#flesh currency : fic

[joeloverture]

flesh currency | j.m. x disabled!f!reader

masterlist | notifs blog | on palestine

pairing: qz!joel miller x disabled!f!reader summary: you have an arrangement with joel. pleasure as currency for your painkillers. but what happens when he tires of the same old song and dance? warnings: (18+ mdni) reader has chronic pain/uses a cane*, sexual favors for painkillers, dubcon but reader is fully comfortable even with the headspace she's in, drugs (reader takes illegal painkillers, the kind is not described), elements of both game and show joel, ableism (cr*pple), mean!joel, slight intox (reader takes 1 pill before the act but is in her right mind during), smut, degradation, underwear sniffing/musk kink, ass eating/rimming (m!receiving), instructions, humiliation, slight praise, thigh riding/leg humping, tit & ass grabbing, cumplay [no use of y/n] word count: 6.2k author's note: stimky joel. yeah. this is my grossest fic to date but it's also kind of my favorite. there's regressive language packed in here (junkie, etc) but that doesn't align with my perspective on the use of opiods when it comes to patients in pain. hell, im one of them. i hope this speaks to you as much as this is hot for you. thank u @lovesickonmybed for being my rock as always. pics in moodboard arent mine. *don't let this put you off, please. being disabled in the apocalypse is not as far fetched as fungal zombies. it's always useful to read experiences that aren't yours.

“You need to go home, lady.”

The FEDRA fuck glowering down at you is bulky and glistening with sweat. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, chapped lips twisted into a snarl. The hustle and bustle of the mess hall is persistent, a thrum of chatter and scraping utensils that batters your skull. A rag hangs limp from your hands — saturated with dirty water and diluted cleaner.

You lean heavier against your cane and wince as the handle digs deeper into the calloused heel of your palm. “Why?” you ask, tilting your head up.

“Can’t have any fucking cripples slowing us down. You knocked over that spray bottle five separate times. Been counting.” Cripple. The word hurts almost as much as the burning, burning, burning in your legs and arms. Almost.

He gestures vaguely towards the busted spray bottle of cleaner. You hadn’t noticed it fall down on the bench as you were tying yourself into knots just trying to wipe it down.

“But I need rati-”

“Don’t care what you need. You’re slowing people down. Got more suitable workers lined up outside the door. Get going, or I’ll have you removed.”

The spray bottle is capsized much like you, tilted and leaking onto the bench. A needling sensation pedals itself into the back of your knee and you can’t stop yourself from wincing.

You squeeze the rag in your hands and chuck it onto the table before you limp out of there.

Pain isn’t something that happens to you anymore.

It’s inextricable from yourself. Sewn into your muscles, bone marrow, and tissue. Stabbed into the pincushions of your fleshy joints. You’ve become the pain scale, the same one that hang in the FEDRA-installed medical tents.

Usually, your pain is a bearable backdrop to the show that is trying to survive in the QZ. Lately, though, it’s become the centerpiece. Just as inescapable as this hellhole you’re stuck in.

You weren’t always like this. There are flickers in your memory of sob stories on the news. Kids in wheelchairs or dragging themselves along with arm crutches before they even got their braces. Something happened to you after the world ended. Something that derailed you, sent you scattered into a thousand pieces and left you in the shrapnel spray of your own making.

You try not to think about it.

It’s hard not to on days like this, though. There’s books in the semi-refurbished libraries and abandoned bookstores that talk about how people like you used to live. They’d have benefits programs (laden with flaws, of course) that kept them afloat. Caretakers, sometimes. Elevators used to work without generator power. You envy them.

There are endless more in this QZ just like you. Limping, shambling, flailing. Drowning in the black sea of FEDRA suits.

Right now, you’re crawling.

Up the stairs of a derelict apartment building. Trash lines the sides of the stairs, crumpled and mashed into the ground by heavy-footed boots. You tangle your hand in a cobweb and wipe it on your jacket, cane thunking against the stairs as you haul yourself up. When your knee bashes against the edge of a stair, your hands grapple against the air as you fight an invisible entity. A frustrated, exhausted noise crumbles in the back of your throat.

Floorboards creak behind you, and you cringe.

“Fuck are you doin’?”

You roll over and muster a rueful smile. “Hi, Joel.”

The first time you went to Joel, he was your last resort.

“I need something for pain. Anything.”

He’d looked at you like he saw right through you. Now, knowing what you do about him, you’re sure that he did. Like a pane of stained glass that he’d held up to the sun.

He’d rifled through his mattress for a couple minutes. “Got you for sixty.”

You couldn’t do sixty.

When you told him that, he’d only shrugged at you. “Ain’t my problem, kid. Either scrounge it up or quit wastin’ my time.”

“I– I–”

You were never very seductive. Not even before your body turned into… this. This cataclysmic, living horror that disorients you in every waking moment.

You settled for unzipping your jacket. Tugging down your tank top. Showing your tits.

A wordless ordeal, one where your cheeks flamed hot and you felt like he’d taken a scalpel to your skin. But you always felt like that, at least.

“Ah, now we’re talking.” The chair scraped against the floor as he stood, meeting you in two strides. He’d looked at you with heat in his dark eyes, so dark that you could see yourself leaving your dignity in a pile at his feet. He’d reached across the empty space between the two of you and grabbed a handful of your tit, thumbing at your peaking nipple. “A junkie and a whore. You’re cute, I’ll give you that.”

You hadn’t been scared to spread your legs. To let him into the warmth festering in your core. It hurt, all of it did, it always does. But for a brief, blistering moment, when he was balls deep inside of you, the pleasure swelling in your stomach had been enough to dim the lights of the pain.

Since then, you just kept going back. A leech he just couldn’t shake.

“Jesus, girl. C’mon, up on your feet.” He patted you on the shoulder, grabbing your cane for you. He holds his hand out. You swallow your pride and accept the help, letting him drag you up. You wrap your arm around his shoulders and your free hand around the banister, letting him pull most of the legwork. “Stumblin’ around like a goddamn stalker.”

You grumble under your breath, a jumble of words too incoherent to mean anything sufficient. At the top of the stairs, he thrusts your cane back into your hand and heads down the hall without you. You glare at his shoulders before limping after him. One dragging step after another. The tread of your boot dips into a greasy looking puddle.

Joel fumbles for the key into his apartment, and you lean against the wall while he sorts himself out. At least he’s not covered in blood today. There’ve been times where you’ve shown up when he’s fresh off of a supply run, smoking gun sticking out of his waistband.

You use your cane to knock the door shut behind you.

“You’re lookin’...” He surveys you. “worse for wear.”

“Fuck you, too,” you say. A pause, punctuated by casual crossfire outside. “I need more.”

Joel huffs a laugh. “‘Course you do.”

He’s never given you that sort of attitude before. You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Please, I–”

“I ain’t a one man Salvation Army. Everyone’s got needs.”

“I’ll… I can…”

“What? Suck me off? You got a pretty mouth, baby, but I got about twelve girls who can do the same thing.”

“FEDRA won’t let me work,” you blurt out. Sympathy with Joel isn’t even a one way street. It’s a path that hasn’t been foot trodden. “They… they kicked me out when I tried, I’m trying, Joel, I swear I a–”

“Deep breaths,” he says. He folds his arms over his chest and jerks his head toward the slouching couch in the room. “Sit down. Can’t talk to ya if you’re fuckin’ hyperventilating.”

You prop your cane up against the armrest and drop yourself into the cushions. You dig your palms into your eye sockets and suppress a scream.

“I’m working at a deficit with you.”

“I know,” you grit out.

“I put up with a lot, but you’re drainin’ me dry here.”

“You’re right,” you relent. “I’ll find someone else. Sorry… for the trouble.” You reach for your cane again, but then he’s tugging it out of your reach.

“You’re waddling around like a fuckin’ fool flingin’ your legs open for any guy whose got what you need, gonna get yourself killed out there. Lotsa guys have less of a tolerance for girls like you than I do. I’m not runnin’ you out the door.”

“Then what are you doing, Joel?” you ask, hand still hanging in the open, wrapped around the empty air where your cane should be.

He sets the cane in your hand, and you deposit it at your side again. “Givin’ you a wake up call,” he says. “What’re you willing to do for your fix?”

“I…” Just three short months ago, before you’d sought out the much-feared Joel Miller, you would’ve said nothing. Just three months ago, your pain was bearable, livable, mere tinnitus. Now it is a bonfire. Roaring in the kindling of your ribcage. “Anything.” You swallow, worrying your tongue against your teeth. “I just want to feel normal.”

“Tough shit,” he says.

You have nothing to say to that. You only sit there, biting into the inside of your cheek. Knives sink into your skin with each breath. It hurts to be alive, it is anguish to be alive, and you just want to swallow a pill down dry. Enough to dull the edge, enough to make things tolerable. You stare at your feet as the room swirls.

“Alright,” Joel says after a moment. “You look beat, and I’d be a worse man than I already am if I ‘took payment’ now. I’ll give you one.”

Your eyes light up.

“You’re gonna take a quick nap in my room while I pull some strings, yeah? Let it kick in. Then we’ll see about what you can do to earn the rest if you’re up for it.”

Maybe sympathy can be a two way street. You’ve heard everything about him. Seen the occasional wanted poster floating through the street before FEDRA moved on to the Firefly of the week. Likely heard gunshots fired from the barrel of his gun.

“Thank you,” you whisper as he plucks one from a baggie. He drops it in your hand and you can’t help but wrap it in your fist. The inherent value of what he has given you.

He sees you eyeing it, sees you thinking, and says, “Don’t hurt yourself. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

And you do wake in an hour, scar-serrated, gun-hardened hand on your cheek. It’s instinctive to roll away, or at least it should be with someone who’s as bloodstained as Joel. Instead, you find yourself nuzzling into his palm before you’re even fully awake, when the walls of his apartment are only a border of the shapeless dream you’d been having.

“Rise ‘n shine, sleepyhead,” Joel says. He taps you on the apple of your cheek, and you find yourself blinking the crust from your eyes. Your fists go to rub at them. “Feeling any better?”

It’s not entirely gone — it never entirely is. It’s always the sand dollar nestled in the sand. The grain of sand lodged inside of the crevices. The clutch of your high is less of a clutch than it is a hangnail caught on a thread. It’s only a fracturing lightheadedness instead of a backslide into euphoria. You feel perfectly grounded, body taken off of the perpetual razor blade edge it rests on and airlifted onto a sturdy mattress.

“Yeah,” you croak, clearing your throat of any trace of grogginess. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “I got twelve slow release tablets for you. Should be enough to get you strong enough to work the ration lines for a couple days.”

“I promise I’ll make this worth your while– agh.” You say, whimpering as you try to sit up. 

Joel keeps you down with a hand on your shoulder. “Oh yeah? And what exactly are you offerin’ me this time, huh? More of those pretty tits? A taste of that leaky little cunt?”

“Anything you want,” you blurt out. A hefty statement with even heftier implications. But just one pill has shredded your pain from glass sticking out of your skin into little pinpricks. A miracle confined to a little circular pill.

Joel cocks his head at you. “Anything, huh? You’d sell your soul for a hit, wouldn’t you? Let me do whatever the fuck I wanted to that pretty ‘lil body of yours?”

A better person, the upstanding salt of the earth, would’ve walked away long ago. But you can scarcely walk on a good day, so all you can do is bob your head at him.

A smirk slices across his face. Joel reaches out to you to grip your chin, thumb pressing into bone. It’s satisfying in a twisted sort of way. Your eyes go all glassy and your lips form a picturesque pout. “Well ain’t that just precious,” he croons at you. “You think you’re the first desperate junkie to offer me the world for a cheap high?”

“No,” you mumble. “But that’s not… that’s not what this is. I have a good reason —”

Joel snorts at you. “Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that. Might not be the first one to come crawlin’ — literally — to me, but you might be the most pathetic. Tits and ass, that’s all you got to trade. Tell me sweetheart, how long ‘fore those goods wear thin?”

“According to you, they already have,” you fire back.

“Oh, they definitely have,” he says, voice so stony that it’s on the verge of being a leer. “But that don’t mean I can’t squeeze a little more outta you. You see, kid, I got a special request today. Something that requires a… different kinda payment.”

You worry your lip, teeth scraping over skin. You’re already in this deep. There’s so little you have to lose, pride included. Eventually, you take a deep breath and steel yourself. “Please, Joel. Just… just tell me what I can do.”

He leans in close, breath hot against your ear as he hangs onto your chin. “You’re gonna eat my ass, baby. And you’re gonna do it with a smile on your face, you understand?”

You stare, blinking once and then twice. He– you– what? “Excuse me?” you ask, brows furrowed.

“You heard me right, sweetheart. I want to see that pretty little mouth wrapped around my asshole, suckin’ and slurpin’.” He squeezes your chin. “That make enough sense to get through your drug-addled head?”

You squirm under his scrutiny, face heating up as if you’ve been held over an open flame. He’s looking at you as if he’s got you all figured out. Knowing him, he does. After you’re certain his handprint has started to stain your jaw, you say, “...Why?”

He shrugs. “Why not? ‘Cause I can pull any crackhead off the street and shove ‘er down on my cock until snot’s runnin’ out of her nose and her belly’s full of my cum. Can’t just find any girl who’s willing to knock on my backdoor. Takes a real nasty degenerate bitch to do that. And you’re a desperate little druggie willin’ to do anythin’ for a fix. You said it yourself.” He chuckles under his breath. “Seems like a match made in heaven to me.”

You swallow. Work the saliva in your mouth. “I… I’ve never, um–”

Joel’s head goes back with a grating, harsh laugh. “Never ate any ass before? Oh, you’re a dainty ‘lil thing, ain’t ya? Don’t worry your pretty head, sweetheart. I’ll teach you what you need to know.”

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to… want that sort of treatment.” Joel’s rough in bed, yes. Probably less rough with you than the other girls he sees, considering your predicament. You just hadn’t marked him as the type to want anyone near his ass.

Joel laughs. “I sure as hell ain’t. But here’s the thing, sweetheart. I don’t just want your tongue proddin’ around between my legs. I want to see your slutty little face smushed between my cheeks while you debase yourself for your hit.”

And that… makes more sense. This isn’t about his pleasure. It sure as hell isn’t about yours. It’s about him getting off on making you suffer, making you do something uncomfortable, something many would dub unpleasant.

Maybe you are a nasty fucked up degenerate bitch, because slick leaks into the gusset of your panties.

“Think you wanna do that for me?” he asks, dragging his hand from your chin, down your side, to where he gives your hip a light squeeze. “For you?”

“Yeah,” you say, a little breathless and plenty dizzy. Then, when you gather your wits, you nod firmly and speak louder. “Yeah.”

“Attagirl. Knew you were an obedient little pill chaser.” He gives your hip a tiny little smack. “C’mon, strip for me. Show me what we’re workin’ with.”

This part, you’ve done.

You fiddle with the hem of your tank top and lure it over your head before dropping it on the floor. You wriggle out of your bra, letting your tits fall loose. Joel nods his approval as you kick off your boots. You move on to your jeans, flicking the button. Dragging them down your thighs, savoring the hitch of denim on blemished skin. You have no problem showing off for him in this way, heels knocking your waistband down and leaving the pants in a lump on the floor. You’re left in your panties, the wet spot with the evidence of your slick shining through.

“Oh, baby,” Joel laughs. You shiver. “Ain’t even done anything to you… fuck, maybe you were meant to be a little ass eating slut. Filthy thing.”

You avert your eyes, face flaming, body boiling from the inside out. He’s standing hip-level with you, his semi visible in the stretch of his jeans. “Hey,” he says, hand gliding up your side. He taps your cheek with a bent knuckle. “No reason t’ be scared. First time for everything, yeah? Not gonna bite ya.”

You’re not scared. Just demeaned and humbled — exactly where he wants you to be.

He undoes his jeans, zipper snarling as it loosens, and knocks them and his boots off in a pile next to yours. He makes no move to take off his briefs or shirt, just taps your thigh. “Scoot,” he says. You shuffle over. “Gonna lay on my back. Figure that’ll be comfiest for you?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Um, thanks.”

Despite his reputation, despite how he treats you like a fucking cum rag, and despite this being a business transaction, he never neglects your own comfort. He never blocks the door. He never traps you in this situation.

Joel climbs onto the bed, sprawls out among the flattened pillow below. You go back on your haunches before adjusting yourself onto your stomach. You look at him and his rising bulge as he gets comfortable.

“I, uh, what do I–” You’re bumbling, and you know it. Seduction, even after a few transactions with Joel, still isn’t your domain.

“Alright, you little ass kisser in training. Gonna ease you into this. First thing you gotta do is get comfortable with the smell,” he says.

You give him a look.

“Like I said, you’re drainin’ me dry. Soap’s not the cheapest find, baby. Gotta make due. Besides, who needs bar soap when I’ve got your eager little tongue ready to wash me up?”

“Jooooel,” you whine, nose crunching.

“Nuh uh. No complainin’. I’m doin’ you a solid here, unless you’d rather me shove you face-first between my cheeks?” You shake your head, and he raises his brows at you. “Thought so.”

Joel slowly peels off his briefs, and your mouth can’t help but water at the sight of his mostly-hard cock. You remember the heft of it inside of you, the way he’d made room for himself inside of your body. And then your eyes trail lower to how his bulky thighs branch into the meat of his ass.

He hands you his briefs and gives you an expectant look. “Go ‘head. Sniff ‘em.” 

“I– really?” you ask. They’re heavy in your hand and the exact sort of thing you’d expected him to wear. An off-white color, discolored by years of sitting around in a post apocalyptic world. A little bit stretched out with a hole in the waistband.

“Really. C’mon, kid, I don’t have endless patience.”

You change you grip on them and tentatively bring them to your nose, inhaling the musk that he’s embedded into the fabric from days of wear. It’s sharp and pungent, but underlined with a faint trace of sweetness. His musk is almost sugary, with the way it cloys inside of your lungs. Your hesitant sniffs turn into fuller, deeper breaths.

A cocky grin crosses his face. “And that’s just the appetizer, baby. Wait until you get a real mouthful of me.”

You whimper into the fabric, snuffling against it. Feeling yourself drift into that floaty, cotton-candy state of mind that you nosedive into whenever you’re with him. You watch, enraptured, as he spreads himself apart. His pucker is nestled in a thatch of hair and skin, tanner and darker than the rest of him. “See that?” he asks “That’s where you’re tongue’s headin’ baby.”

You let out a tiny little whimper. Joel laughs at you and a fresh wave of slick saturates your panties.

“This is the real deal, sweetheart. Go ahead. Give it a whiff.” You dip your head lower than it already is, nerves winding around your chest. You take a tiny, halfhearted breath. “How’re you gonna kiss it if you can’t even breathe it in, baby? Just get your nose in there, first. Think of it as an initiation.” He reaches back and gently grabs the back of your neck, tugging you closer. Before you know it, your nostrils are mashed against his hole, and every breath you take is muddied by him. You whine, a keening noise that traps itself in your throat.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Deep breaths, now. Let me defile that pretty nose.” You listen to him, controlling your breaths and drawing them in deep. “You’re gonna learn to love this. Nasty fuckin’ girls always do.”

You pull back when he loosens your grip on his neck, panting and dizzy off of him. You feel cross-eyed, almost. Swooning over the sensation of being buried between his legs. 

“Look at you,” he coos. “Really are just a pathetic ‘lil fucktoy. All worked up and drooling over my ass.”

“I,” you start, but your voice tapers off when you realize you can’t argue that. You are pathetic, damn near slobbering over him just for a chance at pain relief.

“Say it before your mouth gets busy,” he says. “You know what you are, sweetheart. Tell me.”

“I’m your pathetic little fuck toy,” you whisper. You can’t disobey him, not if you want your drugs. But he isn’t wrong. How could he be, when you’re so far underneath him right now?

“And?” he nudges.

“And — I want to eat your ass.” The words come out all stumbling and embarrassed, muffled by your own shame. But they only make you wetter.

He smiles down at you. “Attagirl. Now why don’t you kiss the outside for me. Get used to usin’ that cute little mouth.”

You’re a squeamish person. It’s in your nature; unfortunately a nature that’s contradictory to the nature of the world that you live in. Still, you swallow whatever scraps remain of your dwindling pride and kiss up his sun kissed thighs. You plant your lips above the crook of his knee and poke your tongue out, laying a trail of saliva and heat up to the crease of his thigh. Joel sighs as you draw a spiral with your tongue. You glance up at him through lidded eyes and are almost startled by the unadulterated want that glaze his own eyes.

“Gettin’ closer, baby,” Joel says. His hand goes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb rubbing circles into your neck. “Knew I chose right with you. Got a curious mouth on ya.”

You nuzzle up to his ass cheek, pressing a timid kiss against the swell of it. You bite gently at your lower lip when you separate from him. Your breaths have quickened, now, and he gives the back of your neck a reassuring little squeeze.

“Spread ‘em,” Joel coaxes, so you do. You press your thumbs into supple, fuzzy skin and spread him open for your scrutiny. You can’t help but lick your lips and come to regret it the second he chuckles. “Hungry, aintcha?” And maybe you are. But still, you hesitate when you lean in, taking a deep breath that is entirely steeped in his musk.

“Like a deer in headlights,” Joel mumbles. “Gonna make my hole blink at you or what, baby?”

“You’re crass,” you say, teeth digging into your lower lip.

“What’s crass is how your sloppy cunt is leakin’ waterfalls all over my bedspread.” He smirks at you when you pull a face. “Now go on, baby, I know you wanna eat it right on up.” 

You try to ignore the distinct kickdrum of your throbbing clit where it’s buried between your thighs. Your head dips, and you kiss up his cleft. Occasionally, your tongue flicks out. He tastes how he smells. Like the same sweat and musk that everyone has from living in the QZ with an undercurrent of almost honeyed warmth. You lick up the inside of one of his cheeks, pride rushing through your gut when your tongue at the edge of his asshole makes him moan.

“Quit avoidin’ it, sweetheart. I got places to be. Jus’ pretend it’s a peach ring.” You’re dizzy, head swimming off of the sensation of being this close to him in this way. “Give it a ‘lil kiss. Just a smooch.”

You lean in and press your lips against his pucker, a tiny whine lodging in your throat. Joel grunts above you. It’s humiliating, being this low beneath him, this debased. There’s not much further you can go, so you flatten your tongue against his tight hole and spin it around his skin. You’re drooling all over him, tongue sweeping across wrinkled flesh. “Fuck, attagirl, just like that.”

He tastes good. Savory almost. You lap against him, tongue laving across the furrows of his ass. It’s just as satisfactory as the time he’d shoved his cock down your throat and held you down until you were choking and teary eyed. If not more. Because he was right earlier — fewer girls would do this for a fix. And you’re one of them, on hands and knees while your tongue probes his most private place, licks all the sweat and grime from between his cheeks. You can’t help but moan.

“Told you you’d love it,” he says. “Told ya you fuckin’ would. God, you’re a needy little bitch. For your fix… for me.”

You whine in protest, but it comes out much more pathetic than that with your tongue slipping up and down his crack. Your hand goes up instinctively to play with his balls, squeezing and fondling with each pass of your tongue. Joel groans, hips jumping against you. “Yeah, that’s it. Eager slut… feelin’ me up…”

You whimper into him, muffled with how your face is buried between his cheeks. Your tongue lashes out again, whirling around his entrance. Your eyes flutter in time with your cunt. You want more, you’re just as hooked on him as you are on the sensation of being painless. You flick your tongue, lips peppering him with open-mouthed kisses as you work.

Joel hisses as you lightly test his entrance. “God.” His hips jerk again, sporadic. “Fuck — shit,” he groans. “Natural ass licker, aren’t you? Yeah, you are. Oughta tie you to my backside, have you doin’ this all the time.”

You mewl at the thought, thighs clamping together. Your free hand wriggles down to rub at your bare clit. You get two rubs in before Joel kicks your hand away. “Nuh uh. This ain’t about you.” Joel smirks. “All that bitchin’ about it, but you’re pretty fuckin’ horny for your tongue up my ass.” He hikes his legs under your arms. Confusion spreads across your face until he locks his ankles around your back and tugs you face first into his ass. 

“Mmph!”

“Don’t suffocate. Be out of a pocket pussy if you do.”

Fuck. You clench, leaking all over his sheets. Your eyes can’t help but roll back.

“Look at you… bet you could get high off ‘a doin’ this if you tried hard eno– ungh.” Joel fully convulses when you wrap your lips around his asshole and suck. “Goddamn. Nasty whore really earnin’ them pills,” he grits out. You giggle into him when you see his cock twitch, precum oozing down the side of it. It leaks between his legs and onto your tongue, and you slurp him up eagerly.

You’re so aroused that it hurts, slick spilling in droves down the insides of your legs while you tongue him eagerly. Your hips rock subtly against the bed, and Joel’s head is too thrown back to notice your violation. He rocks his hips up into your mouth as you wriggle your tongue inside of his hole, probing the tightness of him as thoroughly as you can while he twists underneath you. “There you go, fuck me with your slutty tongue, baby. Get it in deep.” He groans as you drag your tongue along his insides. “Bet you’re gonna be sucklin’ on a pillow later. Thinking ‘bout my ass with your hands between your legs, rubbin’ that cock starved cunt.”

“Bet you’re wishing I’d pound that pussy now, huh? Wishing I’d shoot a load up that messy little slit?” You nod, tongue swiping up and down. You fuck your tongue in and out of him, moaning as you get the smallest friction from the sheets bunched up between your legs. His ankles tighten around your shoulders, holding you down with no escape. 

You manage to wriggle in his grasp enough to spat a lob of spit into your hand. You reach up around his waist and wrap your fist around his cock, jerking him. Joel jumps, his hole rubbing against your tongue as he lets out a wrecked moan. Your thumb traces his head. Sounding strangled, he curses, “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Goddammit, you were made to eat ass. Wish I could have your tongue up there 24/7…. Show you off, baby. Bet some other smugglers would love to take your tongue for a ride, but no. Your pretty little mouth only opens wide for me, huh? Whenever I say jump, you ask me how high, dontcha?”

You moan in assent, tightening your grip on his cock as you stroke him. Your tongue works even harder, messy as you draw circles of spit around his rim. You suck with your lips locked around him, watch his abdomen twitch as you do, watch precum ooze from the head of his cock. You collect it on your thumb and use it to work him faster. Your tongue runs laps around him, his eyes fully on you. “God, baby, fuck, I’m comin’, I’m, co–”

With your tongue deep in his ass and your hand wrapped around his cock, Joel comes. Spurts of it leak out, some of it landing on your tits. You whimper and work him through it, through each groan and hitch of his hips, through each spasm and aftershock that coils through his body and snaps at him. His chest heaves as he looks at you, damn near starstruck.

“Grand prize ass eater right here. Nasty bitch, salivatin’ on my dirty hol—”

“Joel, please,” you cut him off, starry eyed all on your own.

“What? Already givin’ you your pills, ain’t no need to beg me for ‘em.”

“I–” you say. “I’m really wet.” You’re teary-eyed, maybe from the action of humiliating yourself, but much more likely from arousal, wound tighter than a coiled snake in your stomach. 

Joel groans, and you swear his softening cock gives a mild twitch. “C’mon.” He swings his legs off of your shoulders and jerks his thigh, tapping it with a thick palm. “Get on up here.”

You an hour ago might’ve stood up for yourself, insisting that you at least deserve his fingers, but you right now was just tongue deep in Joel’s ripe asshole. So you scramble to mount his thigh, letting out a choked moan the second your swollen clit makes contact with his sweaty skin. You immediately start grinding yourself on him, feeling your slick squelch between your skin and his.

“Pathetic whore. Bet your tongue still tastes like my asshole, but you like that, don’t you? You like being my disgusting little junkie bitch.” You nod, bunching your hands into the fabric of his cum spattered t-shirt, tugging at it, tugging at him. “God, listen to you,” he says. Your broken-up moans, the sound of your wet pussy leaking and leeching against his leg. Your breaths are charred with the heat of pure, debauched need. It’s lewd, and you can see the shadow of yourself rocking your hips into him.

“Joel, oh God, Joel,” you moan, sinking your teeth into your lower lip as you roll your hips. Your clit catches on his skin and he groans. 

“Gonna shove your face in the fuckin’ puddle you’re making,” he says. You clench hard enough that your eyes squeeze shut. His hands, once still at his side, move along to anchor at yours. He yanks you against him, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass cheeks. You’re wobbly and woozy, shaking as you hump him. “C’mon, c’mon. You need it, don’t you? About to cream all over your dealer.”

And you are. You’re so, so close, with pleasure strung so tight through your body that it could snap at any second. It’s coarse and ragged, a sort of friction that stings and catches on your insides. Your tongue’s hanging out, you’re leaking all over him, and you’re pumping your hips even faster. He smacks your ass hard enough that your ears ring.

Your head hangs low and you make a noise akin to a kicked puppy. One of his hands moves to your cumstained chest, rubs his cum into your aching, hardened nipple. “Give it to me, you depraved fuckin’ slut. Little pervert, rubbin’ that cute little clit on me.” He tenses his leg, and you’re done for. 

“Joel!” you whine as you topple over that edge, flailing, kicking, screaming.

Joel grunts. “Attagirl. Soak me.” He keeps rutting you against him through the aftershocks, even after you go limp and slump against his front. You’re both sweat-slick, and you’re still shaking. A giddiness swipes through your body as you clench and clench. You’re out of your own body. This is a pleasure beyond the pleasures you have known.

Your mouth still tastes like him on the comedown.

You heave for air, winded as you look at him through darkened eyes. Joel pats you on the ass and pushes you off of him. “Oomph.” He grabs you by the back of the neck again, and, true to his promise, pushes you face-first against his thigh.

“Look at this,” he snarls. His thigh is glistening with your arousal and release, viscous and slippery. You whimper as you smell yourself on his skin. “Lick it up.”

That makes you clench again. You stick out your lolling tongue and lave over his leg, scooping up your cum with your own tongue. You whimper and pout at him, and find yourself dizzy with need when he laughs at you.

Then, you hit the mattress and the ceiling seems to spin over your head.

Joel gets up and groans. You think you hear his knees pop. A few footsteps later, and you’re all alone in his bedroom, cocooned in sweat-wet sheets. There’s an emptiness inside of you, one that sticks everywhere. The silence crackles along your eardrums.

“Here,” he says, and then you’re back inside of yourself. Your eyes flicker open and you’re watching him from upside down. He props your cane up on his nightstand and chucks a box of tissues at you. You grab a fistful of them and wipe down your chest, then your inner thighs.

He tosses you your clothes, next. You shiver and tug your shirt over your head with only some difficulty. When it comes to your legs, just lifting one makes it crash back down at your side. You bleat, squeezing your eyes shut through the pain. Maybe riding him had been… overzealous. But the painkillers had made you indomitable — or at least feel indomitable.

“Hey,” Joel says. “Let me help.” It’s a foreign tone from him. Softer than what you’re used to. He redresses you, even laces up your boots for you. When all’s said and done, he pats you on the ass. The silence is a blanket, a warmth of sorts.

“Thank you,” you mumble. “I… I’m sorry I don’t have any more to offer you.”

“Kid,” he says. “I agreed to this. I ain’t mad at you. And, hell, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that. I’d say it was worth it, even if you’re robbin’ me blind over here.” 

He pulls out the baggie of pills and folds them in your hand. “Try to stay safe out there.” You nod at him and lean yourself on your cane as you stand. You swing it in time with your steps.

“I will,” you say. It feels like more of a hollow promise, if anything.

As your hand lands on the doorknob, he says, “My door’s open. Come back when you need more.”

Whether he means more pills or more of him, you’re not sure. Maybe he’s not sure, either. But you’re hooked on something, you think. And you pretty sure it’s not the drugs.

[mercymaker]

RUIN - Astarion x Tav fic

A little treat i wrote inspired by a prompt from this list.

Rating: E

Pairing: Astarion x female Tav

Word count: 2,6k

Content: smut, established relationship, post-game, drow tav, mutual masturbation, sex, blood drinking.

Summary: Astarion wants to see his lover touch herself for him as he does the same. It's no surprise, however, when one thing leads to another, and soon both of them are melting in each other's embrace.

Link to AO3.

They both sat at the opposite ends: Maleane’s back was pressed against the intricately-carved headboard, while Astarion lounged on a pile of burgundy-colored pillows at the foot of the bed. He had instructed the drow to undress just mere minutes ago, in response to her less-than-subtle attempt to drag him back into the bed. It wasn’t common for her to initiate things of such nature, and so, Astarion used this as an opportunity to try something that had been slithering in his mind for days. He wanted to watch her pleasure herself as he did the same, to be parted only by some magic mirror that was reflecting the depraved lust they felt for each other.

As soon as the loose blouse she’d wear to bed joined the set of underwear carelessly tossed on the floor, the vampire spawn motioned for her to begin.

“Go on, darling,” Astarion purred, lazily undoing the lacing of his breeches as he settled comfortably atop the sheets.

His lover followed the command, parting her legs as she smirked, eager to give him a show that he’d been so desperate to receive. In line with his own ever-teasing pace, Maleane moved with deliberate sluggishness, her fingers slowly gliding down her abdomen, as if time was a currency she had no trouble wasting. Yet, it was desire that was moving her hand down to where her thighs met, and as much as she enjoyed teasing Astarion, she wanted to relieve the hunger nestling at the bottom of her belly, feel the pressure on the parts that craved nothing but touch. Seeing her lover pull his cock out his pants was all the encouragement she needed to start touching herself.

“Mmm, that’s more like it.”

His voice felt like velvet around her already hazy mind, and it only deepened the craving to be touched, and felt, and tasted. Mal closed her eyes, focusing on that sensation, allowing her mind to wander freely in the maze of lustful longing. And as her fingers parted her lips, the sorcerer let out a shaky breath that made Astarion’s core tighten.

He watched her carefully, eyes shifting between the soft movements of Maleane’s hand and her face, yet soon a different source of disturbance caught his eye. The drow’s other hand shifted to her chest, soon sinking into the soft flesh of her breast as she fondled herself, tips of her fingers finding the sensitive nub at the top and squeezing gently. That sight was enough to move the vampire’s hips. Astarion didn’t hesitate to wrap his own digits around himself, slowly stroking the length in tandem with his lover’s gentle actions. And when she slipped two fingers inside, he bit his lip in response, fighting the temptation to pounce at her.

“Gods, you’re almost impossible to resist, you know that?” Astarion’s voice was soft, low, wrapped in a ribbon of a whisper. “Every fiber in my body screams to take you, taste you, ruin you.”

Those words rolling out of her lover’s mouth were like an aphrodisiac to Mal. She closed her eyes again and let her imagination guide her hands, conjuring up all those delicious memories from the times that he’d fucked her before.

“Don’t stop talking, please.” It was almost a whimper, how sudden and desperate the sentence sounded as it spilled out between her lips.

And all it did was made the spawn smirk. He knew just how much she loved hearing him spew absolute filth, pulling her into his most depraved fantasies with ease, and what sort of lover would Astarion be if he did not occasionally indulge her?

“My, my, you want me to confess all of my depravities just like that?”

As much as Maleane enjoyed hearing the pale elf detail his many fantasies, Astarion loved teasing her just a little bit more. There was something almost intoxicating about taking the drow on a journey, watching how her body responded to his words, the vivid pictures that he’d been painting in thick brushstrokes dripping only sin.

“You want me to tell you all the things I’d do to you, hm?” Astarion was deliberate in the slow pace he was setting. He wished to build anticipation, to feed her morsel by morsel, until she was a shaking mess, ready to unravel in front of him.

Hearing his words, Maleane opened her eyes and, for a brief moment, she could only focus on his hand lazily working his erection. The sight alone made the walls around her fingers tighten momentarily as pleasure shot up her core, sending a breathy whine up her throat.

“Yes,” the sorcerer pleaded, her fingers digging into the delicate flesh of her breast with more hunger than before, “please...”

It was more than obvious that she was growing desperate for more stimulation, any sort of help that would take her just a notch closer to the ever-desired ledge of a climax. And yet, no matter how fast she moved her fingers between her folds, it just wasn’t enough to grow the budding tendrils of pleasure slowly creeping down her tummy.

“I do enjoy hearing that word coming out of your mouth, darling.”

As playful as the vampire spawn wanted to be, his teasing seemed to only hinder whatever journey he’d set his partner on by requesting her to undress and touch herself in the first place. And just like that, Maleane was getting frustrated, chasing a loose thread of pleasure that kept slipping out of her reach with every move. And soon, it was all the sorcerer could focus on.

“I can’t… I can’t fucking do this,” she spat out angrily, unsure whether her irritation was aimed at Astarion or herself.

All it took was a single stray thought, a jab at her pride, a notion that he would make her beg for something that he himself wanted to see, and all the buildup was melting away faster than the wax candles illuminating their room. Mal pulled her hands away from herself, instead leaning back into the headboard of the bed in a frustrated thud.

She was angry at herself, at how easily distracted she was in moments like this, at the ever-brewing chaos of her own thoughts that made disconnecting from all the anxiety and stress a gargantuan task. And above it all, it was her own inexperience, the inescapable maze that was her body and the fact that she struggled to find what truly gave her relief.

Witnessing his lover’s turmoil, Astarion quickly rose from his nest of pillows, closing the distance between them in what felt like a single heartbeat. She was such a fickle thing at times, but—in an odd way—the spawn enjoyed the challenge.

“Mal, darling, look at me,” he whispered as his hand cupped her cheek, lifting the drow’s face up in an attempt to bring back the connection that they’d shared just moments ago.

He could see that thread of arousal slipping outside the perimeter of their bed, but he’d be a rather poor rogue if he wasn’t able to catch it and pull the fabric back together before it was lost for the night. So, instead of wasting the precious seconds yapping about—no matter how seductive his voice sounded—the spawn leaned forward and kissed her with enough passion to ignite a pile of ash.

He pried her lips open with his tongue, slithering inside her mouth like a snake, tasting the sweetness and the warmth within. And when Maleane responded to his kiss with a soft moan, he knew that any doubts or frustrations that had previously threatened to undo all of their work, were—once again—replaced by desire.

“Let me do it,” Astarion finally uttered, parting their lips just enough to be able to speak, “let me ruin you, my love.”

Her mouth reached for his before the spawn even finished talking, desperate to reunite, to taste the lust and the hunger sitting at the tip of his tongue once more. And as they resumed the passionate kiss, Maleane’s hands reached for his body, one grasping his jaw with enough yearning to chafe the skin, while the other sunk into the soft tangle of his white curls, both pushing him closer to her.

“Yes... please,” she repeated those same words once again, her voice desperate and breathless. “Please...”

And just like that, as quickly as her arousal had slipped before, it returned, this time a thousandfold and more obvious than ever.

It was intoxicating—her warmth, her taste, the soft little sounds coming out of Mal’s throat in response to his touch—and soon Astarion felt his own head grow dizzy from the desire to lose himself in her. He touched Maleane, fingers hungrily digging into the soft flesh of her bottom, mapping every single inch of the drow’s skin as if he were a blind man desperately tracing the pages of a book.

As soon as the vampire’s fingers reached the delicate folds nestling between her legs, Mal shuddered, hot air slipping out of her open mouth, warming his own in turn.

“Please,” the sorcerer repeated the word, yet again, closing her eyes as the last remaining traces of stiffness and control melted away from her body.

It was no lie when he told her how much he loved the sound of her voice behind that word, yet Astarion did not expect it to drive him this crazy. Like a primal urge, he felt the need to pin her down and take her, bite into her, relieve that craving scratching at his insides and pooling between his thighs.

All those years of masking and restraint meant nothing when faced with something this raw, this real.

Maleane was warm and alive and entirely his. That thought was enough to completely enrapture him.

He followed the sinful craving, swiftly pushing his fingers into her warmth with ease, making Mal squirm under him as pleasure tingled through every part that he touched. And she was so deliciously wet, that for just a moment it was all the spawn could think of.

“Gods…” Astarion exhaled the word, his mind growing foggy from arousal.

Instead of fighting the surge of lust, the vampire leaned into it, leaving all those trained responses to compose himself and perform behind. He wished to taste her, feel her, replace his fingers with his cock and let her heat envelop him. He wanted to let go of all the thoughts just as much as his lover wished to abandon hers.

For just a mere second, Astarion pulled back—lips blushed and wet from all the hungry kisses—finding Mal’s face as she panted, desperately trying to catch her breath after smooching a man who had no use of breathing. The drow looked back at him, those pale purple eyes begging wordlessly. Maleane didn’t need to say anything, he knew exactly what words were hanging at the tip of her tongue.

Ruin me. Please.

And so the spawn did—pulling her hips towards him as he moved back—giving Maleane enough space to get as comfortable as the short space of time allowed, before he plunged himself inside her, making her gasp in response.

Astarion watched her—the way her fingers grasped at the sheets, the way her breasts moved atop her rib cage, the way her wet mouth opened to allow the most succulent moans to escape her throat—as he fucked her with increasing greed. And yet, no matter how satisfying just plowing into his lover was, it seemed like the frenzied rolling of his hips was only increasing the pale elf’s appetite.

The spawn pushed her sweat-lined thighs even further apart as he leaned forward and into her, one hand gripping Maleane’s jaw as he kissed her open lips, tongue slipping inside her mouth like a slimy eel. He licked and he sucked and he nibbled on Maleane’s flushed lips and she—utterly lost in the lustful maze of pleasure—responded in turn, lifting her head off the burgundy pillow to push her face into his.

As her warmth seeped into his own tepid skin, Astarion couldn’t resist the temptation to take more, swiftly shifting his attention—as well as his lips—to her neck, greedily tracing a line down her gray throat with his tongue. And his hands were just as ravenous, fingers soon gripping the tender flesh of her breasts as his whole body sank into hers, pressing the drow against the silky sheets underneath. It was suffocating in the best way possible, all the sensations pulling Maleane deeper and deeper into the engulfing sea of ecstasy.

She grasped her lover with the same amount of desperation, one hand digging into his back while the other found its place in the damp mess of his white curls. It wasn’t long before Mal felt his teeth softly pressing into her collarbone—one spot, then the other—in what could only be perceived as a silent, yet urgent request to taste more.

“Yes, yes,” the drow uttered with need, a hint of pleading not lost behind her tone.

Maleane craved the sharp pang of his fangs piercing her skin and wished to melt into the bliss she knew would follow. And when he bit into the firm muscle of her shoulder, Astarion felt her walls tighten around his length in a telltale sign of the incoming climax.

He drank—hungrily, greedily—tasting the rich blood on his tongue as if he was a man dying of thirst, letting the ruby liquid unfold inside him like a scroll hiding all of her secrets. Soon, the vampire felt all the pleasure coursing through Maleane’s body as it mixed with his own desire in the most delicious combination two bodies melting into one another could produce.

And she—in turn—could feel his own approaching peak that only enhanced the wave of her pleasure and within seconds, Mal was shaking under him like an aspen leaf.

“Oh, gods, oh, Ast- Astarion.” Maleane’s voice was half a cry and half a moan: whispery, desperate, and almost broken.

He held her close as she unraveled underneath him, as her lifeblood gushed into his mouth, as her nails dug into his back. And in that moment, it was as if they became one—with her essence coursing through his veins, igniting every inch of his undead body.

All it took was a single heartbeat, a deep thrust into her dripping cunt, and the vampire spawn came undone, burying his face in the crook of Maleane’s neck as he filled her with his seed.

They lay there for a moment—hands glued to each other’s skin—allowing their bodies to recover from the height of the intensity that they’d pushed each other to.

Astarion savored the traces of Mal’s blood still sitting on his tongue, the heat radiating off her body, the soothing rise of her chest as she inhaled, again and again. And the drow found comfort in the weight of her lover’s body atop hers, the still-lingering tingle slowly pulsing through her core, the soft numbness in her muscles.

It was euphoric, in a diluted, warm, and comforting way.

“Well,” Astarion spoke after a minute, “that is certainly something I would consider a proper ruination.”

When Maleane opened her eyes she saw the vampire looking back at her, with a half-lidded stare and a smug grin stretched across his pale lips. At times she couldn’t decide if she loved or hated the way he would switch from sincere, genuine moments to something cocky and nonchalant. This time, it seemed like a fair exchange, however, especially as it made her chuckle at his words.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Mal responded, trying her best not feed his ego any more than it needed.

Her fingers combed through the mop of Astarion’s curls, lingering on the back of his head for just a moment, before Maleane gently pushed him to the side.

“Now, if you’d excuse me, I’d like to clean up the ‘ruin’ between my legs,” she added, trying to hold back her laughter.

[meadowlarkx]

8+8+8 Silmarillion Fic Recs 2024!

I was inspired by @sallysavestheday and @polutrope's recs to revisit some of the Silmarillion fandom fics I read and loved in 2024, arranged in lists of 8 long fics, 8 short fics, and 8 bite-size fics that made my year delightful. With plenty of things still on the TBR, I figured I would nonetheless share a few faves!

Fics and summaries under the cut!

Longer fics

Penumbra by @imakemywings (Maedhros/Thingol, M, 18k)

Maedhros presents himself as a diplomatic guest to Doriath, certain he can convince the king to do as Maedhros wishes him to if he only had the chance. It is possible Maedhros is less than prepared for Doriath than he expected.

This is the kind of longer fic that feels so beautifully fleshed out and lived-in to read. Thingol characterization here is INCREDIBLE as is the slow build court romance, political dynamics, and light mentor/mentee. So key to my conception of this amazing ship.

naught green upon the oak series by @welcomingdisaster (Maedhros/Maglor, E, 37k)

Maglor returns from the Bragollach. Or someone returns, anyhow.

I love this Gothic widower Maedhros so much. This CoH-inspired Maedhros/Maglor (in which much is being compartmentalized) is so dreamlike to read. Himring feels like a house in a fairytale, Maglor its lost princess. Also, really sexy.

Mélamar by @buds-of-marjoram (Maedhros/Maglor, E, 40k)

Nelyafinwë doesn't have the sight, yet his dreams are filled with blood, fire and screams. Even in the peace of Valimar.

Please imagine a world where Maedhros foresees the dreadful events and moral spiral of Silm in advance, shares his misgivings with Maglor, and then the tragedy is averted by their close bond and increasingly public D/s relationship as Maedhros takes the reins of politics in Valinor to arrange the pieces on the board differently than in canon. This lavish, sexy fic brings me SO much joy.

What Blooms on Ard-Galen in the Springtime by @jouissants (Maedhros/Maglor, E, 8k)

The grasses and flowers sleep beneath a blanket of white feet thick. When spring comes and Maglor walks among them again, all will be different.

I could not resist the chance to rec Maglor lady-lord of Himring of my heart. This accidental pregnancy AU is so gorgeous and tender. Maglor doubting Maedhros' valuing of him and then it being so plainly affirmed and reaffirmed heals me. Please also read jouissants' absolutely epic postcanon Strange Currencies, which I can't say enough about!!

The Worst Are Full of Passionate Intensity by steadfastalysanne2022 / @last-capy-hupping (Thuringwethil/Ungoliant, E, 7k)

In which Ungoliant comes to Middle Earth, nearly slays Morgoth, and recruits a new servant within a week.

This is so incredibly hot and unhinged and such a gift to fandom femslash. Thuringwethil attracted to power and enmeshed in its hierarchies, served by others and seeking someone worthier/worthiest to serve herself, then biting off way more than she can chew with Ungoliant, is all just so good. Reading it for the first time made like my whole week.

And Love Grew by @polutrope (Maglor & Elrond & Elros, T, 23k)

As a host of survivors makes the journey from Sirion to Amon Ereb under Maglor's leadership, old bonds unravel and loyalties crumble. But from the scraps and ruins, new and unlikely bonds take shape. A story of perseverance through suffering.

This is written in such a classic and considered style--it's beautiful canonverse feelings and atmosphere. I love this story's grim yet so expressive tragic hero Maglor and very bleak (hurting me) leader Maedhros.

Kiss and Marry by @thecoolblackwaves (Celegorm/Curufin, M, 4k chapter fic)

Curvo and Tyelko get married. What could possibly go wrong with these two together?

Curufin thinks carefully and chooses a spouse: who better than Celegorm? This is such good crackfic, it had me cackling aloud to read. This isn't a ship I usually have a lot of feelings about, but the marriage premise and the hilarity/sincerity of it all really made it for me.

Laurë by Huiniel (Glaurung/Maglor, Fingon/Maedhros/Maglor, E, 29k)

Glaurung takes Maglor captive, hypnotizes him, and fucks him on a pile of gold. That's all I have.

(I love this summary, which I read via googletranslate, along with the rest of the fic--it's originally in Russian if you prefer to read in the original!) I can't not mention this fic, updates of which have been such a prominent (and thrilling) feature of my 2024 reading experience. Maglor is rescued from Glaurung's clutches, but he isn't the same as he was before. I love the dynamics between Maglor and Maedhros and Maglor and his other brothers and the angst and smut of it all.

Shorter fics

one whole with my other by @i-am-a-lonely-visitor (Míriel/Indis, E, 4k)

“Indis-i-Noldóran,” spoke the Maia through a mouthful of rain. “I bear news of one who will return to your house.”

God... god. So poetic and beautifully written, so tender and sexy. This fic makes me cry every time I reread it. I love arranged marriage setups and this story, with newly and vividly alive Míriel returned to a lonely, proud, and noble Indis in a reconfiguration of the Finwë-Míriel-Indis relationship/Statute, is such a beautiful take on them.

The Patience of the Oak by @imakemywings (Galadriel/Melian, G, 3k)

Galadriel is determined to show Melian she is capable of more than Melian believes. Melian wonders if her pupil grasps her lessons.

This is just incredible--so poetically written, so magical and atmospheric. The power dynamics and mentorship and osanwë are amazing and Melian's vast and eerie presence are peak weird Maiar. Young, reckless, proud Galadriel is captured perfectly. Also, one of the sexiest G-rated fics out there.

To Wear a Heart So White by Tilion / @tilion-writes (Maedhros & Maglor, T, 2k)

“Will all great Ulmo’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?” Maglor whispered hoarsely. “No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your color,” Maedhros growled, “but I shame to wear a heart so white.”

Maedhros and Maglor at Sirion, and dialogue from Macbeth. I've been captivated by this ever since I read it. Each line is so well-placed and the dynamic between them sings. I love the way this concept is used to express the canon violence and tragedy of it all, too.

Banked Fires Blaze by Chestnut_pod (Aerin & Fire Pot; Aerin/Brodda, T, 2k)

What is it to be made for a kinder world?

This fic is SO creative and brilliant--telling Aerin's story and the burning of Brodda's hall as part of a longer folktale/myth about women and hearths and Brodda's people and the coming Dagor Dagorath. I really love examinations of non-normative/human/"bad" traditions and cultures in Tolkien and I was blown away by this portrait of a different kind of Silmarillion myth!

Proxy by @aipilosse (Celegorm/Celebrimbor, E, 3k)

Celegorm's nephew seeks him out one evening in Nargothrond. Celegorm is playing king, but Celebrimbor's game is less clear.

This is so juicy and gendery--masc transmasc Celegorm comparing Celebrimbor to Lúthien. Celegorm leaning further and further into playing the villain and Celebrimbor struggling with the family's deeds, the break between them imminent, makes for such a good dynamic. Dark and sexy and fraught!!

the ways of birds by @welcomingdisaster (Maglor & Maedhros, T, 4k)

When Maglor is captured in the aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, he doesn't expect a rescue.

Whump in the venerable whumpfic tradition and honestly so formative to me. I love how gritty this is and how vividly I can picture the wretched goblin march through the landscape. I LOVE Maedhros rejecting political expediency and rejecting pragmatism to save Maglor.

My Son by @polutrope (Fëanor/Maglor, E, 3k)

“Father, I assure you: it is nothing. I would choose you a thousand times before any husband. Ever would I choose my own blood before that of a stranger.” After his exile to Formenos, Feanor locks himself in the vault with the Silmarils. Makalaure goes to him.

This is such an eerie and beautiful dark fairytale. With how entwined the Feanorians all are by the Oath and their loyalty to Fëanor, this relationship makes only too much sense in this story. I love Maglor's desire and the gender and selfhood of it all, and how unsettling and selfish Fëanor's taking possession of him is.

make me come alive by @queerofthedagger (Maedhros/Maglor, E, 6k)

Maglor struggles to give up control. Maedhros makes sure that he learns.

MY SILMSMUTEXCHANGE GIFT!! Himring Maedhros + osanwë lifestyle BDSM + Gap Maglor. This builds deliciously--it is sooo sexy. Maglor's loyalty and Maglor struggling to accept Maedhros' authority--but needing it, it settling his guilt and unease--are fantastic. One of the hottest unhinged Maedhroses I have read. I love the way his presence looms in Maglor's mind even in his absence and how convinced he is that he has Maglor's best interests at heart.

+ 1 extra: Forbidden Prey by @whovianofmidgard (Celegorm/Maglor, M, 3k)

Celegorm doesn't know that he is attracted to his older brother, Maglor. He ends up pushing him away, while searching for Maglor's traits in his other potential loves.

I have to mention this fic because I simply enjoyed reading it SO much. I love a feminine Maglor and a Celegorm who wants Maglor and is taking that out on him. The hints of background Maedhros/Maglor, Celegorm's jealousy and obsession, and the way this spirals into Celegorm's attraction to Lúthien are all just catnip to my brain.

Really short fics (under or around 1k)

The Fortress by TheLegendCreator (Himring & Maedhros, G, ~500 words)

A Dwarf visits Tol Himling and wonders about the craftsmanship. He listens to the stone-song, and it tells him the tale of an Elf-lord that wove his heart into stone.

I love the mythic/fairytale vibes of this--the way Himring's stones remember Maedhros, and the dwarven OC is chilled hearing his tale. It strongly evokes to me the "deep they delved us, fair they wrought us" memory and history of Tolkien's ruins and landscapes.

sundial by @swanmaiden (Pengolodh/Dírhavel, G, ~500 words)

Pengolodh meets a kindred spirit in the market square at the Havens of Sirion.

This is so bittersweet--the humble but bustling life of Sirion before the kinslaying and the mutual recognition of these two historians and tellers of tales. Knowing what's to come makes their brief connection and Pengolodh's resolution to share his feelings hit all the harder. You get the feeling that he never gets the chance to.

One Thousand Days by @melestasflight (Uldor & Maedhros, T, ~800 words)

Uldor has spent one thousand days carefully observing the Lord of Himring. Because everyone has a weakness, and Maedhros’ weakness lies in the West.

I just love the POV switch here on Tolkien's "villainous" peoples, the way this story makes Uldor's betrayal seem not only compelling but reasonable from his perspective. The arrogant preoccupation of Elves with other Elves, the rumors of the kinslayings, Uldor's dying curse flung at Maglor.... all so good.

Fire by @buds-of-marjoram (Maedhros/Maglor, M, ~300 words)

My brother came back; an inferno.

This brief ficlet is so evocative and so sensual. I love the BDSM dynamic here and the Maglor POV of Maedhros--the way Maedhros has changed, become cruel even, but they adore each other and are completely entwined.

Let the water hold me down by BloodwingBlackbird (Daeron/Melian, E, ~900 words)

Daeron and Melian and songs.

Melian captivates Daeron and Daeron gives himself and his music over to her as her conduit. An absolutely incredible eerie, otherworldly Melian and the patron/artist dynamic is so sexy. Daeron's juxtaposed with Maglor--who can't understand what he shares with Melian and can't decide whether to pity or envy him for his queen's patronage. So vividly and poetically written. My Innumerable Stars gift!!

crowns and other trinkets by @thelordofgifs (Maedhros & Maglor, G, 1.4k)

In the years of Maedhros’ captivity Maglor would indulge himself, sometimes, and open the chest, and admire the treasure within as though he were yet a fanciful child trying on his brother’s baubles; and he would tell himself that he would hear Maedhros’ laughing voice at the door any moment now, saying, Are you going through my things again, little magpie? Before the Mereth Aderthad, Maedhros and Maglor sort through some jewellery.

I always adore Maglor haunted by guilt from his "kingship" and this scene brings so much of that for me in subtle ways. I love Maedhros' attention to Maglor, the way he wants to foist adornments on him, and the way the pieces of jewelry link past and present, bringing younger and happier moments into the room in bleak Beleriand where they must decide which of their few things to part with. Hints of Celegorm being cruel and accusatory to Maglor during Maedhros' captivity are the cherry on top for me.

Atonement by @jouissants (Maedhros/Maglor, G, 1.5k)

Maedhros and Maglor, home at the end of the world.

Out of so many amazing fics and amazing Maedhros/Maglor fics from jouissants this year I struggled to pick what to put on this list but it had to include this one--so comforting and tender, I've reread it so many times. I LOVE this weary canon divergence Maedhros--how determined he is to love Maglor well despite everything, to stay with him, to not choose death--how he's deeply satisfied by Maglor's small comforts, too, despite things not being easy and their life being so humble. Maglor pregnancy literally can fix them I believe it.

Surfeited by sabcatt / @shinraelectricpowercom (Celegorm/Dior, E, 1.1k)

Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. After the Ruin of Doriath, Celegorm has some fun with his prize. Dior would like to get off this ride.

This is like the best evil "tender"(-ish) noncon ever. Celegorm/Dior is such a good ship all the time but especially when Celegorm gets the chance to be horrific and to take out his thwarted attraction for Lúthien on Dior. This brilliantly crafted smut is bringing it all. Go read it...

[meanbossart]

Ask Compilation: Advice, influences and Misc.

Apologies for taking so long on some of these, admittedly I'm much more likely to entirely forget about asks that are about me and my interests 💃 Thank you for all the questions regardless! And thank you specially to everyone who just drops nice messages into my inbox out of kindness.

I'm brazillian and a native portuguese speaker!

I'll probably return to twitter eventually, but a) I hate that place and b) It didn't make much sense to me to turn it into a BG3 account out of the blue. I am considering making an Instagram or a new twitter just to have more places where people can follow in case they don't care for tumblr, but it's just been a very busy year so far and so that's kind of low on the list of priorities. If I ever do that I'll be sure to announce it here. Have a nice day yourself!

Sorry to hear that! I've gotten a few messages before about this issue, and the problem is that since I am myself not from the US, my options are also limited :( a lot of patreon alternatives don't work for me because they either don't go through paypal, take insane currency conversion fees, or just straight up block me from signing up.

Speak for yourself, I just assume everyone I speak to online has committed some sort of atrocious crime until proven otherwise. Except for me - of course. I have never done anything bad in my life.

I still have a lot to learn! But I will basically use whatever works for me at the moment, as well as make a sincere effort to learn about musculature and anatomy so I can understand those components and how they move, instead of only knowing what they look like when still - that's how you get better at drawing from memory. Volume mostly comes from coloring and understanding light, which is it's own beast but can very much be learned from similar reference materials and observing it IRL!

My favorite places to get reference are medical diagrams, weird pictures I take of myself, 3D software (often Virt-a-mate) and questionably phrased image google searches.

My favorite artists are Jason Shawn Alexander and Sean Murphy, but I'm not sure how much of it reflects in my art nowadays! I generally seek to pick up techniques from artists rather than to emulate style.

Honestly I love that you guys generally do the thing he would hate the most: take him very non-seriously LOL

I've been in a real Chelsea Wolfe and Amyl And The Sniffers kick lately! But usually you'll also find me listening to stuff like Boy Harsher, Swans, FWF, JK Flesh Lingua Ignota, Nick Cave, David Bowie, and so on. Music for the weird gays, basically.

I went insane and wrote a 23-chapter-long-and-still-ongoing fic in like four months. But also - I'm not that good, I'm just shamelessly pretentious LOL

Hm. That's a good question, but I'm not really sure. Sincerely not trying to be a edgier-than-thou here (in fact, this has made me a little self conscious at one time or another) but a lot of art that I don't mean to be horror-y in nature at all has been associated with the genre. So perhaps I don't know what I'm doing either, LOL.

I think just leaning on making things look slightly "wrong" or "ugly" on purpose is the way, but I also find that if you just seek to depict people as they are instead of idealized versions of themselves, you will arrive at that either way.

Thank you for reading! Honestly, I'm guilty of having not read much at all since I was in my late teens, and the style I'm employing for ANE is very different from the things I would call "influential" for me, or even that I used to enjoy reading at all before. I read a lot of Chuck Palahniuk as a youth (and, no slight to people who do like him still, but nowadays I'm not sure why I ever did. His stories don't speak to me at all anymore) as well a lot of weird experimental lit that I didn't even care to remember the name of. My last book stint from one or two years ago was composed solely of historical and medical literature, and last year I got really into Cormac Mcarthy thanks to the internet.

So, all in all, I'm absolutely all over the place LOL if you put a gun to my head and told me to list my favorite books, I'd say The Indifferent Stars Above and Blood Meridian.

(Consider the reading portion of the question to have been answered above) I really really liked Beau is Afraid and think it's a really great "horror" movie. Sue me.

[hippolotamus]

Hi!

Any chance you could link me directly to any of your 18+ Buck/Tommy fics? I am obsessed and in love and need all the smutty/lovey Bevan fics. I adore them. Thank you!!

Hi, I personally just have a few ficlets I’ve posted here on tumblr (eventually I’ll put them on ao3).

My flesh it was my currency (7x06 coda)

thought i planned for everything (just didn’t count on you)

Tagging some beloveds that have or may know of others @bidisasterevankinard @diazsdimples @wikiangela @tizniz @bi-buckrights @thewolvesof1998 @loveyouanyway @theotherbuckley @shipperqueen6 @jesuisici33 @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @bewilderedbuckley @filet-o-feelings

[draculasfavoritewife]

Let Me Patch You Up

Summary: Getting your partner to sit still and let himself be taken care of has always been a challenge.

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical violence, mild blood/injury, Din tries to hide his wounds because of course he would. Lots of fluff, sensuality, and hella implied smut at the end.

Because I adore patching-up fics :) Especially when one person is far too stubborn for their own good and the other is a caretaker type. 'Nuff said.

*Translations of less common words/phrases in Mando'a at the end

"I'm not mad!"

You can hear the sigh behind you, longer and heavier than a New Republic frigate.

"You sound mad."

"All I'm saying is they should've paid double for the extra abuse! Their intel was way off." You scowl and rattle the pouch of currency for emphasis. "I didn't sign up for this job to fistfight an Aqualish, Din. An Aqualish!"

"You came out alright." There's a layer of warmth there now, sunk deep under the weariness. "Wish I could have seen more of it."

"I'll tell the Kid the story later, I'm sure." You gaze down at the dark bruising creatively decorating your arms and midsection with a wince. "Good thing I'm not vain anymore."

"Makes you look tough." His tone is clipped as he leans on the switch to pull up the boarding ramp of the ship. You can imagine his jaw clenching beneath the helmet; for all his beskar, he must be pretty roughed up, too. Aqualish may be brutal, but at least they're still flesh and blood.

Enforcer droids don't suffer from such weaknesses as pain and fatigue.

"How're you holding up, Cyare?" You keep the query casual -- he hates being fussed over.

You've learned from many previous jobs that your partner, when injured, has to be handled as cautiously and cleverly as a twitchy Blurrg; he's just as liable as one to bolt or take a bite out of an unguarded hand.

"Fine." He turns to make for the cockpit, tries to disguise the fact that he's still leaning on the wall for support under the pretense of examining the internal wiring. "Wind knocked out of me. Some sleep and I'll be in top form again."

He pauses at the foot of the ladder and gazes upward, the distance to the pilot's chair suddenly seeming excruciatingly long. As he ponders the best way to proceed, his dexterous fingers absently seek out the end of the small blade buried in his left shoulder, and yank it out.

No sound leaves his lips, he's far too conditioned for that, but he can't hide from you forever.

"Din?"

"Hmm?" He's still studying the length of the ladder.

"Dank farrik, Cyare, you're bleeding." Now truly concerned, you throw your subterfuge out the window and reach for his arm. Sometimes even a wild Blurrg just has to be wrangled into submission after all. "I'm going to fix you up, Din, and you're going to behave for me while I do."

"But I can still --"

"No."

"But you're --"

"No."

"What if --"

"Stop protesting, Di'kut! I won't have you collapsing on me if I could have done something about it." You push him down -- somewhat gently -- onto a cargo crate in the hold, stepping down on the edge of his cape as you search for the medkit.

He glances down at your firmly planted boot, up at your serious face. "Really?" he asks dryly.

"I'm not taking any chances with you, my love," you inform him sweetly, reaching around his body to press the releases on his cuirass and pauldrons. "You have this unfortunate habit of disappearing to lick your wounds in solitude whenever I take my eyes off of you for a moment."

"It's worked this long, hasn't it?" he mutters gruffly, but he knows well enough by now to not protest and aid you in removing his vambraces and finally his shirt.

It steals your breath for a brief second as it always does, the sight of him half-undressed but with his identity still shrouded from you.

Mesmerizing.

Alluring.

A tantalizing mystery that one day you desire to fully uncover.

But you know now is not the time.

Your rapidly heating thoughts are interrupted by a squeal from Grogu as he shuffles across the floor to stand by your legs. His tiny clawed hands grip your calf as wide, frightened eyes absorb the canvas of smeared blood and old scars spread across the Mandalorian's broad chest.

"Hey, Kid," Din says softly.

"Your buir is okay," you tell the little one, lifting him up to set him on the crate beside his father. "Maybe you can make him stay put for me."

Din insists he's not too badly off to help you, and you know he's still not comfortable being completely at the mercy of someone else's hands, so you let him handle the smaller task of cleaning up his stab wounds while you cauterize them. You still remember the first time you watched him do it himself, how you hated the way he hissed and spat in pain every time the tool slipped or stuck on lacerations that were awkward for him to reach.

He'd never admit so aloud, but with your more delicate touch behind it, it's a fair sight less painful of a process than it used to be.

"Still think I shouldn't have knocked them around until they coughed up more pay?" You let your fingertips skate gently over the taut bronze skin before you, checking for any sign of tenderness that could indicate an internal injury.

"You hungry for more bruises?" He shakes his head. "I know I'm not. We got what we came for. Sometimes renegotiating is pointless, Cyar'ika."

"I guess." You're kneeling on the floor now, his broad thighs on either side of your body as you finish closing up a slash to his abdomen, its rough line trailing down to his belt. Your hand tenderly follows the new scar, drifting over textured skin.

His muscles harden abruptly beneath your light touch, and it makes you smirk. He's always been a little ticklish there; it's an unspoken weak spot of his.

"What's really got you so worked up?"

Even exhausted he's still as sharp as ever.

You let out a long breath. "When are you going to stop trying to hide from me when you're hurt?"

That surprises him. "I don't...."

"Don't deny it. You tried to fly this heap of scrap with a knife embedded in you, Din."

"I would have taken care of it sooner or later."

"Probably later!"

He's staring, helplessly trying to figure out why his habits have disturbed you so deeply. "I haven't died yet," he points out in a monotone that would be hilarious under different circumstances.

You lean into his midsection, cheek resting against his ribcage. The familiar scent of sweat and slight charring from the cauterizer calms you, bringing with it delicious memories of sleepless nights and long, hot showers. Your choppy breaths even out as you search for the best words to express what you want to tell him, and your hands massage into his lower back, drawing a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan from him as aching muscles finally loosen to your persistent kneading.

"You're the closest thing I have left to aliit," you murmur at last, catching a shiver from him at the movement of your lips against his chest.

Still so sensitive to touch.

"As you are alor of our little clan, I would follow your way in all matters." You lift your eyes to meet that gleaming ebony visor, seeing the forward tilt to his helmet that means he's truly listening to everything you say, not merely hearing.

"Yet as the one I would consider my riduur, in soul if not by ceremony, you must know that even my respect for you is overridden by my own selfishness. I can't let you be careless with your life, ner'kar'ta. Even a beroya needs a cabur sometimes."

His hands, finally ungloved, slowly drift up to cradle your face, roughened fingers burying themselves in your hair. "I...will try, Mesh'la. Understand this is all still strange to me. But I do not want to cause you pain. Or be a burden on your worries. I will fall back into old habits some days, so I just ask your patience."

Relief wells up within you, and you all but let yourself fall into his lap. "Thank you. I don't know what I would do if you ever --"

"K'uur, ner'cyare." He shushes you and leans back against the stack of crates behind him, taking care not to crush Grogu who has been playing with his cast-off armor. "No more of this talk. I just want your touch for a moment. Gedet'ye."

Lying half on top of his reclined body, you exhale, telling those stubborn thoughts to let go of you for now. There will always be time for fear. The times in between hardships and fears are the rare ones, these sparse moments when you and your Mandalorian are gifted with a small respite from the inherent challenges of your lifestyle. These blessed breaths in which all that exists before you is the little aliit you have formed together, and his warm skin beneath your palms, and his heart beating beside your ear.

"Like this?" you hum, pressing your lips to the center of his chest, taking in the cherished taste of him, tracing the story of his life from the faded scars beneath your kiss.

"Jate?"

There's a shudder in the answering breath that rasps through his vocoder. "Jatne," he confirms, fingertips digging into your shoulder blades.

You keep kissing him, losing yourself in his deadly, battered body, and the way that his caresses answer your searching mouth.

As you push forward to go for his throat, however, you suddenly find his powerful legs pinning you in your place, holding you back from the kill.

"What -- ?"

"Hold, Cyar'ika," he grits out between his teeth. "No more."

You stop struggling against the iron hold of his legs. "Oh! Am I hurting you?"

"...No...." He jerks his head meaningfully in the direction of the Kid, who is still playing among the boxes. "But you can't tease me like this with him in the room. That's VERY unfair of you."

Catching on, you smirk and pull back out of his grip, not missing the way he almost thinks about not letting you go so easily. "Who said I was teasing?"

He huffs. "Then we really need to stop. Poor Kid's been traumatized enough in his life." A calculating look passes over the visor, sliding from you over to Grogu and back again. "Though I might be able to get him down for a nap."

You push him all the way down and straighten up, lifting the Kid in your hands. "Better let me, then. He gets clingier when he can tell you're impatient." You nudge his leg with your knee as you leave the hold, ignoring his disapproving stare.

"Besides, you need to cool down there for a bit, Djarin."

He knows you're flirting hard when you use that name for him. And it's just a tiny bit cruel of you to leave him all alone like that, simmering in his thwarted frustration.

Half an hour later, your small charge finally dozing off, you let yourself into Din's cramped quarters, realizing only too late that you've walked right into a trap. It's dark as the belly of a sarlacc in here, and you're pinned between a wall and a heavily breathing Mandalorian before you can even react.

"You're late, Mesh'la," he growls close to your ear, his scruff scraping your cheek. "And you know I get...restless...when I'm kept waiting."

"Oh trust me, I do." You melt into his trapping embrace as his mouth starts to blaze a trail across your flesh; inhibited by his creed in the light, Din more than makes up for his inability to reciprocate once the lights have gone out and all bets are off. "But be gentle, Cyare."

"A little Loth-cat once told me she likes it rough."

There -- the tempting threat of teeth skimming the base of your throat. You can't keep yourself from trembling slightly with anticipation.

"Just don't reopen any of your wounds, Din, I'm serious."

"To hell with that." A couple skillful maneuvers and you're laid out on his bed, still locked in his arms. "Now, are you ready to finish what you started back there?"

"Dank farrik."

You smirk at his sighed expletive, pulling him in closer until you can feel the softness of his damp curls falling across your chest.

"Now remember, you can't complain about being stiff tomorrow," you chide through a kiss to the top of his head. "I tried to tell you to take it easy."

He shrugs. "I've lived through worse. And it was worth it."

"Mmhmm. I definitely won't deny that." You stretch out your own depleted limbs, sure that the tapestry of bruising will look worse come morning. But he's right. Times like this make all of it worth it, the moments in which he is not Mando'ade and you are not dar'manda, but simply two people alone in a brutal galaxy, who love each other deeply and don't get to tell the other as often as they deserve to hear it. When it's just you and your beroya in the dark, relying on skin brushing skin to see and wordless exclamations of love to take the place of eloquent poetry, all of the struggles are worth it.

This life and its pitfalls are never easy, but you have him, and he is what matters.

"What are you smiling about?" you murmur, as his full lips break into a rare grin against your chest.

"Only that maybe it would perhaps benefit me to come to you more often when I'm injured." His voice is silky, deceptively innocent as a hand strokes its way upward to find your jawline.

"After all," and he leans into a chaste Keldabe kiss even as his touch once again turns suggestive, "I can tell you, none of my solitary patch-ups ever ended with anything like this."

You arch into him and claim his lips with your own, smiling into his mouth.

"Then you can consider this possible incentive for the future, Djarin."

Di'kut = Idiot

Aliit = Family/Clan

Alor = Leader

Ner'kar'ta = My heart

Beroya = Bounty hunter

Cabur = Protector

K'uur = Hush

Gedet'ye = Please

Jate/Jatne = Good/Best

Mando'ade = Child of Mandalore

Dar'manda = Not Mandalorian

[ciaossu-imagines]

Hello, hello, my lovelies 💜 First off, thank you so much to the couple of people who have commissioned paid fics, and to those who have commissioned their free spots and agreed to help me provide examples! Just a reminder that my commissions are indeed open. I will be posting a list of commissions received, in the order they will be done below but I want to take the time to mention I still have the following spots available for FREE commission-level works for any of my current 62 fandoms written for, all you need to do is send me a message or drop anonymously into the ask box here (and a reminder that your identity will not be mentioned unless you are comfortable with it).

a smutty matchup - this gets you a detailed description of which character you, your OC, or a canon character of your choice would be most sexually compatible with and why, plus at least two other characters you or they are close to being sexually compatible with, along with the areas you or they would struggle to connect sexually with those characters

a romantic matchup - this gets you a detailed description of which character you, your OC, or a canon character of your choice would be most compatible with romantically and the reasoning behind that decision and thoughts about what your life would be like together, plus at least two other potential characters who would be close to compatible, with detailed reasonings on where those characters fall short of being perfect matches and where they might fit into your (or your OC, or canon character of your choice's) story.

a platonic matchup - this gets you a detailed description of who you, your OC, or a canon character of your choice would ideally be best friends with. This includes the reasoning behind the decision and thoughts about what your or their life would be like with this character, plus at least two other potential best friends, along with detailed reasons as to why they're not quite as compatible and where those characters might fit into yours, your OC, or the canon character of your choice's story.

help with world-building/create a world - this gets you either help fleshing out and creating a fictional world you want to use, either for canon or as an AU, or the author will collaborate to build you a complete world to use as you wish. This includes all information on the layout of the world, any magic or power systems should those be your wish, any important information on the politics of the world, the currency system, technology used, any class systems they have, etc.

help with character-building/create a character - this gets you either help fleshing out and creating an original character you want to use, either for canon or your own personal works, or the author will collaborate to build you an original character to use as you wish. This includes how the character looks, how they sound, their personality, a detailed backstory for them, how they tend to interact with the world around them and other people, their inner persona vs. their public persona, how they feel about certain large topics, etc.

short-fic - this gets you a fic of 5-6 pages maximum hopefully (unless the author bloats). Again, regular rules of the blog do not apply and I will write any genres or pairings, work with OC's, etc.

medium-fic - this gets you a fic of no more than 15 pages maximum hopefully (unless the author bloats). Again, regular rules of the blog do not apply and I will write any genres or pairings, work with OC's, etc.

As soon as my charger arrives Thursday, I will start dedicating any time that I am not at my regular job or not sleeping/showering to writing commissions. My commission schedule currently looks like this and should be completed by the end of October:

Long-fic free commission (this one is being done first mostly because the person this commission is being done for has been waiting for almost a year to see Cat & Mouse in its finished state)

Paid romantic/platonic match-up for K1

Paid short fic for K1

Music mix free commission

Paid romantic/platonic match-up for K2

Paid short fic for K2

Character exploration free commission

Paid Romantic matchup for HQ

Paid Platonic matchup for HQ

Paid Smutty matchup for HQ

Paid Romantic matchup for YP

Paid Platonic matchup for YP

Paid Smutty matchup for YP

Paid Intermediate fic

Paid Music Mix

Paid Romantic/Platonic match

Headcanons free commission

[pepawspring]

The Gamble of Flesh

This was a commission! (client wishes to remain anonymous). If you’re interested in commissioning me for a fic/drawing, feel free to reach out —commissions are open!

Wordcount: 2169

In the heart of the crumbling metropolis of Perditia, life revolved around two things: survival and risk. The city had long abandoned any semblance of law and order, and its people had turned to the one constant they could control- luck. From back-alley dice games to extravagant underground casinos, gambling had become the heartbeat of this dystopian society. The stakes had grown so high that money had become obsolete in certain circles. People were betting things far more valuable- time, loyalty, and even pieces of themselves.

Sera leaned back in a worn leather chair, the dim glow of neon signs from the casino's walls casting faint shadows across their sharp features. They had been here for hours, sitting at the most exclusive table in the room- a space reserved for those who had the audacity to wager their very existence. Tonight's game was the highest of all stakes, and for Sera, it was just another night.

Across the table sat their opponent, an older man with a hawk-like face and eyes that glistened with the kind of hunger that came from years of greed and thrill-seeking. The man smirked, pushing his pile of chips forward with slow deliberation.

"Raise," he said, his voice as gravelly as the streets outside. "I think we both know what's on the line here."

Sera studied the cards in their hand- a decent set, but not unbeatable. They looked at the pot on the table, filled not with mere currency but markers representing each player's most valuable assets. Time, freedom, secrets, body parts—all things considered tradable in Perditia's world. The air around the table was thick with tension as the other players, spectators in this brutal game, watched in eerie silence.

With a nonchalant shrug, Sera tossed in their final chip, pushing the pot even higher. The glint in their opponent's eyes grew more vicious. He licked his lips, sensing victory.

"Well, well, Sera. Do you even know what you're playing for anymore?" the man asked, leaning forward. "You've already bet your money, your secrets. Now all that's left is something more... personal."

Without missing a beat, Sera gave a half-smile. "I bet my left leg."

The crowd that had gathered around the table stirred, murmurs rippling through the room. Betting a limb wasn't unheard of, but it was rare, even in a city like this. The man across from Sera raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by the casualness of the offer. He leaned back, crossing his arms.

"Your leg, huh? I wonder how you'll get around without it." he chuckled darkly. "But fine. Accepted."

The cards were revealed. Sera's heart didn't even race when they saw their hand- three of a kind. Not bad, but the old man had a full house. A resounding sigh passed through the crowd as they realized Sera had lost. The man gave a slow, malicious grin, collecting the winnings.

Sera simply leaned back in their chair, exhaling through their nose. There wasn't even a hint of hesitation in their expression.

"You really are something, Sera," the man said, shaking his head in mock admiration. "Losing a limb over a card game, and you barely bat an eye."

Sera's smirk deepened. "What's life without a little excitement?"

And right before they decided to cut off Sera's leg, a memory flashed in their mind, vivid and searing.

Sera had been nine years old, hiding behind a crumbling brick wall in a narrow alley, the sharp scent of damp trash clinging to the air. They'd been out on the streets, scavenging scraps of food like any other day in Perditia, when they heard it- raised voices, the unmistakable tension of a gamble gone wrong.

Curiosity had always been one of Sera's weaknesses, even back then, before they learned how deadly it could be. They peered around the corner, eyes wide, barely breathing, as the scene unfolded.

There were four of them, hunched over a makeshift table with cards strewn across it. Two were thugs, the kind that looked like they lived for violence, their hands twitching toward the pistols at their hips. The third was the dealer, calm and unflinching, flipping the cards with the ease of someone who had watched too many people lose too much. But it was the fourth man- sweating, frantic, and desperate, who held Sera's attention.

The man had gambled something important. His clothes were tattered, and his hands trembled as he laid down his final cards. The thugs laughed, low and cruel, as they threw their winning hands onto the table. The man's face drained of color. He didn't even have a chance to beg for his life before the guns were out.

The gunshot rang out like a hammer falling, the sharp crack echoing off the alley walls. Sera flinched but didn't move from their hiding spot. They watched, frozen, as the man's body slumped to the ground, his blood pooling beneath him, soaking into the dirt.

The thugs didn't care. They stood, their boots crunching on the gravel, and one of them spat on the ground next to the man's lifeless body. The dealer pocketed the winnings, a stack of blood-soaked bills and a rusted keychain, and the three of them walked away like nothing had happened.

Sera stayed hidden, crouched behind that wall for what felt like hours, their heart pounding in their chest. They had always known that gambling was a way of life in Perditia, that it could turn deadly in an instant. But this- this was the first time Sera had seen death dealt so casually, a life extinguished over a hand of cards. It was a lesson burned into their memory, a moment that would define them in the years to come.

When the coast was clear, Sera had crept forward, their small frame tense as they approached the body. The man's eyes were still open, staring up at the darkening sky, empty. Sera stared back, not daring to touch him, but unable to look away. This could be anyone, they thought. This could be me.

The memory faded, but the lingering weight of it stayed with Sera as they blinked back to the present, seated in a dimly lit underground room where the stakes had escalated far beyond money. They had gambled much since that day, but never forgotten the grim reality of what a lost bet could cost.

The man standing before them now, the one with the blade poised to take Sera's leg, was no different from the thugs in that alley. He had no emotion, no remorse. This was just another part of the game for him.

Sera met his gaze, a cold smirk tugging at their lips. They wouldn't beg. They wouldn't flinch. Losing a leg was nothing compared to what they had seen, what they had survived. This was the cost of playing, and Sera had long ago accepted that everything had a price.

The aftermath was handled swiftly. Perditia wasn't a place for mercy or second chances. They had seen this sort of thing before- losing was part of the game, and the consequences were non-negotiable.

Sera stood, offering their left leg with the same grace they showed at the table. No one spoke as a medic was called over, equipped with tools designed for the grim task. The room was eerily quiet as the procedure was set up, and yet Sera remained as calm as if they were getting a tooth pulled.

The old man watched with interest, his cruel smile still etched into his face. "You know, Sera, most people would beg for their life right now."

"I'm not most people," Sera replied coolly.

The medic made quick work of the amputation, their tools sharp and efficient. Sera barely winced as the blade met skin and bone, severing their leg just below the knee. Blood was staunched immediately, and a high-tech bandage was wrapped around the stump to prevent infection. The whole thing was over in minutes.

When it was done, Sera looked down at where their leg had been, a blank expression on their face. They tested their balance for a moment, then gave a wry smile as if nothing had changed.

"Well, that's one way to lose weight," they quipped, their voice dripping with dark humor.

The old man let out a barking laugh. "Unbelievable. You really don't care, do you?"

Sera shrugged, hopping slightly as they adjusted to their new reality. "It's just a leg. I'll manage."

The crowd, stunned by the casualness of the whole affair, slowly began to disperse. The casino went back to its usual hum of games and chatter, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. In Perditia, this was just another night.

———

Days passed, and life in the city continued as usual. Sera navigated the streets with a crutch, moving through the bustling crowds with practiced ease. They had already scheduled an appointment with a back-alley mechanic to craft a prosthetic, one that would suit their lifestyle- something durable, lightweight, and, most importantly, easy to use in a fight.

The loss of their leg hadn't slowed them down much, but there were, of course, adjustments. Sera couldn't chase down leads or run through alleyways with the same speed as before, and the constant phantom pain gnawing at where their leg used to be was an annoying reminder of the cost of their gamble.

But did they regret it? Not for a second.

Sera had always believed that survival in Perditia required more than just luck or skill, it required the ability to accept loss, to embrace it even. They had grown up watching people fall apart when they lost something important, whether it was money, power, or a piece of themselves. Sera refused to be one of those people. To them, life was a game, and losing was just part of it.

One evening, Sera met up with an old friend, a fellow gambler named Lila, who had been out of town during the infamous bet. They met at a rooftop bar, the neon lights of the city flickering below them as they shared drinks and conversation.

"I heard about what happened," Lila said, her tone a mix of concern and curiosity. "You lost your leg in a card game?"

Sera sipped their drink, nodding. "Yep. Got outplayed. Happens."

Lila stared at them for a moment, her brow furrowed. "You don't seem too bothered by it."

Sera shrugged, a smirk tugging at their lips. "It's just a leg, Lila. It's not like I was using it to win any races."

Lila blinked, then chuckled despite herself. "You're serious?"

"Absolutely," Sera leaned back in their chair "Worst part is, I can't even blame it on a bad hand. I knew the odds and still went all in. Guess my leg's got better survival instincts than I do."

"You're insane," Lila shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "Most people would be devastated."

Sera grinned. "Most people don't know how to lose. Besides, I always wanted a leg up in the game. Just didn't think it'd be this literal."

Lila groaned. "Please stop."

Sera's grin widened. "You walked right into that one. Well, I didn't."

Lila covered her face with her hands, laughing now. "God, you're impossible."

Sera leaned forward, their expression softening slightly. "But seriously, the way I see it, the only way to survive in this city is to roll with the punches. If you get too attached to anything- money, power, limbs- you're setting yourself up for failure. I lost a leg, sure, but I'm still in the game. That's what counts."

Lila considered that for a moment, then raised her glass. "To surviving."

Sera clinked their glass against hers. "To surviving."

———

Weeks passed, and Sera's prosthetic was ready- a sleek, metal limb that hummed softly with every step. It wasn't perfect, but it worked. More importantly, it didn't slow them down. They were back to their old routines, navigating the city's underworld, placing bets, trading information, and occasionally pulling off a heist or two.

The people of Perditia quickly learned that Sera was just as dangerous as ever, if not more so. The loss of their leg hadn't weakened them- it had made them sharper, more focused. Sera wore the prosthetic like a badge of honor, a reminder that they had risked everything and come out the other side.

In the end, Sera's life hadn't changed much. They still gambled, still took risks, still lived on the edge. But now, when people looked at them, they saw someone who had stared down loss and shrugged it off with a smirk. Sera had become a living legend in Perditia- a testament to what it meant to survive in a world that demanded everything.

Because in Perditia, it wasn't about what you had. It was about what you were willing to lose.

And Sera had already proven that they were willing to lose everything.

[caeli0306]

chapter 7 of castles crumbling (aka Tales from the Airport Bathroom extended version) now posted!

Chapter 7: Tales from the Airport Bathroom is now up on AO3: READ HERE

I stg every time I say "haha I don't know when the next chapter will be out!" I end up posting a 10k behemoth within 24 hours. this doesn't really count since most of it was technically already written, but similar vibes.

ANYWAYS I hope you enjoy this fics version of ~the airport bathroom scene~. I know everyone loved the meet-and-make-out concept of TFTAB, but disclaimer: it's not like that in this fic! we will get there eventually tho I promise they will kiss kiss fall in love if its the last thing I do. enjoy the chapter!

Summary:

Violet should already be dead. People whispered about her weak body and how she would never live up to her family's martial accomplishments. Violet rose above them all, however, fighting and killing to survive the Navarrian Intelligence Agency's brutal BASGIATH training protocol. Now, people whisper about Violet's swift ascension through the NIA's ranks as one of its most valuable operatives and assassins. The whispers don't matter to Violet: She has her own agenda, and it's a dangerous one - finding out what happened to her father.

But one mission changes everything: Suddenly, Violet finds herself in the crosshairs when she stumbles on information Navarre wants buried, and the country she fought for begins to turn on her. Violet knows too much, but she's determined to do what she does best: Survive. Her only hope is the son of the man who they say killed her brother, but their partnership is far from assured. Some grudges run deep, and trust is a currency too valuable to give freely. Xaden realizes Violet may be the key to everything, but with enemies seen and unseen closing in on all sides, the consequences of failure are deadly.

===

"You're lying."

"Am I?" I ask again.

Sorrengail makes a sound of utter frustration, pushing away from the sink and putting distance between us again. I fight the urge to once again get up close to her.

"Control your hormones," SGAEYL snaps. Gods, do I wish I could.

"You are such an asshole," Violence spits.

"Duly noted," I reply instantly.

Her eyes blaze, and for a moment I think she's actually going to try to attack me. But then she deflates, and she just looks - tired. Like the weight of the world is on her shoulders, and she's slowly crumbling under the weight. It's a feeling I'm intimately familiar with. The somewhat homicidal urges I was feeling abate. I don't like how much I relate to her - Navarre's killing machine in the flesh.

[trebonivs]

COMPROMISE Crassus had said that if the situation got dire enough, they would eat the horses first. ⭐ ~260 words, opening scene for some kind of horror fic I've been kicking around. Partly inspired by Kingdom [킹덤] [2019]

'I'm the one who made the call,' says Pompey, firm and unyielding. 'The crime is mine, and only mine.'

'You came in here at the last second and claimed credit for the battlefield I laid waste to,' hisses Crassus. 'Do you understand that? You can repeat yourself all you want, but you've brought me into this.'

Around them, wafting through the camp, is the scent of simmering meat, of soup, of food with flavor for the first time in a week, made all the more delicious from the taste of victory and the muscle deep burn of hard work. And like a warm blanket of familiarity: the chatter of soldiers engaged in the easy conversation of men unaware they are eating corpse flesh.

Crassus had said that if the situation got dire enough, they would eat the horses first.

Pompey had argued that they would need the horses once the weather let up. The dead weren't doing anything, and meat was all the same once cooked.

There is no glory, after all, in dying of starvation after a hard fought victory.

'You can gut me like a fish in front of the whole of Rome for this when we return,' says Pompey, 'but you only get to do that if we live.'

Crassus says nothing.

They instead sit next to each other in relative silence. Pompey knows that Crassus is fucking seething from the way his hands are clenched, the tendons of his hand rigid, but Crassus doesn't leave Pompey's side, doesn't turn his face away in disgust.

Appearances matter. It's the most valuable currency anyone can have.

[joeloverture]

coming soon...

hihihi! ive been hammering this one out and i blame ovulation. i saw joel come onto my tv screen circa 2023 and said "im going to eat his ass" and i am DELIVERING on that damn promise. this is a bit heavier than what i usually write... its also very self indulgent. please thoroughly read the warnings on this one and consider the state of mind you're in! this is also my first time using game joel as a moodboard but tbh when i write for joel it's a constant coin flip every paragraph of who i'm envisioning, so pick whoever you'd like.

taking the moment to thank y'all for the reception on my most recent fic, deadfall. it always astonishes me that people give my voice attention and see inherent value in what i work on. it's really just an incomparable feeling. (it's weird to go from having nobody read my novels or short stories to having an audience of THOUSANDS for my fanfiction. i swear i have whiplash.) im completely and entirely grateful. ty <3

i hope to have this one up sometime tmrw or sunday!

— v. 💋

[c-estmabiologie]

Pangs (Candela Obscura fic)

I'm still obsessed with Arlo. Another character study based on where I thought the her Bleed Scar was going for a little while. Spoilers for episode 2.

CW: body horror, cannibalism (mentioned, lightly implied)

Also on AO3 ! Usually Arlo didn’t leave the bath until the suds had vanished and the water had gone cold. Today, though, she was restless; steam had still been curling off the water’s surface when she’d gotten out. She was standing in the middle of the bathroom, leaving footprint-puddles on the marble. 

There was still a towel draped over the chair from when Auggie had bathed earlier, not getting any drier with the steam from her own bath filling the room. Auggie. They’d had a lovely time this afternoon, picking out new suiting.

It was nice to have a friend. 

But now, she was alone again, naked and dripping in front of her mirror, the condensation wiped away so she could take a good look at herself. She craned her neck to see exactly how far the dead grey flesh crawled up her throat. Her blouse collar could still take care of it, mostly, but she’d have to be careful. No more occult rituals if she wanted to still be presentable. (Lately, much to her family’s chagrin, she found herself caring less and less about respectability, less and less about the costs that might come with frequenting the grimier parts of the city and keeping company with people who would never even dream of setting foot in Briar Green. The currency she held by being from the Black family was undoubtedly helpful, even with the fussiness of her connection to the Eastons and, by mere association to Eddie, their disappearance...but she thought that, perhaps, she might have to find a new sort of social cachet. It had been so bizarre to have to explain about Eddie earlier without everyone in the room already knowing him and trying to remember him as best as they could. Arlo tried to remember him at least three times a day so that she could be sure she was remembering him best of all: how his hair stuck up in tufts no matter how it was brushed, how his teeth looked when he laughed, how he would rub the skin behind his ear when he couldn’t think of something to say. Sometimes those three things formed a touchstone and tufts - teeth- ear was all she could remember, instead of remembering Eddie as an entire person. But if she had at least that she could be somewhat grounded. She couldn’t explain any of that to the Vassal and have them understand. Anyway.)

No more occult rituals if she didn’t want to feel how else the Bleed might change her. Her greyed hand had been unchanged for years; she hadn’t even imagined that it could change, become worse than before.

“You should definitely do something about this,” she said to her reflection. You should cut your hand off. Before you become a monster. 

She looked at her hand, at the void that ripped her palm open. Would the rest of her become the same, hollow and unfillable? What would happen once it reached her heart (or her mind)? Would some magick keep it beating (thinking)? Would she have to become some new creature? The idea left her cold. She didn’t want to become a skin filled with void. A monster.

A gurgle resonated from deep within her and she pressed her hand to her stomach. She was hungry and it wasn’t a usual sort of hunger. Her stomach had been complaining with the same simple, gnawing need she’d felt when she’d examined Mr. Ferris’s hand, and that had only grown when she’d taken on the Gredarn demon in the sewers. She’d thought the bath would have helped more; hot water and bubbles and thick, fluffy towels had always been curatives before for whatever ailed her after working a case, but not this time. Her arm couldn’t seem to get warm. Her body couldn’t seem to forget.

She’d brought her occult text with her to read in the tub — not an unusual pastime for her — but she hadn’t stayed in long enough to desire to read. Now, with damp fingers she turned the pages in her book until she found the entry again. The passage on Gredarn was short, just references to feeding and Oldfairen folk tales. She flipped to the next page and back again, but she hadn’t missed anything the first time. There was nothing to tell her what to expect next from having connected with it so deeply.

Her stomach growled again. The demon had consumed people . It had absorbed flesh and limbs and people fucking in their hotel rooms. She couldn’t do any of that. But she was starving, and if she was hungering like it was, would she develop a taste for human flesh? The idea terrified her, but still she poked her tongue out and licked the palm of her hand, testing. Her skin tasted like salt and soap and it was not unpleasant, but neither did it spike the pressure in her gut. Curiosity spurred her to lick the palm of her right hand, too, to see if it tasted of bleed or death or anything . The tip of her tongue tingled with how she imagined incandescent lights might taste. She inspected her tongue in the mirror for any tell-tale signs of Bleed, but it looked pink and alive.

She’d have to find another way to test the edges of her craving.

--

Where am I?

Seconds crawled by as she got her bearings. She was outside and she was still in Briar Green, that much she could tell immediately, but she was barefoot in the garden of someone else’s estate. She remembered deciding to go out — a constitutional to ease the teeth gnashing in her belly — but she’d been certainly wearing boots when she’d left home. She had a vague sense that she’d spent some time tailing a stranger in broad daylight for no reason other than that her gut had told her to, but she had no idea what had become of him or when she had decided to let that quarry go. (She did not think she’d done anything to him except follow him, but her teeth felt fuzzy and her tongue tasted sour. Her ungloved hand felt like it was filmy with grime, like something might be cakes under her fingernails, but it looked clean enough. She mustn’t have done anything because she was still so, so very hungry. Anyway.) The grass around her was tall and prickly underfoot. As she walked toward the house, she realized that the windows were boarded up. She was at the Eastons’. 

The realization gave her pause. It was better, she thought, to look forward. Closure could only be in the future, after all. It wasn’t in an empty home, and certainly not this empty home. But still she found herself climbing its steps and testing its door just in case it was unlocked.

She hadn’t been inside since that day when the portal had opened up and taken Eddie from her. Every room she wandered into looked like a storm had blown through it. Glass and porcelain was shattered, rugs were tossed, floors and tabletops were chipped and gouged. She picked her way through carefully, sometimes stopping before putting all of her weight into her step so that she wouldn’t cut her foot open on something broken.

She tried to see everything through the eyes of her past self: this was where she and Eddie had sat many times and talked for hours. This was where she had taken meals with his family. This was where Eddie’s mother had given her a cameo as a welcome to the family after their engagement had been announced. This was where she had imagined a very different future. 

But this was also where he had been taken from her. And because of that she was a different person now. 

Could I have saved him? she thought, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last. Years of studying occultism had so far told her that she could not have, but maybe that was just because she hadn’t read the right text yet, or studied the right ritual, or spoken to the right person who just happened to know why and how portals yawn open and suck people away.

She pushed her sleeve up to check her detector: everything was soaking with Bleed. Even after all this time. 

She was still so hungry. 

--

As she crept back toward her rooms she could hear her parents’ voices drifting out from the sitting room. 

“—And that young man she brought home looked like an overgrown urchin. I didn’t realize we were in the habit of clothing the local riff-raff.”

“Don’t be ungenerous. We raised her to be a philanthropist after all.”

 “We raised her to be a credit to the family name.”

Arlo didn’t need to hear any more. She still believed in who she was, but she found it admittedly challenging to be a person in the way that it was expected. She fidgeted with the fingers of her glove. The easy thing to do would be to blame what had happened to Eddie, and her parents would accept it regularly. They saw Eddie as a good man from a good family and that their daughter had been happy with him. Losing that sort of happiness would change anyone. But if she was being honest, it was really everything that had happened after that had shaken apart how she understood the world and her place in it. She knew what she was supposed to do, she just couldn’t seem to do it anymore.

“Auggie is my friend,” she burst out, surprising herself as much as her parents.

“Arlo! We thought you were out!” Her father said, at the same time that her mother sputtered, “Arlo! Where in God’s name are your shoes?”

Arlo tucked one foot behind the other, as if that would hide their nakedness.

“He’s a part of my Circle. We do a lot of good work.” That was about as much as she could explain to her parents about Candela Obscura. They thought it was a social group.

“Of course, darling,” her mother said, more composed this time, “but you know you needn’t work.”

“It’s the sort of work that’s no work at all. You know: charity work. Philanthropy.” Sacrificing some part of your soul to kill monsters was certainly charitable if you looked at it sideways. Certainly more generous than just giving money.

“Yes, and your  …Circle has helped you so much since the incident—” Arlo smiled. No one ever seemed to be able to call it anything but the incident , a term that she felt tidied up the horror that it had been too neatly. A crashed car is an incident. An uncovered affair is an incident. A portal filled with demonic entities that sucks away your loved ones and renders your flesh dead should be given a different name, but it was just another incident because no one else who had witnessed it remained. Anyway.

“—You’ve been holding up so well,” her mother looked down at her hands instead of into Arlo’s face. “I was just telling your father how beautifully I think you’re doing.”

Arlo kept smiling, unsure if she was supposed to thank her mother for the lie and pretend that she believed it. 

“I’m going to have a bath drawn. My feet are dirty.”

--

In her second bath of the day, she stared at the ceiling, memorizing the patterns in the plaster. It was dull and beautiful at the same time.

The ache in her stomach wasn’t getting stronger, but neither was it going away. She soaked in the tub, thinking of what she could tear to pieces if she were a monster. (Maybe it would be a relief.) If the feeling didn’t go away, she wasn’t sure she could keep it a secret.

She imagined telling Auggie. He’d be the easiest to tell and the one she’d like to tell the least. Because he was such a sweet boy, and because she was certain he would still be sweet to her even if she were a hideous thing. 

If she told Charlie she’d wrap an arm around her like a mother. Tell her that everything would turn out fine, even if they both knew it wouldn’t. They’d find a way to approach fine as well as humanly possible. 

She couldn’t tell Howard. He would be fascinated. He would just treat her like an experiment. But maybe what she needed was the experimental. It wasn't ideal, but if the rest knew he'd have to know, too.

Anyway.

Arlo waved her hands through the bathwater, one pink and one deathly grey, and decided that this time she would let the water grow cold with her in it. 

[nerdragenewvegas]

Bear, Bull, Ingénue - NEW FIC

Vulpes Inculta/f!courier - Lots of Ulysses yapping. Implied past relationships with major characters. [Oneshot I wrote to get out of a slump, was meant to be just one chapter but it's split into two due to length. Porn comes in chapter 2 but I gotta nap so I'll post after that.] Overall CNs: Descriptions of violence and usual Legion brand cruelty/abuse.

Summary: The Courier has managed to keep up a delicate balancing act in her pursuit of an independent New Vegas, but with both the Bull and the Bear vying for her allegiance, she can only continue on as is for so long. When she's summoned to walk the Lonesome Road, she hopes to learn who she was before this mess in the hopes the past might provide her with clarity. However, the answers she finds are not what she was expecting. If she didn't learn to let go in the Sierra Madre, she's about to learn it from the last person she'd expect.

Oh, and also, Vulpes Inculta won't leave her the fuck alone. What's up with that? Fucking weirdo.

⋆⋆⋆

Part 1: Hungry [Ao3 link]

Preview: 『 He turns his head ever so slightly, allowing their eyes to meet for a brief moment. “Your commitment to denying the flesh is admirable. A lucrative currency many would not rebuke. Could not rebuke. Part of the reason so many call on you. Warm words, soft sentiment, but cold to touch in the physical. Almost inhuman.”

“It’s hard to know who to trust,” she offers as reasoning, the word ‘inhuman’ admittedly stinging her a little bit more than she would have anticipated.

“A man puts a bullet in your head. Robs you of your memory. Takes your history from you. Still finds himself with you warming his bed.” He doesn’t need to extrapolate. Six knows a call-out when she hears it. “Would have served the frumentarii well.”

Still, though, call-out or not, she knows better than to argue it. Not only would it achieve little (are they even enemies anymore?) but he’s objectively correct. “If only I had a weapon between my legs, huh?”

Another half-laugh that’s more like a puff of air. “If only.” She gets the feeling he doesn’t do it often. “Of all who vie for your affections, Courier, only one sends a suitor.” Six frowns at this, staring at him once more, waiting for an explanation. “Vulpes Inculta waits by the canyon wreck. There you parted from him. There he has remained.”

She shrugs it off immediately. “Not surprised, really. Probably making sure I’m not gonna walk out of there with an NCR battalion or something.”

“The fox does not lend itself to domestication,” he explains. “It hunts, it stalks, it waits — but only when there is a meal to be had from it, only when the fox knows it’s certain. It does not linger for loyalty’s sake as a dog would. Vulpes would not wait if there was no promise of a meal.” 』

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

I went to Meow Wolf in Denver today, and because it's themed on a station that leads you to a planet made up of four other planets that smashed into each other because of inter-dimensional whatnot, it got me thinking about some of my sci-fi based aus on this account.

And considering the first place you go to when you get off the elevator is into a local port that kinda reminds me of when Ten took Martha to New Earth, I decided to write something up for my au where the Doctor is traveling with Arthur from Passengers.

Warning: weird alien nonsense, it's not really a safe place but Ten and Arthur can defend themselves, stabbing, Arthur has cool robot spider legs because reasons (gr1d, I'm stealing from you)

On with the fic!

--

"Here we go!" The Doctor threw open the doors, grinning as he jumped out of the TARDIS. "Welcome to Port 8!"

Arthur slipped out of the TARDIS and frowned, glancing around at his surroundings. "It's... certainly different from what I'm used to."

The area around them was the complete opposite from Arthur's original home. It was filthy, grungy, someone's laundry was out on display on a clothes line, including a bra with multiple cups for it, and it smelled like something might have died while smoking something strong.

The Doctor shrugged. "It's got its charms! And the best place in all of the galaxy to get street tacos! Oooh, I am very excited to get some of those!"

"I don't eat." Arthur commented.

"I know, but still! And there's a bar I'd like to take you to, I'm sure you'll find it enjoyable to be a snob. Oh, don't look at me like that, Arthur, you know you love being superior."

Arthur did not reply to that, just straightened his bow tie and clicked his metal feet on the street as he walked past the Doctor. "Show me where to go."

The Doctor grinned and shoved his hands into his pockets, walking alongside the android as they passed people of all shapes, sizes, colors, flesh, and appendages. This was a very busy port, one that had quite the doozy of an incident centuries ago where it seemed to have been the subject of a universal one-of-a-kind phenomenon where several planets congealed together into a strange place that left you lost for hours but feeling like you were in a fun house.

And also making you a bit sick from all the neon colors.

Still, the Doctor liked coming here, you could find the most interesting things!

He walked past two aliens who looked oddly like Sularians, before suddenly being yanked into a strange room by the back of his jacket. That was the thing about this place, it had hidden doors all over and if you knew where they were, you knew where they were.

And if you didn't...

Well...

You end up in a situation like this.

The Doctor hissed as he was slammed into a wall, blinking past the paid to see a weird hallway, covered in what looked like thousands of posters and stickers and blinking lights. And red splatters of varying degrees of age.

There was an alien before him, tentacled and slimy, and reminding the Doctor way too much of a nasty one he and Donna had the misfortune of dealing with twice.

"Look, if you think you're gonna get money off me, it's pointless!" The Doctor shrugged. "I don't carry cash on me! Or credit sticks!"

He tried to smile, but that only angered the alien more. "Don't seem like the type not to have credits, or mems."

"Oooh, you can't exactly get those off me, way too many, way too hard to sort through, would upset some of my past selves if we did that." The Doctor completely forgot about mems, or memories, some of the locals used those as currency. It was not always a fun way to pay for things, but if you were low on credits, it helped.

"Someone paradin' around all snazzy in a suit's gotta have somethin' on 'em." The alien snarled, baring blunt teeth that looked like they'd break bones.

"I'm telling you, I- hey! Get your tentacles out of my pockets!" The Doctor shouted, letting out a squeak when he was suddenly grabbed by more tentacles, his arms locked in place, and one slapped across his mouth.

Uhg! Disgusting!

"Shut it, or you won't have ta add to the art here." The alien held up a nasty looking knife with another tentacle.

The Doctor squirmed, trying to free himself. He wondered if Arthur was aware that he was missing, he hoped that Arthur was looking for him. The tentacles in his pockets felt like they were going deeper and deeper, pocket dimension pockets were so helpful, but that still had him worried.

Then they attention was both drawn to the door, where there was a sound, and the Doctor watched as it seemed to move, like someone was trying to tear the secret door from the wall.

And then it was torn right from the wall, with Arthur standing there, and a few startled aliens behind him.

He threw the door out onto the street, getting shouts and warbled complaints from others out of view. He dusted his hands and put them in front of himself. "Excuse me, but what are you doing to my friend?"

"None of your business, get outta here!" The alien yelled.

The Doctor shouted from behind the tentacle, kicking and flailing his legs. The alien growled and turned, moving to stab at the Doctor with the knife.

But Arthur was fast, much faster on those new legs of his.

He was there just as the knife dropped, and struck him in the shoulder. The sound of metal scrapping metal was terrible and the alien hissed.

"How rude, this is my favorite jacket." Arthur huffed and grabbed the tentacle, gripping it tighter, and tighter, and...

The alien howled in pain as there was a horrible, wet sound, a nasty looking liquid spilled from between Arthur's fingers. He pulled away from Arthur and something purple and squirmy dropped to the ground, moving about on the ground.

With another hiss, one of anger and fear, the alien rushed away, down the other end of the hallway. Arthur looked bothered by the fluid on his hand and the Doctor, now free and wiping at his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket, handed it over.

"Thank you." Arthur said as he cleaned up the mess, then looked up at the Doctor. "What happened?"

"Got grabbed and pulled into one of the many secret hallways and locations around here, was threatened for money."

"I see. You're lucky I noticed you vanished." He handed over the rag, which the Doctor pocketed it.

"And I'm grateful for that but... how'd you find me?"

Arthur sighed at the tear in his shoulder after he yanked out the knife and tossed it aside. "I may or may not have had the TARDIS put a tracking device on you so I could know where you wandered off to."

"Ah, I see." The Doctor nodded, then stopped, eyes wide. "You did what!?"

--

Look, Arthur seems like the type who would have the TARDIS do this because the Doctor may complain about the companions wandering off, but they're just as bad (if not worse).

The tentacled alien is based on one from an audio story (Time Reaver) and from a book (In The Blood).

A lot of the weird stuff I talked about, hidden doors and such, those were at Meow Wolf, lots of weird shit. I found a room full of bones and teeth in jars. And a terrifying pizza place.

[spyridonya]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @silversiren1101 and @dujour13! I’m utterly stuck on Tango. I’ve written out the next chapter, I’m revising it, and I have just one minor issue.

Here’s a small bit of it so far. Just this side of work safe despite it being a smutty fic.

As soon as the cat weaved his away into the hallway and Kadira shut the door, Daeran sat down along the edge of the bed to reach for a boot-jack inlaid with mother of pearl that found a home on one of the nightstands. The quality of the work suggested it was likely from the count's own collection... making it yet another thing that turned knots in Lann’s stomach.

How many personal effects in this room were Daeran's?

"She spoils that creature," The count complained as he began to attack his boots, though his chartreuse gaze settled on Lann, "Somehow our illustrious commander secured a ration of blueberries from down south and despite her generous and compassionate nature, she finds herself at a loss to share them."

Daeran's boot fell to the floor.

"You don't deserve them, Daeran," Kadira proclaimed brightly as she hung Lann's cloak neatly along the wall before taking off her own. Tonight she had worn an outer dress of green damask that hugged the narrow of her waist and showed generous curves. The tip of her tail swung from under her skirt, making Lann pull his eyes away from the sway of her step, "Tiger keeps mice and quasits at bay and deserve the extra love."

The count shared a sly smile with Lann, as if they were not undressing in the commander's private quarters, but gathered around the campfire. "Should we be concerned where you acquired such contraband?" The second boot thudded to the ground and the count stretched his long form, and Lann found himself watching the curve of the aasimar’s throat.

"Lann,” He tore his gaze away to look at Kadira's face, “Tell my other guest I'm not answering that." The tiefling had made her way to the side of another nightstand, her long fingers busy in pulling pins from her hair to release her curls like spilled ink.

A smile was fighting on her lips.

A wry smile settled on Lann's face and he turned to the person of attention, "Daeran, she won’t tell me, but she likely bought them from Wilcer after requesting them for the soldiers for a dessert in the next few days," Banter was something he could do, and his tone grew gravely serious as he made careful steps to the center of the room, his human hand settled upon the back of one of the chairs, "She might even have paid him with the crown’s gold."

"Gold," Daeran murmured, his disgust barely cloaked in his tone, mirroring the seriousness of Lann's though the count’s green gaze had fallen into his work of undoing his belt, "Of course she would pay with the lawful currency of the land. The depravity."

“And neither of you are getting any," Kadee giggled as she removed the last pin from her hair.

The silence was warm after that, though the mongrel still found himself studying the room as he gathered his thoughts. Behind the statue of the songbird, a tool kit sat on clean cloth with said tools polished and shining, obviously well loved. Curious, Lann looked up to ask Kadira what it was.

Instead, Lann caught Daeran dropping his belt to the floor while Kadee worked the laces off her of her green kirtle. For a long moment the hunter stood there, fascinated by their movements of simple undressing and exposure of rose gold and pomegranate flesh. Both the commander and the count were so stupidly beautiful.

Tagging: @aparticularbandit, @dmagedgoods, @undyingembers And open to anyone!

[heartofholland]

tom recs <3

hi guys! here is a fic rec list i made of all the fics i’ve loved. personally, i consider myself an avid fic reader so i have read a shit ton of fics. these are just my highlights. let me know if you want more like this! and if you do end up reading any of these please make sure you REBLOG them to spread the goodness. these writers work their ass off and deserve all the credit in the world. enjoy! <3

SERIES

riding my by @worldoftom this fic is barely started but i love everything this writer puts out. very smutty, very hot. innocence kink check!

breaking curfew by @wazzupmrstark ASSHOLE TOM! my weakness. enemies to lovers but make it FWB. what I wish my summer camp was like instead of my thighs sticking to chairs and lice outbreaks.

eighteen by @angelic-holland corruption/innocence kink! basically all smut but damn do i want bad boy tom.

the situationship by @fairytelling can’t say enough about this fic. the definition of falling in love with your best friend. if my relationship isn’t like this i don’t want it.

happiness is a butterfly by @blissfulparker soft mob!tom and they’re forbidden soulmates! updates are WELL worth the wait!

i only feel you by @stuckonspidey the first time i read my watch thought i was working out for how high my heart rate was. shit keeps you on your toes. there is a sequel fic but just a heads up you will want to unstan tom on multiple occasions.

make me love you by @mrs-hollandstan frat boy player tom turned soft. mans does a whole 180. fuck dom.

perfidy by @peeterparkr couldn’t be more obsessed with this fic. they’re both so fucking stupid but too afraid to get hurt. also the social media posts are so fucking cute and crucial to the story 

eloped by @worldoftom getting married to tom in the most beautiful vacation spot? sign me the fuck up

you. by @txmhoelland i think there’s definely worse men to be set up with as a PR stunt.

erotas by @farfromparker i have definely read this fic for more days than i’ve been on this earth but every time i lose my goddamn mind

dare you to move by @starksparker-archive the best version of FWB tom is when you’re his roommate…

gone by @dahliaspidey this one… hurts. but i just know it will bounce back.

take me out by @angelic-holland warning this one is really dark. like serial killers. but it was so fascinating i am completely obsessed with the psychology of it all. jake is featured and please don’t imagine the mr. music the entire time like i did </3

single all the way by @heyhihellowhatsup0 i read this whenever i need a lil christmas pick me up

sweetener by @keepingupwiththeparkers cute awkward relationship. it is so real i feel like it could actually happen to me.

ex on the beach by @heyhihellowhatsup0 THE ANGST GIVES ME LIFE

SMUT

bartender by @t-o-m-holland tom happens to own your favorite bar. your subtle flirts aren’t working. the banter between reader and the fam makes me wish i didn't have social anxiety.

siren by @rosyparkers don’t get me wrong i will scream ACAB til the day i die but police officer tom could definitely get it.

best of three by @mrs-hollandstan one of the 3000 threesome fics i have saved. imagine not getting one of the hottest men but TWO.

roommates by @hollandbaby what a coincidence we both want to fuck each other! this checks all the kinks my man. i’ve read this probably no less than 100 times.  

that was that by @moorehollandplz dom!tom but something flips and he’s never been more gentle. mans got both sides of the playing field covered.

know your enemy by @angelic-holland short but sweet. hate sex is always hotter behind the scenes.

wasabi by @angelic-holland literally everything about alice is phenomenal but this is on of my faves. when i read this it makes me feel smarter. also body shots.

say good night by @madmadmilk this writers work never fails to blow me away but this time she managed to encapsulate my entire life. (minus the execution with a very hot and experienced best friend).

buwygf-ib by @hholyholland just ignore tomdaya for a sec and take in the hottest dom!tom i’ve ever witnessed.

cocky by @sykoxartist yeah he’s an asshole but he’s your asshole. at least that’s what he thinks.

sovereign by @farfromparker sub!tom is so hot. man will beg for DAYS.

summer vacation by @kidney9-9  when is hate sex ever like…. not hot as fuck?

ride by @tomhollandsstan face riding. period.

coincidence by @starshinebucky actor!reader and tom fuck… at least they’ll have good chemistry next time.

skin by @hollandbaby dom!tom is not ok with being a sub. unless it’s for you.

you can bet on it by @kiwi-bitchez all of this writers smut makes my pussy throb. this is my fave. just wait for the twist.

a rose blooms by @cornacopicimagines prince!tom drives me wild. but wait til he finds out you’re not a virgin.

begging by @raewritesfiction tom makes you beg for it.

self reflection by @stuckonspidey this is actual proof tom has a praise kink.

minor inconvenience by @angel-spidey toms an idiot but at least he can get you off.

flesh by @starshinebucky cocky tom kills me.

keeping him nice and warm by @marvelouspeterparker mob!tom the gif itself to sends me.

after hours by @cornacopicimagines never had sexual tension with a teacher but this will do.

ANGST

josslyn by @multiharlot messy situation but reader handles it like a champ. if your heart isn’t broken enough, the last line will make sure it’s unfixable for days on end.  

moral of the story by @kelieah listen to the song while you’re at it to make your cry sesh take a turn for the worst. 

cherry by @xoluvx this one hurts real bad. so does the song. 

a complicated love story by @samhollandssweaters an emotional rollercoaster for real.

he dies in the end by @allfandomxreader ignore the title and just cry your eyes out with me.

eighteen by @fancyxholland you’ll be confused why it’s in the angst category but trust me.

all the lies by @peteywillproceed getting cheated on but the girl is toms gf, how do you tell him. 

memories by @nycparkers i sob to this whenever i need a good cry. 

don’t be a fool by @nycparkers breakups that dont end messily make me so fucking jealous.

FLUFF

kiss currency by @madmadmilk borderline smut. confused and oblivious harrison. dialogue inspires me to talk to males.  

plank all over me by @waitimcomingtoo FILRTY TOM! THE BANTER! i really am a whore for well written dialogue. there’s additional parts but i won’t spoil.

 playing cupid by @marvelobsessedteenager you set everyone else up but wait a damn minute how did you forget about tom?

 little flirt by @webslinger-holland oh to flirt with tom while he’s sweaty from intensely dancing for the lip sync battle.

pour it out by @rhapsodyparker i don’t know what it is but famous!reader going on talk shows or having interviews and they ask the reader cheeky questions about tom might be one of my many kinks…

hubby by @t-holland2080 it’s the small things that make me want to bawl my eyes out for being so lonely.

going live by @redrebecca the dialogue makes me cry of happiness! tom doing a live (what a concept).

paddy’s crush by @tom-holland-is-spiderman jealous tom but of his younger brother.

 wannabe by @sailingintothenight the cliffhanger at the end demands a second part.

flawless by @missnxthingg  tom is a simp.

you and me by @sunshinehollandd best friend tom makes me soft.

dick appointments. web shooters. the duality of a man. by @porterporker  it gets a lil steamy but man is “web shooter” a funny name for a dick.

best day by @thollandss dad!tom gives me baby fever even though i am a virg.

 tom asks your dad by @blissfulparker can i just skip through the bad boyfriends and just marry the love of my life already.

baked chicken by @waitimcomingtoo there isn’t a category for awkward but if there was this would be in it.

lover boy by @starshinebucky  tom being so oblivious you like him that you need to call for backup.

afterglow by @wickedholland i wish someone would treat me like this when im drunk instead of leaving me to hold my own hair back.