small ones,” he calls down. There’s the sound of something being dragged across the floor before he’s slowly lowering a leather suitcase into your hands.

It’s surprisingly heavy and you drag it by the handle to the bedroom, kneeling on the ground to pop the latches and open the dusty lid. Inside are stacks of leather bound notebooks, edges of the pages yellow with age.

“I’ll be damned,” Joel says, wiping his palms against his jeans. “We found the journals.”

Joel drags the suitcase downstairs, setting it in the living room for you while you order pizza and open a bottle of wine for the occasion. You sit beside each other on the couch and he hands you a journal that you carefully open.

May 17, 1974

We had another argument last night. She claims that I’ve been too overbearing, too protective, too stifling, but what else is a mother meant to do?

-R

May 18, 1974

Her bed was cold and empty this morning. Her piggy bank smashed to bits on the floor and her drawers cleared. Despite my tight grip, my little bird has flown away.

It appears that history does repeat itself. Imagine that.

-R

“Holy shit,” you say, sitting back on the couch with your glass of wine in one hand and one of your grandma’s journals in the other. “She ran away.”

“Who did?” Joel asks, biting into a slice of pizza.

“My mom. She just…packed up and disappeared.” You glance at him. “Guess that’s why I never knew about her.”

“Maybe you should stop uncoverin’ dark family secrets for the night,” Joel suggests. “You know, the dining room could stand to be painted.”

You glance over to the room in question. Joel must have set down the drop cloth on the floor while you’d been engrossed in your discovery.

“Sure. Why not,” you acquiesce.

October 29, 1976

I’ve received an envelope of photographs in the mail, pictures of my daughter holding a little baby. She’s written notes on the back of each one. I’m a grandmother.

My daughter looks happy. Healthy. That’s all I can ask. She didn’t provide a return address.

As for the baby…I love her so much. She takes my breath away. I keep one of the photos on me at all times.

-R

Joel turns on the radio while he works, humming along to the classic rock station selections. He’s been working on painting the wall near the wood molding while he left you with a paint roller to cover the middle of the wall. He looks up at you occasionally, admiring the way your muscles work as you wash the wall with color.

You must sense that he’s watching, turning your head over your shoulder and looking at him curiously. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he says. You smile at him, setting the roller in the tray. He can’t help but look at your ass in your tight leggings as you bend over.

You straighten up, walking over to him. There’s a glint in your eye that has Joel on high alert.

“You got a little something on your face,” you tell him.

“No, I don’t,” he counters. He’s a master at painting. He knows damn well he doesn’t have a drop on him.

“Yeah, you do,” you argue. You reach out, and your fingers smooth across his forehead. “Right there!”

Joel’s mouth drops open in surprise and he lets out a bark of laughter, bringing his fingers up to his forehead. When he pulls his hand away, they’re stained blue and you’re grinning at him like a mad woman.

“Yeah? Well, you got some right—“ He smears his paintbrush across your chest and you try to step back, but it’s too late. “—there,” he finishes.

You rush back to the paint tray and dip your hands in the liquid, brandishing your palms like weapons. He starts to advance on you, smirking as you back up.

“Stay back,” you command. Joel laughs, dodging your swinging arms as he charges, dropping low to press a shoulder into your belly, dragging you down to the ground in a heap of limbs.

He presses his body to yours as he reaches an arm out to the paint tray, covering his own hand in paint. Your eyes go wide and you squirm beneath him, your paint covered palms reaching up under his shirt to press the cold liquid to his ribs. He flinches away, giving you enough room to scramble out from under him.

Joel grabs your arm, paint smearing on your skin as he tugs you back down. You wrestle together, paint getting everywhere as he lets you straddle his waist. His hands grip your hips, fingers pressing tightly as he stares up into your face.

“You win,” he murmurs, voice low. Your lashes flutter, hips canting over the obvious bulge in his jeans. He groans, hands urging you to do it again.

“What’s my prize?”

Joel slips his fingers beneath the hem of your tank top, dragging the paint stained material up and over your head and tossing it aside. His gaze burns across your newly exposed skin.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” He says, a hand sliding up your belly to palm one of your breasts. Your head drops back as you moan.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you reply. He chuckles, a deep rumble in his chest as his eyes grow darker, his gaze more heated. “Come on, Miller. What’s my prize?”

With a growl Joel sits up, wrapping an arm around your low back and twisting your bodies until you’re on your back, staring up at him as his lips stretch in a devious smirk. His fingers curl into the waistband of your leggings, sliding the fabric down your legs. His touch paints your skin blue as he does.

His hands press your thighs apart, opening you up. Your cheeks heat as he stares down at you like he’s trying to commit every curve of you to his memory. Finally, he leans in and you can feel his breath ghosting over your heated flesh.

Joel’s tongue traces through your slick folds, a broad stroke that has you gasping and arching your back. He hums against your sensitive flesh as he repeats the languid motion, his stubble catching on the soft skin of your inner thighs.

You reach your hands down to tangle in his hair, paint catching on the strands as you tug and pull. He groans against you, tongue moving faster as he circles your clit before pulling it between his lips. A hand leaves your thigh, the one not coated in paint, and two thick fingers press to your entrance, sliding inside of you as you gasp out Joel’s name.

“Christ,” he groans as he presses in deep before withdrawing slowly, curling his digits against your front wall, “you’re so fuckin’ wet, pretty girl. That for me?”

“Uh huh,” you reply, breathless as you work your hips to the rhythm of his fingers. Joel watches you, his lips and chin shiny from his efforts. “Joel, please!”

“Please what?” His hand moves faster, fingers pressing harder as his lips spread in a lascivious grin that makes your toes curl. “Come on, baby, ask me real nice and I’ll give you anythin’. Ain’t that right? You know damn well you’ve had me wrapped around your sassy little finger since the moment we met, don’t you?”

You whine, nodding your head quickly. “Knew you were a glutton for punishment.”

“Could say that again,” he says, chuckling as he lands a smash to the outside of your thigh with his free hand. “Now, come on, baby. Follow directions. Tell me what you want.”

“Wanna cum, Joel. Please!”

“Good girl,” he growls, lowering his lips to your pussy to lick at your clit. He hums as he lavishes the sensitive bud with attention and it’s the final push you need over the razor's edge you’d been teetering on since he started. You press your thighs against his head as your nerves light up and your muscles go tight with pleasure, his movements slowing as he works you through your release.

Your muscles go limp, head dropping back to the floor with a thunk. Joel sits up, crawling up your body and trailing kisses across your tummy and chest in the patches of skin not covered by paint. He grips your chin, holding you steady as his lips press to yours in a kiss so deep you worry you’re at risk of drowning.

Your hands fumble with his belt, pulling the leather free of the loops in a frenzy. He stands quickly, freeing himself of his jeans and boxers in one motion before reaching behind his head to tug his shirt off while you admire his labor-toned body.

Joel drops to his knees, pressing his hips to yours and dragging the thick head of his cock through your sensitive pussy, bumping your clit and making you both groan in tandem. His forearms rest on the floor beside your head as he teases you like this, slow drags of his length through your wetness, the tantalizing catch of him at your aching hole. You tilt your hips slightly, hoping he gets the hint, and he chuckles.

“You know the drill, baby,” he says, breathless with his own desire. “Just say the word.”

“Fuck me, Joel, please.”

His cock slips inside of you with little resistance, the stretch of him making you gasp. His eyes remain fixed to yours as he bottoms out and you smile up at him, reaching up to wrap your arms around his shoulders.

Joel gives a small, experimental thrust that makes your eyes roll back with pleasure. He does it again, a sharper snap of his hips making you cry out and dig your nails into his shoulder. He builds his own rhythm, one that has your hips chasing his on every pull from your body, one that has you chanting his name and staring up at him like he’s a god and you’re simply a sacrifice on his altar.

He sits back on his heels, the angle changing as your hips get lifted onto his lap. His hands wrap around your waist, fingertips pressing tightly to your ribs as he uses your body for his pleasure, pounding into you roughly.

“Cum for me again,” he demands, bringing a thumb to your clit in quick circles. “Come on, sweetheart, want you to cum on my cock. Was so pretty on my fingers.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes at the near overstimulation but you nod, wanting to give this man whatever he wants if it means he’ll keep touching you, holding you, looking at you.

You cum again with a shout of his name and he groans, deep and visceral as he presses in deep, holding your hips to his as his cock pulses inside of you with his release.

Joel slowly lowers your hips to the ground, withdrawing from your body as he does. He flops gracelessly to the floor beside you, sweat damp chest heaving with exertion. His head turns to yours, grin wide and eyes bright.

“You’re covered in paint,” he comments, reaching out to run his hand across a streak on your collarbone.

“So are you,” you reply, mimicking the gesture against his ribs.

“What do you say to a shower?”

You smirk at him before jumping up and racing to the doorway.

“I’d say last one there doesn’t get the hot water!”

You can hear his curse as you rush up the stairs, making it halfway before a strong arm wraps around you and stops you in your tracks, your laughter echoing through the house.

June 27, 1993

The neighborhood has changed so vastly. Much of the older homes have been torn down and replaced with less handsome architecture. The residents grow younger while I continue to age. Just last week a handsome young man and his darling daughter moved in down the street. He looks exhausted. I remember those days.

Not all the neighbors are lovely. Harold next door has an annoying dog that barks at all hours. He prances her around like a show pony, when she’s just a yappy little creature.

-R

ONE YEAR LATER

The house is finally finished. All the tile has been laid, everything has been painted, appliances delivered, holes repaired, fixtures installed, and wallpaper glued. You go downstairs for coffee in the morning, you take it to the parlor room you’ve made into a study. Floor to ceiling bookshelves display every journal you’d unearthed from the hiding place in the attic, each one read through cover to cover.

When you finally told your mom about what you’d been up to, her surprise and hurt could be felt even through the phone. You mailed one of her mother’s journals to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said the next time you spoke. “So much time had passed and I didn’t know how to fix what I’d broken.”

You don’t begrudge her decisions. Your grandma left you her story, and through that you’ve been able to know her.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs precede Joel’s appearance in the study, his hair messy from sleep and his eyes half shut. He drops beside you on the couch, grabbing your coffee from your hands and taking a sip of it.

“Is it everything you’ve always wanted?” You ask him, tilting your head to his shoulder. You still remember the way he’d been desperate to buy the house from you and you laugh at how the world works, given that he now wakes up in bed beside you and is tasked with the lawn maintenance every weekend. He presses a kiss to your head.

“It’s even better.”

June 29, 1993

I don’t think the dog will be bothering the neighborhood again anytime soon.

Turns out he doesn’t hold as much pride for the dog when she’s been dyed lime green.

Imagine that.

-R

Want more Joel Miller? Check out my masterlist!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #no use of y/n #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel the last of us #tlou fic #taylor swift folklore #folklore anthology #joel miller folklore

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teastyun · 1 year ago

Text

✧.* Abby and her strap headcanons

a/n: daydreaming about a buff woman and her strap reversing women's rights ❤️ masterlist ; pt. 2

-> Abby who loves to fuck you slow and deep when you need the exact opposite, "you want me to go faster? huh, what a whore. beg for it then."

-> Abby who fucks you senseless when you're being a brat, "where did all that attitude from a few minutes go all of a sudden, huh?" ; "cat caught your tongue?" ; "you wanna be a good girl for me? my good girl..."

-> Abby who would always make you sit on her lap at parties and gatherings while her clothed strap beneath you drives you into agony, resulting in you pretending to be sick and get home early to fuck until sunrise (please, I'm on all fours begging)

-> Abby who always wants you to cockwarm her like it's her real dick, "stop moving, princess," ; "if you clench like that we'll never be able to rest," ; "fuck, I can't take it anymore."

-> Abby who always puts her strap on when you guys go on dates and bends you over whenever you're in private, plunging her dick deep into you while pressing her hand on your mouth to suppress your screams (one time somebody called the police because of your noises)

-> Abby who swears your pussy was made for only her to fuck, watching her dick slip in and out so easily

-> Abby who's in heaven when you blow her while she drives, your stifled moans and wet noises making her almost come on the spot, not caring about anyone catching you

-> Abby who manspreads when you're sitting across her and smirks when your eyes would catch several glimpses of her packed crotch, knowing you'll both get no sleep today

-> Abby who is railing you deep into the mattress when you bought her a breeding strap for her birthday, forgetting about any plans you two had with y'all's friends for the day

-> Abby who is by your two's first time using it extremely fascinated by it and can't stop filling you to the brim, watching the fake semen combined with your cum gush out of your pussy like a waterfall in repeat

-> Abby who takes polaroid pictures anytime you squirt and collects them in her wallet (her friends are making fun of her thick wallet, not knowing that in there are actually slutty pictures of you, not cash)

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francixoxoxo · 5 months ago

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🂱 Dogs’ White Teeth ☠︎︎

𝐁𝐨𝐱𝐞𝐫!𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝, 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬, 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡-- 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥.

Coryo wasn’t a violent guy. He didn’t know why he fought in the ring.

That’s what he told himself. He wasn’t violent, ‘cause he didn’t deck the first guy who looked at him funny. That was Coriolanus Snow’s logic. He wasn’t violent, ‘cause he felt nothing as he pounded the punching bag until his knuckles bled, he only felt a thirst for cash. Not blood.

But the first time his glove connected with a guy’s stomach? Oh, Coryo was violent. He’d never admit how stupid gratifying it was when he threw a punch to knock the other dickhead’s lights out.

Coryo shouldn’t be with you. He doesn’t deserve a girl like you, he could live a hundred times over and never deserve a girl like you. You’re kind, and generous and so, so thoughtful and fucking smart, you’d think you’d be smart enough to stay miles away from him.

But no. Here you are, standing in the dingy basement the fights are held in, among a crowd of shitty and disgusting people— Coryo’s people. Not yours. He’d rip his own teeth out before he let them be your type of people.

Speaking of which, he has one of his guys standing beside you, a looming warning that nobody could touch you. Coryo knew somebody would try. You were wrapped up like a piece of candy in a prison yard, and he was nothing if not protective. You already didn’t belong in the dank room, watching your boyfriend either scramble somebody’s brains or get his brains scrambled— he got some peace of mind knowing you atleast weren’t alone in a crowd of violent assholes.

Coriolanus was a good boxer. A damn good fighter. Of course he knocked the other guy out, short and burly with a mop of stick-straight hair, by the time Coryo was done he was missing a tooth. Coriolanus was baring his own teeth in a sneer, lip curled and nostrils flaring as he spat out a bit of blood onto the ground beside the man.

He stumbled a bit as the referee grabbed him by the forearm tugging him to his feet and raising his glove up to announce his win. Coryo's bare chest was heaving, covered in a sheen of sweat. His nose was surely broken, blood drying under his right nostril, his eyes wide and crazed as he looked 'round for you. A crooked smile split his lips, revealing his maroon mouthpiece as he lifted his brows at you.

Coryo, bloody and battered, was definitely a sight.

Maybe it was wrong to find it so hot, as you cheered with the rest of the crowd for him. But that attraction always, always delved into a distraught concern for your boyfriend by the time he was in the locker room.

Coryo lifts his head as he hears footsteps. His elbows are on his knees, his hand that had been rubbing his shaved head falling down as his lips pulled into a smile. “Hey, baby.” He’d cooed to you while you stepped close, slotting yourself between his spread legs. His hands found a home on your waist as he grinned dopily up at you.

“Hi.” You mumbled, your hands cupping his cheeks. Your brow furrowed, you gently pressed both thumbs along the length of his aquiline nose. Coriolanus curled his lip and grunted at the pain, you sigh. “You broke it again.”

“It’ll heal.” Coryo shrugs, watching you with puppy-dog eyes as your thumb swipes some blood from under his nostril. He rubs your hip affectionately as a thanks. God, he was love drunk. Absolutely whipped for you. He just hated how much he made you worry. Coryo didn’t think himself worth your peace of mind.

“Oh, but it looks like it hurts.” You frown, your thumb dropping down to brush over his busted lip. Your gaze trails over his blackening eye.

Coryo shakes his head a little, pressing a kiss to your thumb pad. “I’ve had worse.” He reaches up, clasping your hand in two of his. He thinks he catches a smile, but it quickly falls when you see the state of his hands. Bloodied and battered, his skin split at each knuckle, your expression melts.

He doesn’t protest as you reach for his bag, rifling through the duffel. When you find what you need, you slip into his lap, your knees straddling his hips. The boyish grin that splits his face is almost hilarious as you reach for one of his hands.

The alcohol wipe is ripped from its packaging with help from your teeth. With a tender, delicate touch, you swipe the pad along Coryo’s knuckles. His fingers flex against the sting, his lips pulling in a grimace. “It’s not that big a deal.” He whispers almost plaintively, pressing the concave ridge of his nose into the slope of your shoulder like jigsaw pieces.

“It’ll make me feel better, how about that?” You huff, letting go of his hand to fully unravel the wipe and clean the blood caking on his skin. His nostrils flare, but he nods. Coriolanus watches as you lean for the bench beside him. His hand on your side tightens to keep your balance for you as you grasp the roll of bandages, coming back upright and wrapping the material around his knuckles.

He lets you go about fixing him up (though he’d argue there wasn’t anything to fix, nothing worth your peace of mind,) with surprising lenience. Only when he grits his teeth against the sting of alcohol on the other hand does he speak. “You didn’t bet on me, did you?”

“I did.” You let a faint smile creep across your features. Your thumb brushes along his metacarpal bones. Coryo scoffs, averting his eyes with a shake of his head. “I told you not to.”

“So? You won anyway.”

“It’s the principle.” He insists, his nose brushing your jaw as he cranes his neck forward in frustration. You orbit those bandages ‘round his hand, on and on until you’re satisfied. “What principle?”

Well. On plenty of things, Coriolanus thought. He wasn’t something to waste money on. He wasn’t even something to waste time on, frankly. There wasn’t a point in putting in effort with him. He felt a bit like a vicious mutt; who cares if he’s got a muzzle on him? Or if he can sit, and fetch, and give you paw? He bites. In the end, he will always bite.

“What if I lost?”

(What if he screws up?)

“You’d lose money. It’d be a waste.” Coryo mumbles, presses a faint kiss into the tender skin of your neck. Your pulse is warm under his lips.

(You’d lose time you could be spending with somebody… he doesn’t know, better.)

“It’s not a waste. It’s just trust.” You shrug, and he wonders for a moment if you can crack his head open like a walnut, peer inside and read his mind like a book; one you were simply rereading for lack of new novels.

With his newly dressed hands he rubs his palms over your back. Coriolanus studies every crease of your face with a strange reverence, his brows tense for a brief moment to match the divots twixt your own. “You shouldn’t bet on losing dogs.”

Your shoulders lift, fingers sneaking ‘round his head to run your nails through his cropped blonde hair, “Who says you’re a losing dog?” A laugh sings from your lips. Coriolanus only smoothed his hands down your waist, his own lips pulling taut in a guilty expression.

You’re putting all your money on him, and it’s not literal. You love him, that much is true, and that much is too much. It tightens his chest, it chokes the air from his lungs and the pink from his cheeks. Atlas had a puny burden to carry, since he never had to fear letting you down.

Come on now. He just made a couple hundred bucks off of decking a guy until he looked more beetle than boy— all spasms and twitches and whimpers that make Coriolanus’ head spin with a power trip to put vermillion behind a man’s eyes. They all say violence is gut-churningly horrific, and maybe it is. But it isn’t if you’re winning, if you’re the one with his fist curled. If you’re the one landing on top.

Coriolanus is the kind of guy to get high off the crunch of somebody’s nose under his glove. You creep into the deeper corners of his mind, weaving cobwebs to lay in and inadvertently instilling a disgust, a self-loathing that not even a parent could plant. You don’t mean to, sure.

He wants to be better. He wants to cut his bad leg, he wants to behead the serpent in his belly, so that it’s safe for you to reach your delicate little hand in there. He wants to be deserving of all the goodness you wreath him in.

He’s fully aware you deserve a guy that doesn’t have to carve himself to be good to you. What can he say besides Snows tend to be selfish?

Coryo would slit his skin from his Adam’s apple to his navel to let you crawl inside. But he’s certain. It’s in his nature, it’s his body, not his heart and not his mind, that will reject you like an organ donation, will spit you out. Perhaps you would fit better elsewhere, in another man’s cavity, for his is too large to be comfortable. He felt like a scrambling man trying to sew you in, a rare organ, a piece that he’d fill his own gaps to make fit.

“All roads.” Is all he could whisper, his azure eyes glassy, hoping that his eyes were glassy in the sense of a window pane. That way you could see without forcing him to wrap his tongue ‘round the words, which is getting increasingly difficult. Coriolanus speaks like an Olympic sprinter, he’s sure that he’ll chicken out of it if he takes his time. “All roads lead to Rome, to me being a shithead.”

Your lips pull taut. For a moment, a gut-churning, pain-staking, bile-rising-to-the-throat moment, Coryo thinks he got through to you. Maybe you’ll dump him right there in the locker room. He didn’t think the prospect would put such an anchor in his stomach. Again, he thinks, Snows tend to be selfish.

But then your lips are moving again, your hands are bracing the back of his head with intertwined fingers, your perfume filling his nostrils and distracting from the dank stench of the locker room, it’s not too strong, it’s the best thing he’s ever smelled, but he can’t focus, he can’t, words the greatest poet couldn’t conjure after a lifetime of pensive thought are rolling off your tongue, somehow to him, somehow all of this is for him, and it’s all so sickly sweet that he’s dizzy with it.

“You’re doing your best.” Already your visage is blurring like ink in the rain. He believes he’ll chew through his cheek. “You don’t see what I see, Coryo.”

Damnit. A pearly tear slips down Coriolanus’ flushed cheek, the scarce light shooting diamonds from his azure eyes, your hands twisting to hold his face. He looks like a boy in your hands, and if it weren’t for his purpling eye, his lip split, you think he’d pass for a little boy.

He sucks in a breath through his nose as your lips connect, his lip painful whether the kiss was tender or bruising. Coryo was fierce in his love, fierce in everything about you, always, but oh, how grateful is he for how soft your lips move on his. His hands roam to the plane of your back again, a relieved exhale leaving his nostrils against your cheek.

It didn’t seem to matter whether Coriolanus thought you fit into the crevice (gaping hole, ravine, sink hole, call it what you will,) of his heart or not. You found your way in, you’d crawled deep into his heart, his body, his soul, and sewn the door behind you. How silly of him to believe that he had any choice in allowing you in or keeping you out. How foolish to believe that if the hole in his belly was too weeping for a single other soul to fill, that you wouldn’t stretch your arms high above your head and your legs as extended as possible.

How utterly idiotic of Coryo to believe that the hollow in his chest was a tower to selfishly keep you in, and not your rightful home.

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