#needle witch flash

[the-needle-witch]

FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH

! ! !

[vibrantgutz]

[kimberly-spirits13]

Back From Hell

Pairing: Dean Winchester x witch!reader

Warnings: Details of hell, the silver knife test, shower together but nothing NSFW, angst, fluff with hint of angst at the end

Summary: After you sacrafice yourself to save humanity from demons trying to harness your powers, you die and go to hell, only to be ressurected. In the aftermath, the first thing you do is find Dean.

Word Count: 3156

 Heat, blistering heat hit your face and suffocated your lungs. The hair on your face singed off and you felt your skin peel in flakes off your body and the sounds of screams deafen your ears. Something pierced your body, feeling like thousands of needles scratching blood from your flesh the moment it returned, and the singeing of your body started over once more. The squeal of a heavy iron door shrieked through wherever you were, and a tall, dark figure entered. 

                  In a low guttural tone it spoke, “Had enough yet, witch?” 

                  You didn’t answer, closing your eyes and ignoring the figure.

                  “Speak!” He raised his hand and a large blade thrust through your stomach and back out again.

                  You screamed in agony, spitting blood onto what seemed to be the floor, “I thought” you gasped for air, “I thought you hadn’t even started with me yet.” 

                  The creature smiled and pulled out a large iron, lit flaming orange from heat. With slow, long strides, it approached you, running a long-clawed finger over the heated metal. 

                  “Well, in that case, I’d like to see how you feel about your spells now, witch.”

                  In a swift movement, he pressed the burning iron into your skin and began writing in ancient script. You wailed curses in pain as the scorching end of the metal carved into you. 

                  In a matter-of-fact tone, you heard his voice start again and the singe of the metal into your skin pause, “You could join us and make all this stop. Indeed, your magic would be of great value to us.” “Think about it, witch. You’d never endure this again. All for a simple commitment.”

                  “Fuck you.” You spat blood at the form.

                  A low chuckle emitted from the being, “It’s a shame really.” 

                  He pierced your side again, “You’d do so well.” 

                  The torture continued for what could have been hours, days, or weeks longer before you were left alone once again to suffer the same eternal cycle of struggle. You knew time was passing because the routine would stop and start over. It played on and on in the same loop as a broken record, bound to never be shut off. After every 1000 cycles of time, the figure would come in again, usually with a different introduction, but always with the same request. You had died sacrificing yourself to kill a line of demons rampaging through the human world. Using the last of your strength and the legendary magic you possessed, you died after destroying them. Now you were stuck here, in an endless loop of dread. 

                  The day you got out was no different. You awoke with the same terror drowning your senses and making breathing almost impossible. Volcanic heat violently erupted against your skin and began to suffocate you again. The heat was unbearable and boiling tears swept down your face and into your ears. You cried and screamed against the pain and began counting down the cycle repeats until you endured whatever form of torture hell created today. Around the 200th sequence you started hearing unfamiliar noises in the distance. Your stomach churned thinking it was some new creative device to instill pain on a new level. The shrill scream of the metal chamber door opening came early this time and you looked up to see what it was. A tall bright figure stood at the doorway and confidently walked towards you. In the flash of an eye, you felt yourself being picked up and carried away.

                  “Whatever this is,” you mumbled, “I won’t join you.” 

                  A strong, calm voice answered you, “Be calm, this is your deliverance.”

                  “What are you on about?” You looked towards what you thought would be the face, dazed and confused. The landscape around you seemed hazy and you didn’t understand what was going on.

                  “You maintained proper loyalties. This is your reward.” The voice came again, “Now sleep.” 

                  When you awoke again, you awoke in a dark airtight room. You gasped for air but found little. Feeling around, your finger was pricked by the splinter of wood, and you began to understand where you were. 

                  “That’s right.” You thought, “I died. Am I alive? How do I get out?” 

                  With little air left to breathe, you muttered your spell in Latin, “let me out”

                  Violently, with sudden force, the ground around you began to shake and become disrupted. All around you, the wood disintegrated into ash and the ground piled into heaps around the grave. A gust of spinning wind lifted you and released you with a thud onto the grass next to your burial site. You gasped for air, clawing at the ground and squinting to see from the sudden change in light. Your head pounded as you laid there reeling from what had just occurred. 

                  When some of your strength had returned, you sat up and looked around. There was a headstone with your name carved roughly into the stone and the remains of old flower stems strewn about. You wanted to scream for someone, but you knew no one would answer. You wanted Dean, but you knew he wasn’t here. There was no telling how much time had passed since you died and now, but you knew you had to get to civilization. Out in the distance, you heard cattle and followed the sound. Your legs were shaky and uneasy on the ground for the first time since who knows when. Feeling came back to your feet, and you started towards what you thought was life. 

                  After some time, walking through thick woods, you came out into a clearing with a gravel road running around the edge of the tree line. You walked down the road and past the cattle, listening for any sort of engine or signs of humanity. Once you had walked about twenty minutes or so, you came upon a small gas station on the outskirts of a little town, complete with a few run-down cars in the front lawn piled together as some sort of decoration. 

                  A bell dinged when you opened the door and a kind looking man looked up from his newspaper at the counter. You looked at the date and nearly doubled over. It had been exactly a year since you died. For a year, you had been enduring the torture of hell. There was no telling where Sam and Dean were at this point. 

                  “Everything alright dear?” He asked, a concerned look glazing over his face.

                  “Oh, I’m alright.” You answered with a small smile, “Where are we? My car was stolen from me while I was camping.”

                  The man gave you your location as some small town in South Dakota that you didn’t really catch and then started asking questions about the assailment and if you needed medical attention or the police.

                  “I’m fine, thank you. It was a beat-up thing, nothing special. How far are we from Sioux Falls?” 

                  “I’d say we’re about an hour’s drive. A bus comes through here heading towards there in about fifteen minutes if you want to catch it. The next one comes in the morning.”

                  “That’s great. Thank you.” “Do you have a bathroom?”

                  The man happily pointed towards it, “Of course. Down that little hall and to the left.”

                  Once you were in the bathroom you locked the door and threw up. There was nothing being spit out but for the feeling of adrenaline you had knowing how long it’s been and not knowing where anyone was. A few moments passed and you pulled yourself together and collected your thoughts.

                  You scoffed at yourself silently, “I don’t need a bus to take me to Dean. I just need a simple spell.”

                  With the same confidence you held so many times before, you recited your incantation and watched on as you were pinpointed to his direct location. The small bathroom you were in became Bobby’s study room. Sitting at the wooden table, you saw Dean hunched over an old leather-bound book with stacks of others piled high around him. Heavy purple bags hung under his eyes as he read. You couldn’t tell what he was reading about, but you had your guesses. Suddenly, Dean looked up, and turned to face your general direction. He huffed and returned to his book. This hadn’t happened before. 

                  You heard him mumble, “Nothing’s watching you stupid, you’re just tired.”

                  Silently, you headed outside of the bathroom and began for the door.

                  “I’ll just wait outside for the bus, thank you!” You waved.

                  “That’s alright. Have a good one.” 

                  Bus or no bus, you weren’t waiting. You ran behind the building where you were sure no one could see you and began another spell, this one to take you to Bobby’s house. A strong gust of wind blew around you and dust kicked up causing you to close your eyes. Your feet lifted off the ground and the next thing you knew, you were being knocked back onto the ground with force. You groaned, rolling over on the ground and slowly picked yourself back up. You hadn’t been this tired in a long time and you didn’t think the sudden use of so much magic was helping either. 

                  Wordlessly, you walked towards the front door. No one would believe that it was you, especially not Bobby. On the porch you questioned how you’d enter. “Surprise, I’m alive” didn’t seem like the best option, but there didn’t seem to be a better route. You put your hand on the knob of the door and beckoned it to unlock. The click under your fingers signified the effectiveness of your deed and you silently walked inside. Closing the door behind you, you listened for noise. You heard the familiar creaking of the kitchen floor and silently crept through.

                  You peered into the room, not seeing anyone, but sensing that someone must be there.

                  Almost whispering, you said aloud, “Dean?” “Bobby?” “Sammy?” 

                  The moment you stepped inside, a strong arm wrapped around your body and the cool touch of a blade’s edge rested on your neck.

                  Dean’s voice, laced with fury and hate filled the room, “What the fuck are you?” 

                  “Dean it’s me. It’s me! I don’t know why, but it’s me!” Your hands clawed at his arm, trying to get him off you. 

                  “I don’t believe you.” “It was you watching earlier, wasn’t it?” 

                  Before you could answer, you heard running coming from some other part of the house, into the kitchen where you were, “Dean what’s wrong?” 

                  Bobby came in wielding his gun and aimed it at you, “Who the hell are you?” He roared.

                  “Don’t shoot!” You yelled, “I’m Y/N, I’m telling you! Do the tests! Do it!” 

                  Dean’s grip loosened just enough at the offer so that you could disarm and throw him over you. You knew Bobby was trained on you now and you had to be quick. From in front of you, Dean came swinging with the knife he had just picked up, making you duck and jump out of the way. 

                  “I’m telling you the truth!” You swore loudly, “I’m not some demon, Dean.” “Bobby, put that down!”

                  “Like hell you are.” Bobby spat at you.

                  From where he was, Bobby threw a pitcher of holy water at you, waiting for you to ignite somehow. 

                  You spat the water out of your mouth and blinked hard, moving from Dean’s aim as you did. With a shriek, you slipped across the wet floor and into the counter with a thud. Your hip would be bruised after that. 

                  “Dean, hold the fort, I’m getting the flames!” Bobby ran out of the room and left you and Dean alone.             

                  Seeing you vulnerable, Dean jumped onto you, trying to slash at whatever he could before you threw him off you again, cringing a bit when he hit the ground and got right back up to swing once more. 

                  “Dean-” You were exasperated, “That’s enough!” 

                  You threw your arms out and light pulsated from your fingertips. Everything froze in the room where it was, unable to move. Bobby came running back in and before he could make it inside, you sealed off the entrances to the kitchen with a clear wall. His screams for Dean could be heard from the barrier you made. He could see everything happening but couldn’t do anything. 

                  “Give me this!” You took the silver knife from Dean’s hand and stood in front of him, your eyes welling up after getting your first good look at him in months.

                  He looked worse in person. His eyes were red and heavy bags sagged his skin. His undereye was stained purple and a small stubble had grown out. It looked like he’d been wearing the same clothes for more than a day now, and sleep was nowhere to be seen from him.

                  You sighed and dragged the knife across your forearm, “If I were some monster, I couldn’t do this.” 

                  Blood spilled from the spot you dragged the blade over and you softly gasped in pain, squeezing the area once you knew Dean had seen it. 

                  With desperation, you looked at Dean, “Good enough?” 

                  While he was still frozen in place, tears streamed down his cheeks and you released him from the hold, still maintaining the walls to keep Bobby out. You wanted to see him, but you needed Dean first. 

                  Dean released from his frozen state, throwing himself forward at you and pulling you to your knees. He wept as his body shook, arms wrapping in a death grip around you. You cried too, not minding the blood that was now dripping onto the floor. Dean pulled back after a few moments and looked you over. His hands went from being tangled in your hair to wiping the tears off your face and dragging his fingers along your jawline.

                  “It’s really me Dean.” You cried, “I told you I’d always come back to you.”

                  “I tried to find you.” He sobbed, “I promise, I tried to find you.”

                  You raked your fingers through his hair, “You’re okay Dean. You did a good job.” 

                  “Sammy. He left a little while ago to get food.” Dean started rattling things off out of pure shock, telling you about things you hadn’t asked him for, gauging your every reaction to see if you were real. 

                  “Y/N!” You heard Bobby call from the other room, “Let me in damn it!” 

                  The boarder dropped between the kitchen and hall, and he came barreling in, scooping you up into a bear hug and wiping away his tears.

                  “We haven’t stopped looking for a way to get you back since you died.” He said, “It’s not been the same.” 

                  You talked for a second before turning back to Dean who grabbed you once again, not letting you go this time. The two of you stood there forever, basking in each other’s presence. There was little to say but for the occasional “I love you” and “I missed you”. Sam had come back and fondly dropped all the dinner he had just picked up in shock. 

                  Hours came and passed, and the day turned into night. You were disgusting from being in a casket from a year and smelled like dirt and grime. Dean hadn’t left your side all day and wasn’t planning on it anytime soon.

                  You mumbled against his chest “I need a shower.” The two of you were laying on the sofa in silence. 

                  Dean sighed and pulled the two of you off the couch, wordlessly walking you upstairs into the room he was staying in and shutting the door behind him. He kept constant watch over you to make sure you were still there. No matter what you were doing, he was there. It was impossible to do anything alone, even use the bathroom. Dean was convinced you’d slip away, and he’d never see you again. The sound of the shower’s running water pulled you out of your thoughts. Sincere green eyes looked in yours as he hooked his fingers around the hem of your shirt.

                  “You’re fine.” You said softly.

                  With permission to proceed, Dean pulled your remaining clothes off and did the same for himself, guiding the two of you under the hot stream of water. You flinched feeling the water for the first time in what felt like 100 years, startling Dean.

                  He searched for an obvious indicator of what was wrong, “Are you okay?” 

                  “I’m fine.” You answered, “Just not used to this.” 

                  Dean nodded, “tell me if you get uncomfortable.” 

                  From the corner of the shower, Dean grabbed a bottle of your shampoo and lathered it in his hands after you had washed the dirt off your body.

                  “You kept that?” You asked astonished, tears welling up again.

                  “Smells like you. I couldn’t get rid of it.” “The day I got rid of it was the day I accepted that you were gone.” 

                  Dean held you close to him and washed your hair as warm tears streamed down your face. You sniffled and Dean looked at you again, wrapping you in a warm embrace and letting his own tears flow.

                  “I didn’t know what to do without you.” He said honestly, “I can’t function without you.”

                  “I’m sorry Dean.” You said into his shoulder, “I never wanted to leave you.” “I had to.”

                  “I know. It’s our job.” He sniffled, “You did a good thing.” “Let’s just not do it again.”

                  “Agreed.” You chuckled, feeling the last of the conditioner he had run through your hair rinse out.

                  The two of you dried off and changed. He gave you a set of sweatpants and one of his t shirts you always liked to wear. Wordlessly, the two of you fell onto the bed and held each other closely. His breath fanned against your skin in a warm sweep.

                  “Hey. Look at me.” He said, his fingers resting under your chin and pulling you to look at him, “Are you okay?”

                  You hadn’t thought about this yet, only being concerned that you were breathing and with Dean. The flashes of what you currently remembered from hell blipped against your memory and the spaced look you gave Dean told him what he needed to know before you said it.

                  “No.” you answered calmly, “But I know I will be.” 

                  Dean looked at you and spoke sternly but softly, “Don’t hide anything from me. If you have a nightmare, wake me up. If you start feeling all weird about it tell me. I love you Y/N. I don’t want you to hurt.” 

                  “I promise.” You answered, “I love you two.”                  It was a little while before you felt yourself drifting to sleep, but after a while you managed to. You’d deal with the nightmares and daydreams about hell later. For now, all that mattered was that you were back where you belonged. You were back with Dean.

[stxrborne]

PRECISION

|| Feitan x neutral! Reader ||

|| dt to @after-witch @ddarker-dreams @depravitycentral for inspiring me to finally get off my ass and write, and also for their amazing works ofc! check them out! ||

It’s ironic, Feitan thinks, to sew up the wounds of his victims. But they can’t die just yet.

His thin, long fingers push the needle through the victims skin of their inner thigh, and he gives out a light scoff in mockery when they whimper. Little rich boy can’t handle a little pain? He hates these rich types that think they can pull one over on the troupe. They were fun to interrogate, they always worked up his temper where taking it out on them was something he looked forward to. Due punishment, not only for their bratty, pretentious attitude, but their lucky pull in birth circumstances. Feitan acts as their comeuppance.

He’ll give it to this victim, however, still holding on to the information despite it all. Usually his male victims would start spilling whatever they knew when Feitan picked up a hammer and pushed their thighs apart. But here his victim was, crying and whimpering, and now a eunuch, and still not speaking.

Feitan finishes his stitches with a clean knot, and sets the needle and thread aside on his medical tool tables. He likes to pride himself in his efficiency and perfection. After all, torture required just as much knowledge of the human body as a surgeon. The image of Feitan as a doctor, in a different life, flashed in his mind and he laughed aloud. Maybe. Maybe if he was born lucky. Maybe if he didn’t have to learn surgery and amputations from the cruelty of his home.

After all, doctors can’t save everyone. And he didn’t see the point in willingly putting that responsibility and burden on yourself. Especially for ungrateful rich brats.

No, it was much easier to take life than to protect it. Much more fulfilling too. Other people aren’t your responsibility.

How funny though, Feitan thought. To now have something to willingly burden yourself with.

His ears pricked up to his victim shuffling in his chains, and he turned to them. The man wasn’t remarkable, only one person really was in Feitan’s eyes. The only thing noticeable now was the man’s family crest Feitan had carved on the skin above his heart.

How can you claim to belong to something, if you can’t even mark yourself with it? When you die, how will people know where you belonged to?

Feitan takes the man’s face in between his hand, and moves his head around to inspect his work. He debated between leaving the cut next to eye, dropping a few drops of an infectious bacteria into it so the eye would eventually eat itself. It’d take about a week, and then another for the infection to spread to the rest of the body.

Feitan couldn’t help but smile at the image. He gripped his victims face with his nails, and told him so.

“It’d be funny to see you swell up with blood and pus. I wonder if you’d get fat like an ugly cyst, but you already don’t look all that different from one.”

He let him go unceremoniously, and watched as his head fell forward. Feitan will grant him the mercy of sleep. After all, a dog will still endure abuse if you feed it often enough.

“Feitan?”

He heard you before you reached the basement door of course. He knew where you were in the house at all times after all.

You knew you weren’t allowed to open the door. If you needed him, just knock or call his name. You think it’s because he’d have to kill you if you saw what he was doing.

He knows that, and thinks you’re silly. He wipes his bloodied hands with a clean cloth as he walks to the door. His eyes meet yours when he opens the door, and his gaze doesn’t leave yours as he closes it. You don’t even know what color the walls of the basement are.

Feitan looks you over, with the same precision he gives to everything. You’ve been picking at your hangnails again and for some reason you didn’t bother bandaging your thumb, where you had ripped and tore at the skin enough for it to bleed. Another thing is that you’re wearing nothing but a towel, which means one thing.

“I want to take a bath,” you say, your clasped hands nervously squeezing themselves. It was another thing you weren’t allowed to do on your own. You didn’t understand why, and you didn’t understand why he did the things he did. He’d set the water the way you like it, even though you don’t remember telling him. He scents it with fragrances and oils that you can tell are expensive, in your favorite scents too. He helps you in and then holds out your towel so he doesn’t see your naked body, and he swiftly turns and closes the curtain. He does the same when you’re ready to come out.

He has a chair he sits on, quietly and unmoving as he watches your silhouette. Maybe it’s a kink or fetish of some kind, you think. It had taken you a while to get use to. But something tells you it wasn’t that exactly. One time you had slipped when washing your body, and before you could fully gasp out in surprise, you were in his arms with his face to the side.

He didn’t act the way you expected a kidnapper would. But it still didn’t explain why you were here at all.

Feitan nods at you, and you lead the way. You’ve learned he preferred to be your second shadow than to be your leading light.

Your large bathroom was attached to your equally large room. Funny how you’ve started to refer to them as ‘yours’. It’s difficult not to, when he is somehow able to let you decorate it the way you want. Feitan does that often, you’ve found. No matter how expensive your request, and you have tested that, he will get it for you. You’re scared to ask how.

He begins his routine when you both step into the bathroom. He gets the water to the temperature you like and let the bath tub fill. The sound of the tub jets fill the air, and you watch as he drips expensive oils into the water. His movements are methodical, and somehow he’s figured out the ratio of water to oil that’s right for your skin.

Feitan doesn’t dare mix the water with his hand.

Your nose is soon filled with the scent, and you feel your tense shoulders slowly let go and relax. He’s watching you, you know that. He stops the faucet when the tub fills up, and you walk up the small steps and stand in front of him.

A part of you is always tempted to touch. His pale skin is smooth and such a contrast to his dark hair. This close, you can see just a hint of green in his black eyes, the way they don’t seem to blink. You wonder if he is even human.

You nod softly and he moves behind you. You can’t even feel his presence, hear his breath, and you slightly jump when he reaches to gently clasp the small fold that holds your towel up.

Feitan waits until you calm again to continue. He never touches you directly, not even a stray touch from any finger. He takes off your towel and spreads it as a barrier between you and him.

But then you do something that has his heart beating and stopping erratically. His breath catches in his throat, your gaze turning to him and he feels trapped beneath it. How do you not know how much power you have over him?

His eyes instantly move to the way you nervously bite at your lip. Somehow he can know everything about you, how you think, how you word those thoughts, and yet now, he can’t believe what he thinks you’re going to say.

“…help me?” You say slowly, so quietly that a normal person wouldn’t have heard you.

But you know he did. And you don’t drop your eyes from him.

Feitan, in return, lets the towel drop.

[houserautha]

These Destined Ends

Part Thirteen

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: poorly timed erections, humiliation kink, cockwarming, you spit in his mouth, unprotected sex, unnecessary angst

Summary: I’m not super happy with this chapter. I wanted to go into detail with the Gom Jabbar scene but I couldn’t get any words out😂 so I skipped ahead to the smut part I wanted to write. Big things happening next chapter👀

The doors to the study burst open.

You look up from your spot nearby. Patience was not your strong suit, and you had grown bored while waiting for the Reverend Mother to administer the Gom Jabbar. Confusion flickers through you as you quickly assess the Reverend Mother's hastened steps.

"How did it go?" You ask, craning your neck to see into the study. Though you hardly thought Feyd would actually succumb to the test, it still worried you, and you feared you would see his body slumped on the floor.

"Never in my life," the Reverend Mother mutters. She stops in front of you. "The na-Baron is human, it seems, but not a man. Not like any that I've ever known."

You blink stupidly, her form retreating before you can even inquire about what she meant. She had been insistent that you weren't in the room with them and clearly she did not want to recall what you missed. She didn't even adhere to her usual courtesies of formal manners, scurrying away without even a backward glance.

Curiosity grows like a vine, winding up around you and inspiring you to creep into the study, unsure about what to expect. "Feyd?"

Your gaze sweeps the room. There's no jumble of limbs to suggest that he perished under the Gom Jabbar, which alleviates your fears slightly.

Finally you spot him, reclined in one of the plush chairs that had been pushed aside to make room for the assessment. Afternoon shadows cast him in a strange light, mostly hidden except for the faintest outline of his body.

"Feyd? What is she talking about?" You cross the room to him.

"That witch's test had...unexpected results."

"But you passed it?"

"Would I be here if I didn't?" He asks.

"No." You allow your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, so different from outside of the study where you had waited. "What —?"

The words die in your throat.

Feyd sits, infuriatingly regal, in the chair, legs spread wide and arms draped on either side of the curved back. You notice for the first time his very obvious erection, straining against his pants and sufficiently flushing you with a perverse mixture of desire and shame.

"Feyd-Rautha," you gasp out, baffled.

"She thought she could deter me with pain, but clearly she is not as intelligent as she believes."

You hiss back, "You are abhorrent."

"Perhaps." He inclines his chin. "Show me."

His words pull behind your navel, the familiar tugging answer to his call. An image of Feyd, poison needle to his neck, deriving pleasure from the box entrapping his hand, flashes through your mind. No wonder the Reverend Mother was so horrified. It brings the slightest of grins to your face, and a subsequent wave of affection for the twisted, beautiful man before you.

"Show you what?" You ask coyly.

His voice is silk, red wine, life's greatest pleasures gliding over your skin. "Just how abhorrent you find me."

You close the space between you. Feyd keeps his gaze trained on you as you insert yourself between his legs, leaning down to work the fasten of his pants. Cock liberated, it springs up, red and  pulsing. It invokes a low, savage growl from him when you pointedly ignore his hardened length in favor of your own wanton needs, gathering your skirts in one hand while dipping the other down to your cunt. His cock twitches in response.

"So abhorrent that I don't know if you deserve this pussy," you murmur to him. "You disgust me. Why would I even want to fuck you?"

Feyd's jaw clenches and he wraps his fist at the base of his cock. "Shit."

Emboldened, you keep the steady rhythm of your own self-pleasure, sneering at your husband.

"People have perished under the Gom Jabbar and yet it arouses you, the unspeakable pain enticing your cock. You should be ashamed of yourself." Feyd gasps out, stroking himself. There's a dark intensity in his eyes. You realize that he craves this from you, needs to hear you flay him with your tongue. "Look how hard you are. You're pathetic."

His head rolls back, exposing the pale column of his throat. Your fingers hitch and you inhale at the sight of him like this. Wound tight with want, you remove your hand and climb into his lap. Feyd is only too eager to accommodate you, pushing his hips up in an effort to drive his cock into you, hands grabbing for your waist.

"Don't touch me," you snarl at him, swatting him away. Feyd whimpers. "You think I want your hands on me after what you did?"

A keening sound splits the room as you slip the swollen head of his cock between your folds, a display of his frustration — you keep still, refusing to provide the friction that he is so desperate for. He fills you thoroughly, stretching you until you feel you might burst, and you have to fight the urge to roll your hips against his.

"Don't do this," he snarls at you.

"What? Punish you? You practically asked for it, dear husband."

You sit on his cock, unmoving. He stares back at you with contempt, fingers digging into the arms of the chair. When he looks at you like this, like you are some unobtainable treasure, you might as well be seated on a throne. And, you suppose, it is an honor to have him buried to the hilt in your cunt, this man who has searched for pleasure in others, in violence, and now clings to you like none of it compares.

"Please," Feyd breathes out.

"Don't talk to me," you snap, shifting your hips just the slightest bit. His eyes flash. "But since you're so eager to use your mouth."

You grab hold of his jaw, squeezing tightly as you pull him closer. Despite the roughness of your grasp, it might as well be a caress, Feyd's cock flinching in response.

"Open," you instruct him, though it doesn't matter. With force, you pry apart his lips and slip your thumb inside his mouth, pressing down on his tongue and holding him in place.

It's an intoxicating experience — his hardened member resting in your cunt, his face in your hand, the pleading in his eyes as he gazes up at you. Power was addictive. You thought yourself above it, once. But all it took was the right person to hold it over.

Spittle sprays his face as you spit in his mouth.

Feyd's throat bobs. If it's possible, you swear you feel him grow harder inside you. "Close, but don't swallow," you murmur to him, revoking your thumb. Feyd obeys. At this point he's trembling with want and frustration. You remove your grip on his jaw but he keeps it lofted in the air; with more fondness than you care, you wipe the spittle from his face, the pads of your fingers swiping over the bannister of his cheekbones, his eyelids.

Finally you whisper, "You disgust me." Leaning back on your heels, you indicate for him to swallow, which he does. A smile curves your mouth. "You should be fucking grateful that I pity you. Grovel. Tell me why you deserve this."

"I don't," Feyd gasps. "I don't. I don't."

"Is that all you know how to say?" You sneer at him.

He shakes his head, desperation crossing his features. "No. I—I don't deserve you but that's..." he trails off, the words sticking in his throat like he can't quite work them out, "that's exactly why I need you."

To express your approval, you grind your hips against him. Feyd whimpers. His admission pleases you, injects you with a fervency that lifts you up on his cock and then back down. Feyd's thighs clench beneath you as you persist with the movement, steadying yourself by reaching behind him and grabbing the chair, and expletives falling from his mouth as you do.

"That's right you fucking need me," you hiss to him. You quicken your pace.

In retrospect, you should've milked the moment for all it was worth, but Feyd was already on the edge and you weren't far behind; his eyes roll back in his head as he comes, and you clamp around him, seeking your own finish. His cock softens in you. You do your best not to let any cum escape from between your thighs, vaguely grateful that its consistency is thick and doesn't normally demand much cleanup.

Smoothing the wrinkles from your dress, you ask him, "Tell me you got it."

Eyes half-lidded, Feyd gestures to the side of the chair. The Gom Jabbar rests, glinting in the dim lighting. Your gaze cuts to him.

"You didn't ask," he says, reading your mind.

"You didn't tell me it was right there?" You bark at him, bewildered. "I could've —"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I wouldn't have let you."

You hesitate, knowing that he's right. Anger drains from you then, replaced with curiosity, and you wait for him to tuck himself back into his pants. Feyd rises to his feet.

"She didn't notice?"

"She was...distracted," Feyd says.

"And you replaced it."

"Yes."

"Good." Your gaze roams his face. "I must say I’m relieved you’re alive.”

Feyd lets out a laugh, deep and rasping. “I never thought I would hear those words from you.”

“Hopefully you don’t think less of me for it.”

“Nothing could make me think less of you,” he murmurs, then grins. “Though I might send a physician to check you for fever.”

You can’t help but laugh at this and you gently push his chest. Feyd captures your hands there, though, holding you close to him. You jest, “You’re lucky that I love you.”

Feyd’s expression shutters. Horror yawns in you, an all-consuming mouth threatening to swallow you whole. Why did you say that?

“Feyd, I —”

He takes a step away from you, dropping your hands. Even though he’s only a few inches away, a chasm might as well have opened between you. Feyd grabs the Gom Jabbar. “This needs to be taken care of.”

He brushes past you and, paralyzed with panic and disbelief, you let him.

Hours turn into days, which turn into weeks. A month. The longest glimpse you have of your husband is in passing; conveniently, a smuggler operation was uncovered the day after the Gom Jabbar, which demanded the full attention of the na-Baron. Feyd immersed himself in dismantling the enterprise. You, on the other hand, were left to the simple task of “carrying out your duty” — which, to your best understanding, meant to conceive the Kwisatz Haderach — an impossible task considering your husband refused to look at you.

You spent most of your days in your parents’ study, rifling through whatever documents were salvageable from Rabban’s raid. Most of them were meaningless to you, stocks of supplies and financial reports. But at least they kept your mind from drifting.

You’re in the study when the door opens and Feyd-Rautha steps inside, as solemn and impassive as he’s been ever since that day. Seeing him like this, so close and without distractions, pierces you like a dagger. The worst part of this whole ordeal is the fact that you missed him.

You missed his unwavering confidence, the flow of your banter, the slightest changes in his expression that only time had revealed their meaning. And, infuriatingly, you missed the sex. Missed the sear of his hands on your body, his cock in your cunt. You prayed to whoever would listen that he couldn’t see this on your face.

It definitely wouldn’t help your case after telling him that you loved him.

“The smugglers have been neutralized,” Feyd says first, breaking the silence.

You dip your chin. “I assumed they would be.”

“To celebrate this feat the Baron has requested that we host a feast with our allies, and to showcase our new rule over Arrakis.”

“Ah,” you reply. You wanted this to happen as part of your plan, but you weren’t sure what it meant now that you weren’t on speaking terms. You pause, waiting for Feyd to offer some sort of hint, but he just continues his blank stare.

Even when you first met, when you swore that he was the most wretched creature to exist, he did not treat you like this. Like you were nothing.

Courage thrums through you like a second heartbeat. “And what will your uncle, our allies, think when the na-Baron won’t even spare a glance to his wife?”

“I don’t care what they think.”

“You used to care what I thought,” you whisper back to him. Your throat works. It’s the first time you’ve uttered what you’ve been thinking. “And now you won’t even look at me, which is a punishment unlike any I’ve known.”

If it’s possible, Feyd stills even more. There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes but it’s gone before you can name it, like the glint of a fish on the surface before disappearing into the depths.

He rasps, “You don’t understand.”

“No, Feyd, I don’t understand, because you’ve been fucking avoiding me,” you growl. “So why don’t you enlighten me?”

His jaw clenches. “This isn’t the time.”

“If it’s up to you, it will never be.” You stand and cross your arms. “Just tell me. Then we can fuck until you get me pregnant and we’ll never have to speak to each other again.”

Feyd just stares evenly at you. You think that he might never speak but when he does, his voice is so low you can barely hear it. “This isn’t…this isn’t because I don’t…reciprocate…your feelings.”

He chokes out each word. Still your heart flutters traitorously.

“If what you said is true, then I am a liability to you. I am not meant for…I just wanted to give you time to think,” he finishes awkwardly. “Love is a weakness. It’s messy. It complicates things.”

“If you haven’t noticed, everything about us is complicated,” you reply, laughing bitterly. You feel your features soften. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“You’re wrong to love me, jewel.” He steps towards you, and you realize that there’s a startling vulnerability to his face, nearly childlike in its sincerity. A boy pleading for the care that he never received. “I will only hurt you.”

A wistful smile tugs at your mouth. “You’ve hurt me many times already, and yet I’m still here.”

“You’re a fool.”

“I know.” This time you’re the one to inch closer, bridging the gap between you. You can hear Feyd’s breath hitch. “Don’t hide from me. I cannot bear it.”

Feyd nods, once, almost imperceptibly. “Fine.”

You can’t help it — you reach out and straighten his collar, graze your fingers over his skin. He inhales sharply and it’s in that moment that you realize his avoidant behavior has been just as punishing for him, a matter of self-preservation.

“I will tear off your balls and use them to store my jewelry if you ever do something like that again,” you tell him. Amusement crosses his face, on the tail of his obvious relief.

“Mm, careful, I’d risk anything if it meant you would touch me.”

Part 14

Taglist:

@moonsoulk @heartarianagran @torchbearerkyle @unicoreads @taleah @mamawiggers1980 @jovialeggsbailiffsoul @harkonnin @avidreader73 @unicorntrooper @beebeechaos @kamcrazy123 @wo-ming-bai @m-indkiller @kpopnstarwars @dacreshoney @stopeatread @the-na-baroness @therealslimshady-1 @unnisumi @aoi-targaryen

[heartfullofleeches]

Man imagine bustomer walking in and just seeing a bigass human monster long arm legged cat with a zipper??? Just staring.

Customer: *pays for item and rudely hands the money*

Lynel: *whispers behind them menacingly* …Say keep the change.

Customer: *shits their pants and on the brink of tears* mommy…

Lynlas tricks/enjoys messing with customers by pretending to be a statue propped up in Witch Reader's lobby/living room. In a normal household, a cat human creature held together by zippers may seem like an outlandish choice for decoration, but it feels right at home in the witch's possession.

-

"What a peculiar figurine...."

Aged fingers map the teeth of the zipper scaling the length of the statues face. They trail to its mouth, curled in a wide grin - unsurprised by the give of its teeth given the zipper's impression of there being something else underneath. The illuminated iris of its singular visible eye pokes through the shroud of darkness that is its sciera. Curiosity blossoms a new as attention is directed towards their right eye. A tab dangles from the sealed lid - small, hole circle scars in the skin indicating some of of former injury. The point of a needle, perhaps?

"Pardon me...."

The collector stiffens- Entering from the kitchen, floorboard's creak with each tap of your advancing steps. Standing before the older gentleman, you present him with the cup of tea requested from your lists of refreshments for guests. A smile dawns your face, yet it does not reach your eyes- They point away from the man, knowing and calculating. The watchful gaze of someone waiting for another to misbehave.

"Do you like them? Lynlas has been with me for some time now. They are the best companion one in my line of work could ask for."

The name of the figure lingers on the collector's tongue. "Lynlas....I beg you- I'll pay ten - twenty times more than what I came here for. It would be a marvelous addition to my collection."

Your face tightens, smile shrinking into something akin to a grimace. "I'm afraid they are not for sale."

You stumble - grounding a foot backwards as his hands perch onto your shoulders.

"Money is not an issue for me. Name your price, I insist!"

Your eyes once again dart towards the figure - a flicker of panic flashing over your otherwise relaxed expression. "Sir, please refrain from putting your hands on me. They do not want you-"

"Surely you can bare to part with it! You can fill your home with similar novelties with the money you'll gain-"

"Agh!"

Scolding white pain shoots through your hands, bleeding down your arms as scorching liquid seeps into the sleeves of your shirt. The tea cup crashes to the floor with a loud crack - your body falling to its knees along with it. The agony is fleeting, hurt morphing to terror as the tear of a zipper racks through the walls of your living room.

"Lynlas.... It was an accident."

Nails scrape along the wooden floor, bones snapping and cracking into place as the statue reaches its full height.

"Lynlas.... He is a senile old man. Do not attack him."

The collector turns as hot breath fans the nape of his neck. A long, greyed tongue unfurls from the backs of pointed teeth.

"Didn't you hear, old man.... I'm not for sale."

"LYNLAS!"

-

The feline's ears press flatly against their skull as they scrub blood out of your prized rug. Sniffling, it looks up at you - eye wet with tears.

"I'm sorry for ruining your favorite rug again, Master... Can I still sleep in your room tonight?"

[frannyzooey]

Short Days, Long Nights: 1

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Rating: none — I’ll change it to E when we get there (slow burn, forced proximity, age gap — no age actually mentioned but rather more implied, competence kink)

Summary: Part of a band of travelers, your party is slowly picked off one by one, until there are only two of you left. Finding an abandoned cabin in the woods, you decide to make camp there until you figure out your next move. As the seasons change, the nights get longer and longer…..

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @mourningbirds1 for the incredible feedback, beta, and comments. As always, I couldn’t do it without you. Thank you also to @write-and-buried for her TLOU knowledge and constant support, and @the-ginger-hedge-witch for reading this one over and making me confront how much Joel Miller has rotted my brain 😉 Enjoy!

—

SPRING

The copse of trees surrounding you is dense, and from the overgrown path you’ve been following by groove alone, you almost miss it. A flash of muted, dingy blue in a sea of green. 

“Hey,” you call to him. “What’s that?”

He turns, his features and body already taut with a practiced, ready tension and when he sees your face isn’t one of concern but rather curiosity, he relaxes. Walking over to you, he follows the line of your finger with his eyes. 

At first, he sees nothing. Just a wall of clustered vegetation: sturdy trunks that hide behind branches heavily weighted with rain, the floor beneath them obscured by ferns that brush against your legs and growth that softens your footsteps. His eyes catch on something too angular for the setting and he frowns, focusing on it. 

Barely visible in the distance and seen only through the filtered sunlight that catches the sharp edge: a moss covered roof. A structure, isolated like the two of you. 

He glances over at you for a moment, reflexively reaching back for his rifle. 

“Let’s take a look.”

Weapon out with his steps steady and slow, he approaches the cabin with a careful, defensive slink. As it slowly comes into view, you brace yourself for any type of movement. Second nature to now activate the constant thrum of self preservation inside you, you check for visible traps as you follow him, your eyes flitting between the building and the ground. 

A specific sort of tension fills the air when something is close: you know that feeling now, have become so sensitive that it can wake you from dead sleep the second you feel it. Like a sixth sense forced to emerge due to evolution, you focus on it and feel none of that tension here:  just the trilling sound of birds, the soft crunch of pine needles underfoot and the peaceful silence of total seclusion.

Joel catches your attention with the jerk of his head, motioning to stay close.

You approach the front of the cabin together. His hands white knuckle the gun, the butt tucked tight against the worn strap of his backpack where it curves around his shoulder and as his fingers flex in anticipation, you hold your breath. 

There is a weighted beat as you wrap your hand around the knob and turn. 

In the end, it’s all for nothing - the cabin you find, after roughly working the warped door open, is abandoned. 

–

It’s like a time capsule in the middle of the woods. 

A thick layer of dust covering everything, motes of it swirl lazily in the beam of Joel’s flashlight as you wander from room to room. His boots scrape against the floor with heavy footfalls, the two of you silently surveying the causally cozy and completely still disarray: a moth bitten handmade quilt thrown over the back of the couch, outdated magazines in a stack on the counter, cobwebbed toothbrushes by the bathroom sink. Bookshelves packed with faded spines, grime covered windows, dead plants in pretty pots lining sills. 

Someone loved this cabin once. 

Used to your partner through circumstance by now, you anticipate an order to scavenge for everything you can carry and then move on, so you’re surprised when he sets his pack down on the floor and lets himself fall back onto the couch. A cloud of dust bursts into the stagnant air, his hands coming up to wearily scrub his face. They rake through his damp, messy curls as he closes his eyes before laying his head back and letting out an exhausted sigh. 

“This should do for the night,” he says. “Could stay until the rain lets up, at least. Be nice to sleep on something other than the ground for a change.”

You nod in agreement, rolling out the kink in your shoulder you woke up with. Your eyes drift over the exposed line of his tanned throat, lingering on the hollow just above his collar. You force yourself to look away. “Yea, the beds didn’t look too bad.”

There had been two of them, across the hall from each other and the idea of a mattress - no matter how old - had you yearning to climb into bed already. Nothing saying you can’t, you reason with yourself. Not when time is more of a concept than anything else these days but the gnawing hunger in your stomach immediately disagrees, knowing exactly how long it’s been since you’ve last eaten. 

“I’m gonna go look for some food,” you tell him and he hums in acknowledgement, seemingly indifferent. 

Not really expecting to find anything of substance, you feel a swoop of scarce felt joy when you discover a cache of canned goods in the pantry. A treasure trove. 

“Hey Joel,” you call, wiping your thumb over a peeled, dried out label. “I think I found dinner.”

He doesn’t answer, most likely asleep given his ability to succumb whenever and wherever he can when he gets a moment and you take several, bringing them over to the counter. Brushing away the dust that sticks to the labels, you survey your choices: baked beans and peaches, two of each. Just what you would expect at a lake house. 

Letting him rest and holding the beans in your hand and a spoon you find in another, you take bites straight from the can as you wander down the hallway of the cabin, looking at the pictures on the walls. Using the heel of your hand to wipe away the dust that covers the glass, smiling faces emerge from the fog. You study them one by one, slowly chewing. 

They look like stock photos you used to see in stores: generically bland smiles, posed to perfection. An elderly couple with their children of various ages, a large family gathering photo, parents with children sitting between them. You try hard to picture those people here: sitting in the living room, sleeping in the bedrooms, playing outside. The concept seems too foreign to grasp, too far away to be real and you take another bite of food, pushing away the sudden unbidden reminder of similar photos you once had in your own home, now lost. 

You hear the couch protest as Joel gets up, coming to pass you in the hallway. He stops for a moment behind you, looking to see what you’re staring at and when he sees what it is, he frowns. Letting a deep sigh escape him, he keeps moving down the narrow space and with his pack in his hand, disappears into a bedroom. 

–

Wanting the safety of his nearness and given that it’s the only other bedroom, you set up across the hall when you’re done eating. Placing your own worn pack on the floor, you start to methodically strip the mattress, shaking out the bedding. Minimal creeping mold darkens the seamed edge of a mattress in otherwise good condition and you flip it, hoping for the best. Shaking out the pillow to make sure there is nothing hiding in it, you take the pillowcase with you, wanting to air it out on the deck now that the rain has stopped. 

Wanting to do the same for him, you walk into the bedroom he’s claimed and even though he’s not in there, it already feels like an invasion of privacy to be standing in it. His pack slumped on the end of the bed a visual claim, you grab his pillow off the bed and start to tug off the case. 

What does he look like, sleeping in a real bed? Does he bunch the pillow or tangle himself in the quilt? When he gets up, is there a rumpled form left behind, still warm with the heat of his body pressed into the sheets?

For all the time you’ve spent with him, the majority of Joel is a mystery to you. He gives away more than he knows, but that’s still not a lot. You knew of him back in the QZ: his broad frame a hard one to miss, his reputation even bigger and while your paths rarely crossed within the borders of those high walls, once you set out, it was hard to stay out of his orbit. 

His handsomeness drew your eye initially, but it was his usefulness that made you stay in his shadow. His determination to fight for his own made you feel protected by proximity, even more so when he extended it to you. 

Had to, once your group got picked off one by one. 

You had been thankful, in a sick way, that he was the one that remained. The best one. The most ruthless one. A ruthlessness you admired, then revered, then thought about at night as you tried to drift off to sleep. 

Without needing to sleep clothed to protect himself from the elements, does he still sleep in them, or will he be in less? If so, how much less?

Sharply snapping the pillowcase in the air, the sound brings you back to the present and you shake away the thoughts, leaving the room. 

“Whatcha got there?” He’s sitting on the couch, a can of peaches in his hand and when you face him, you have to look away from the glistening juice on his lips. 

“Oh, I was going to hang these outside, see if I can get some of the dust smell out.” Your nose crinkles and he smirks, taking another bite and shaking his head. 

“Thought you’d be used to that by now.”

You shrug, taking a seat in a chair by the woodstove. Leaning forward to inspect it, your chair wobbles; the front leg rotted. 

He nudges his chin in the direction of the stove when you open its door. “I thought about lighting it, but we better not. Don’t want the smoke showin’ people someone’s here.”

You nod, sitting back in the chair. “I can’t believe what a good find this is. There’s all sorts of stuff. I found some clothes in the closets, some more blankets too, if you need one.” 

You watch him chew, his jaw flexing under the salt and pepper of his beard.

“There is more food where that came from, if you’re hungry. The pantry is pretty full.”

He acknowledges it with a nod, taking another bite and you glance towards the windows that run the length of the room. A miracle none of them are broken, thanks to the secured tarp that lined the outside. 

“I think I’m gonna clean some of these and see if I can get a better view.”

“Cleanin’ the windows, doin’ the laundry. You lookin’ to move in?” His teasing tone is a dry one, and you smile, shrugging.

“Just so we can see what’s out there. In case someone comes.”

He looks at you, his eyes narrowing for a moment before he finishes the can, drinking the juice. 

“Well don’t wear yourself out too much,” he says, standing with a soft grunt of pain. “We ain’t gonna be here that long. Not worth makin’ it all homey.”

He sets the can down on the counter, grabbing his bow and supplies off the surface. You watch him check his stock of arrows before reaching back to feel for the knife strapped to his belt.

“I’m gonna go see if I can find us something for dinner.” He gives you a look, his eyes quickly sliding down over your form and then back up. “Yell if you need me, okay? I’ll stay close.”

You nod, holding his eyes for a minute and when he goes, you use the pads of your fingers to wipe clean a clear circle on the window. 

A creek lines the edge of the property, one that you didn’t even hear from the path with how thick the vegetation is and you watch him walk down along the edge of it for a moment, his head bowed. His hair is lighter in the sun, ruffling slightly in the wind and you keep watching until his form disappears behind the trees. 

–

Searching the cabinets methodically for anything of use while he’s gone, you find them buried deep in a junk drawer, sealed inside a faded, dirty ziplock. 

Seed packets. A lot of them. 

“Holy shit,” you whisper to yourself, opening the plastic pouch. You handle each pack delicately, spreading them neatly and carefully out on the counter and marvel silently at the whole vegetable garden you’ve found in this tiny bag. The haul would be worth more than you can imagine back at the QZ, but the potential for it is even higher here, in this dim kitchen, with that patch of moist, fertile soil outside. 

You pick them up one at a time, sorting them by recommended growth timelines and a thought takes root in your mind; the paper packets eventually gathered and put neatly back into the bag. 

You let it stew the rest of the afternoon, into the evening. As the sky dims, then darkens, as he comes back with a skinned rabbit and cooks it, as you both sit in the living room after dinner, your dirty plates resting on the coffee table between you. 

He’s sprawled on the couch, his arm behind his head with his thighs spread wide and the denim around his thighs is molded tight; his other hand resting limply against the inside of his thigh. When his eyes close, your eyes drop from his face to his hand, and then back up again. 

“So I found something today,” you begin, and he answers with a slow drawl, content and full. 

“Oh yea? Anything good?”

“Really good. Like, something really, really good.”

He opens his eyes then, looking over at you with a tilt of his head. 

“Well? You gonna tell me what it is?”

You draw one of the packets from your pocket, holding it in your hand and he sits up immediately, leaning forward on his elbows to reach for it. 

“Careful,” you warn, scared some will leak out of the thin, dried out paper. 

“You found these here?”

“Yea, in a drawer. In the kitchen.”

You can tell by the way he is looking at them that he knows their value. His hands hold them more tenderly than you thought his hands capable of, and he flips the packet over, reading the front. 

“I would kill for a fresh squash right now,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything, as he studies the front. 

“Well…” you start, suddenly unsure of your idea when he brings his eyes back up to your face. It’s intimidating when he looks directly at you normally, but you feel it tenfold now. He’s always been the one to call the shots, his experience in this world outweighing yours and while you’re nervous to throw yours out there, thinking of the alternatives nudges you forward.  

“I was sort of thinking this afternoon. About this place, and about these seeds.” You pause, looking away for a moment and then back at him. “About us, maybe staying here.”

He immediately frowns, scoffing to discourage the idea. “You can’t be serious. Stay here?”

Though you expected it, his immediate dismissive tone flares annoyance in you. 

“Where else is there to go, Joel?” you ask, your voice gaining confidence. “Be serious. Every settlement has been a nightmare, every place we’ve tried —“

He shakes his head, cutting your argument off. “I said we could stay for a night, not stay forever goddamnit. We’re like sitting ducks out here, just waitin’ to get killed. In the middle of fuckin’ no where —“

“Exactly!” you say louder, before bringing your voice down. “Exactly. We didn’t even see this place from the road. Not even from the path off the road. Who is going to find us here? No one knows about this place, or else it would have been looted ages ago. The tarps hid it, the trees block it, the –”

“And then what, huh? The second we light that wood stove, it’s gonna give us away. Even so, what then when someone wandering down that path sees the same thing we saw, and they decide to come take a look for themselves? They are gonna see everything we have – everything you’re suggesting we start – and they are gonna kill us for it.”

He pauses, the next statement forcing you to look at the ground. “Just like we would have done if we found someone else here. Just like we do.” 

You say nothing, letting the words hang in the air. 

“Just —“ you pause, looking down at your hands. Flashes of the last few months play back in your mind: the hangings, the strict enforcement of rules for all made to benefit the few, the bleak apartment you live in. This mission, all the things you’ve seen along the way, all the fear and terror you’ve felt and how the only person who has ever made you feel safe since the Outbreak began is sitting right here in this room. 

If ever this could work, it would only work with him. 

You bring your eyes back to him, pleading. “Aren’t you tired of it? So restless, always fighting against everything. For everything you have. Aren’t you sick of it, Joel?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m just fine.” His tone is clipped, but you can tell he’s thinking. He glances at his watch, the broken face staring back at him. It’s been broken for as long as you’ve known him, but he’s always treated it as carefully as his weapons, his supplies. You can see him illuminated by the moon profile in your mind, his fingers skating around the face as he kept watch, or brushing it with his thumb to delicately keep the dirt off. Seeing your opening, you take it. 

“I’m not saying forever,” you press. “Hell, I’m not even saying a month. But let’s just stop for a second. Let’s… just stop. Nothing says we have to go back there. We could be dead, for all they know.”

He brings his attention back to you and placing his hands in his pockets, he straightens his spine. “Probably will be, sooner or later, if we stay here.” He looks you directly in the eye, holding your gaze. “It’s not just the supplies they’ll take. They’ll want way more than that.”

You raise your chin, ignoring the tightening of fear in your chest. He hasn’t let that happen yet, and even if it's foolish to believe, you know he won’t let it happen. When he sees you’re not going to answer, he sighs. 

The lantern is bright between you, illuminating the room in a soft glow and his deep brown eyes study you. His expression is stern, like he wants to say no…but he doesn’t. 

“It’s a dumb idea.” His statement is said with resignation, but with the authority of the last word and deciding not to push it any further tonight, you stand. 

“Well, good thing it was just an idea.” Glancing over at the seed packet, you chew your bottom lip while he watches your face with a frown and your voice gets softer, quieter. 

“I’m gonna get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

—

He isn’t there when you wake up, and finding his bow gone, you know he’s out hunting again. 

You wander over to the coffee table to pick up the packet of seeds you left there last night when you see a book facedown next to it. Like he was reading something he found on the shelves after you went to bed, and left it there. 

Picking it up and turning it over in your hands, a smile unfurls at the edge of your mouth and you sit down on the couch, opening it to the first page:

The Basics of Gardening

[lipglossanon]

♔ 𝔉𝔦𝔳𝔢 ♔

• A Dozen Roses • Fairy Tale AU •

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dead dove, incest, father/daughter incest, possessiveness, kissing, groping, thigh riding

Dawn does not break. A summer storm overtakes the early morning sky and overshadows the sun with pounding rain that comes down in sheets as lightning forks in the distance. Your chamber maids dress you warmly for even inside a chill is persisting along the stone corridors. 

Your father is nowhere to be found. Off with his fellow knights on a hunt, waylaid by the weather. That’s what the stable hand tells you as he points out the empty stall where your father’s steed usually rests. You frown out across the wide terrace as the maids usher you back inside. 

The day passes slowly, your ladies trying to distract you with music and sewing. One even whispers to you about the most recent gossip floating amongst the gentry. That your father has already chosen you a suitor— someone he was to announce after his hunt. 

“Is this so?” You murmur quietly, eyes seeking the window and yet only seeing the storm. 

She nods, threading her needle, “Yes, Princess. But tis only a rumor, just another tale to spread for those with too little responsibility.”

You smile at her, “I suppose that’s true enough.”

The talk turns to other things, letting you fall back into your thoughts. The book containing your mother’s story lies tucked against your side. Your grand plan of speaking to the King this morn dissipates like mist in the light. The day drags along and after supper, you visit her portrait hoping to glean more insight into this ghost. 

Refreshing her wilted lilies, as you have countless times before, makes your heart race with longing. Magic is all well and good but it seems to only have a place for you in the shadows of your heritage. Gifting her a single red rose, you place the thorny stem in the middle of the lilies and take your leave. Your ladies-in-waiting walk with you back to your chambers, bowing and bidding you a goodnight as you part from them at the door.

Once you’re completely alone, you light a candle and read over the words and secrets left behind in the diary until they swim across the page. You hear loud movement coming from beyond the door, leading you to creep across the cold floor to press an ear to the wood. The deep voice of your father can be heard but you are unable to parse what is being spoken. 

When you’re sure the hall is empty once more, you climb back into bed, hand reaching for the book you set aside. Eyes gaze unseeing upon the leather cover. The King has known everything all of this time and yet kept his distance. It hurts you. Makes you seek him out now regardless of the late hour, book in hand as you enter his rooms uninvited. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He’s seated in front of the fire, dressed down for the night in a simple tunic and breeches. His hair and clothing are soaked from the storm still raging outside. You suddenly realize you’re in your nightgown and how improper it was to walk through the castle in such undress as well as to be standing in the King’s antechamber. 

“Tell you what?” He tilts his head, eyes dark and heavy as they drag down your immodest shift—fists clenching where they lay against his thigh, “tell my precious little princess she holds magic in her blood?”

“Yes,” your voice turns pleading, “why hide from me what is my right?”

He shakes his head, “Twould do no good,” standing, he walks over to you, water dripping from his hair to the straight line of his nose, “would you have had me toss you off to that forest witch to be raised?”

Chills race down your back as he brushes stray hairs away from your face, “You are my daughter, my property... my responsibility.”

“You never cared before,” words burst from your lips like overripe fruit. “You paid me no mind until this summer, Father.”

“Because you look like her,” he growls, eyes flashing in the low light, “you could be her.”

He grasps your upper arm and walks you over in front of the looking glass; his free hand reaches up to cup your chin roughly, forcing you to gaze at the mirror image. You clench your eyes shut and he chuckles, a low mean sound, against your back. 

“Look, my naive daughter,” his calloused hands pinch into the skin of your jaw and you meet his eyes in the reflection, “you have given me a most precious gift— a second chance with my dear beloved.”

A gasp spills from your lips as the King lets go of your arm to cup your mound through your thin nightgown. 

“Have you been good while I’ve been away, Princess?” He murmurs against your ear, fingers rubbing slowly against the heat gathering at the apex of your thighs. 

“Yes, Father,” your brows pinch together, body leaning into his touch. 

“Good girl,” his thumb rubs across your bottom lip. 

That hot shivery feeling you sometimes get overtakes you, eyes darting to the King’s mouth. A yearning cavern opens in your chest, a hollow echo of loneliness making your lips part. It’s the same feeling that you had when he took it upon himself to confirm your purity, his mouth hot and wet upon your cunt. 

“You should check, Father,” the damning words whispered as if that would soften the indecent request. 

He presses his thumb past your lips, pushing against your tongue as you suckle the digit. 

“I should,” he rumbles, gaze hot on your mouth as he turns your head to the side, “just to be sure your chastity is in place.”

A chaste kiss is dropped to your mouth, fleeting like the brush of a butterfly's wings. Whining, you tilt your head further, bodily asking for more. He presses another kiss against your lips, so different from Lord Winters. Your father claims your mouth for his own. He makes you sigh and gasp against his lips as he tastes you deeply, tongue stroking alongside your own. 

Your legs nearly give out and he wraps his broad arms around you, holding you to his firm chest as he kisses you heatedly. Head fuzzy, you sink against him, letting the King kiss you senseless. Pulling away, he shushes your whining before tugging you to the armchair in front of the fireplace. 

Once he is seated, he pulls you into his lap, indecently straddling one of his legs as your gown shifts leaving your bare cunt to rest on his trouser clad thigh. He pets your sides, a strange little smile hovering over his lips.  

“I never thought I would have this again,” he murmurs, “come, kiss me again, my sweet daughter.”

You’re much too eager and uncouth, but he takes it in stride; slowing you down, guiding your lips and tongue until you’re moving in sync with him. It’s addicting, like eating sun warm strawberries from the garden. Forbidden but so so sweet. The juice sticky and syrup thick, filling your mouth with decadence. 

His sword calloused hands grip your hips, guiding you into a rocking motion that makes you bleat and moan against his lips. A rare warm chuckle from him makes your mind buzz. You follow his motions until he’s able to squeeze and pet your hips as you rock against his thigh. The sharp bolts of pleasure make you leak until his trousers are soaked, sticking to the soft lips of your cunt. 

“Want me to teach you?” He whispers hotly in your ear, “teach you all the ways to feel good, my precious princess.”

“Please, Father,” you mewl quietly, kissing him needily.  

“I’ll show you,” he promises, voice dark as his eyes, hands grasping your gown to delve underneath, fingers skimming across your bare hips, “teach you like I did her—such gorgeous witches I’ve owned.”

Thoughts too hazy to pay attention, you sigh and gasp when his hands drift under your nightgown to grasp your breasts, squeezing the soft fat with a groan. The King’s mouth drifts along your neck, lips soft as he kisses the sensitive skin. Chills race down your body, your mind a haze of wanton need. He kisses your breasts through the nightgown as he pinches your nipples. 

Whimpering at him, you tangle your fingers in his still damp hair. Your body is hurtling to that peak that whites out your thoughts, pleasure curling up like a sated cat in your stomach. The rough fabric of his trousers rub against your soft, wet heat as you rut back and forth on his thigh, making you moan softly. 

“My sweet witch,” he pulls away to gaze up at you in satisfaction, “my beloved made whole again.”

Bringing your face closer, he kisses you far sweeter than before. This surprising show of tender affection brings you to your climax. Your voice stutters out, a broken cry lost in his wet kisses. The fire in the hearth roars to life like dragon’s breath as glasses on the mantle shatter only to land as glittering diamonds on the floor. 

Your father chuckles warmly and it sends a frisson of heat pulsing at the apex of your thighs. 

“Such a gift, my precious princess,” he brushes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip.  

The expulsion of magic makes you tired. The King keeps you on his thigh, the rough material of his breeches bringing you to climax again and again as he kisses the moans from your mouth. Never pushing it further, he makes a promise to show you everything with each time you clench on nothing and cum on his lap. 

It’s cock crow when you finally pull away from your father’s embrace. Lips and cunt swollen from his rough touch and yet your body and heart ache for more. 

“I shall escort you to your room,” he helps you stand on trembling legs, wrapping one of his heavy riding cloaks around your body—his smoky scent surrounding you. “I’ll make sure you have the morning to yourself for resting.”

You hum, exhausted in more ways than one, and easily follow the King back to your room. As he tucks you into bed, you pout and grasp his shirt, seeking another kiss before you fall into slumber. 

“Sleep well, beloved,” he murmurs, kissing your temple before pulling away. 

Although you wouldn’t realize until too late, it’s the end of your old life. 

[zinder-fox]

Short little snippet of a magic/witch-y AU where Dazai is a witch with a talent for breaking and reversing spells/curses, and Atsushi has been cursed with a sporadic, uncontrollable transformation into a tiger-like beast that gradually erodes his magic and mind.

I'm not currently planning to do anything else with this idea, so figured I'd just drop it here. Inspired by one of the whumptober prompts: "only for emergencies" (So yes, this is a bit angst-y. This is also about as close as I get to a drabble, ~500 words.)

~~~~~

"Atsushi. Promise me you'll never take this off if I'm not around." Dazai is deadly serious and skips a greeting entirely.

"I-I guess?" Atsushi responds, taking hold of the item being pressed into his hands and starting to fiddle with the soft leather of what seems to be a collar in his hands.

"No." Dazai says sharply, rejecting the halfhearted agreement.. "Promise me."

"Why does it matter if you're around?" Confusion bleeding into his voice as he watches Dazai. The brunet steps closer, soft hands taking the collar from him and clasping it around his neck.

"Swear to me, Atsushi. I need you to promise to wear it." Dazai looks almost manic, fearful even. "If you don't—if you take it off without me, your curse could change you. Permanently."

"But the change has never been permanent before!" Atsushi blurts, eyes wide as recollections of more than half a dozen prior transformations flash through his mind. And just as many times waking up with Dazai watching over him.

"Not yet it hasn't. But it's becoming increasingly difficult for me to reverse. I don't want to lose you, and if too much time passes before I start countering it—"

"—then I'll lose my mind to the beast forever."

~~~~~

Atsushi stares numbly ahead. Everything is over. The worst-case scenario has happened.

His fingers reach up and find the silver clasp of the collar as cruel, deranged laughter rings in his ears—sounding from both closer and further away than it should. The leather is smooth and worn, but he carefully slides the end free of the buckle. Atsushi doesn't let go, doesn't drop it to the floor. Instead, he carefully folds the collar that's been on his neck for years now and reverently places it onto the dark, wooden nightstand where the silver runes carefully painted and maintained reflect the light of the moon outside.

"I'm so sorry, Osamu. I have to break my promise."

Atsushi turns away, tearing his gaze off the leather and back toward the glinting violet eyes and pale skin and crazed, inhuman cackling. He digs deep within himself and draws on his curse willingly for the first time. It resists, at first—dormant for years now—before triggering abruptly in the same ghastly, horrific transformation from his memories.

As his bones snap and shatter, re-shaping into the beast his curse forces him to become—as the claws burst from the tips of his fingers and too-large fangs crowd his mouth before his jaw has grown to accommodate them—as the prickling needle-like sensation of fur sprouting from his skin nearly makes him cry out in shock, Atsushi looks down. The last thing his human eyes will ever see is deep brown hair matted with blood and the shocking white of bones protruding from pale skin in every direction like jagged spikes reaching for the heavens.

Dazai is long gone, and Atsushi has no reason to tether himself to this world any longer.

His only hope—his final hope—is that the beast will avenge them both.

[laurellerual]

Arya and Sansa storyswap: an exercise in imagination

Premise: I tried to speculate what might happen if Sansa manages to escape King's Landing and Arya gets stuck in the capital. I collected my thoughts on this scenario trying to make logical, credible choices that respected the characterization of the characters and the timeline of the books (the wiki was very usefull for this). I discarded all the scenarios that end in "…and then she dies horribly" because they're boring. I write with assumption that they would still remain POV characters and therefore mantain a minimum of plot armor. Like everyone, I have my biases so it's not perfect, but I tried to put myself in the most neutral mindset possible. Enjoy and let me know your thoughts. Part 1, Part 3

Part 2/3: Arya

A Game of Thrones 

For Arya to remain trapped in King's Landing, she must be captured by the Lannister men. I think she would manage to escape the Red Keep anyway, at least at first.

The factor I'd choose to change is in Arya V. The girl is in Flea Bottom when she sees the Winds Witch hasn't left yet. She approaches, but this time the guards in disguise decide to arrest her. Why? In this scenario both Stark girls have been lost, so the Lannister men have orders to to be extra scrupulous, the situation is serious. They can't afford any more mistakes, they'll capture every slightly suspicious child.

Arya is brought to the queen who confirms her identity and is then locked in Maegor's Holdfast. Needle is taken from her by one of her captors (ser Meryn?): perhaps he keeps it as a trophy, perhaps it's thrown into the royal armory. Jeyne is locked up with her. The servants come to bring food, but do not answer her questions. She is brought suitable clothes, many of these are Sansa's because the trunk with Arya's things got lost in stables. She waits and fears that her father is dead.

Ser Boros comes to collect her on the third day, while she walks she looks around searching for a way to escape. They pass the pikes and for a moment Arya is sure that he's accompanying her to her death. She'll be executed for what happened on the Trident and she can't help but wonder if the reason for all this carnage is to punish the Starks for when she hited Joffrey. Actually she's accompanied in front of the queen who welcomes her with smiles and kind words… a facade, Cersei has never been that kind to her. The girl is relieved to know that her father is alive, but when she asks about Sansa she receives no answer. Does that mean she's dead?

Cersei prepared a letter for Arya to copy and sign to send to her family. The contents are similar to those in canon. Arya reads it, but she has a flash of courage: "My father is no traitor!". Joffrey is a liar! But she doesn't say this out loud. The manipulative kindness is over, Cersei nods at Blount. The knight hits her in the face and breaks her lip. Cersei says that if she doesn't comply they will kill both her and her father. It's a bluff but Arya doesn't know it and it's now clear that they have no qualms about hurting her so she starts copying. She hopes that the stilted style in which the letter is written will be enough to make Robb understand that this are not her words. Arya is locked back in her new room, but Jeyne is no longer there.

Cersei complains about Arya's behavior, 'The girl is as wild as a filthy animal'. If she lets her get close to Joffrey the girl might attack him again. Or he could have her killed and they would lost an hostage. However it's necessary for the girl to be seen attending court or no one will believe that she is really in their hands. If they keep her hidden for too long word might spread that she is dead. Littlefinger proposes to avoid this risks by using Jeyne, Sansa's friend, as Arya's public image.

The real Arya is not allowed to participate in Joff's first court session. She has not proven to be loyal and obedient enough and therefore she's not allowed to move inside the Red Keep. She can't leave the room and has no information. The servants change every day so she can't befriend them. The time she spends awake is spent thinking of a way to escape.

She sleeps alot, and when she sleeps she dreams: she begins to dream of being a cat roaming free, the true king of the castle. She dreams to flee the Keep, hiding in Flea Bottom and then she sees a crowd, she follows and she sees… her father. His head falling off. She wakes up screaming! She tells herself it's just a nightmare, but it feels too real. She wants to cry, to die, she wants to kill Joffrey. Joffrey and Cersei, sir Ilyn, sir Meryn and the Hound: she begins to pray every night for their deaths.

One day Joffrey discovers where she is locked and arrives with the Hound and two white cloaks. They force her to get up and get dressed. He takes her to her pikes to taunt her and show her his father's head. Arya has confirmation that the dream was true. Joffrey baits her for a reaction,… if only looks could kill. She takes a step forward and the Hound throws her to the ground and she gets beaten up.

The Hound takes her back to her room and reminds her that Joffrey wants her dead, if she wants to continue living she has to try harder to not get killed. Arya doesn't give a damn about her life right now. After she calms down she decides that if she wants to see her mother again she has to pretend and play along. From this day on she'll wear the mask of the perfect lady to convince Cersei to allow her to leave the room. Only like this she could have a chance to escape.

A Clash of Kings

After what happened Cersei decides to throw her in a real cell. This is first of all to punishing Arya, but also to keep her away from Joff because the girl is the only leverage she have to free Jaime.

At this point Sansa receives a message to meet with Dontos. Littlefinger may still consider using Arya to gain power and get back on Ned/Cat. But the problem is that Arya isn't free to go to the Godswood alone. Given the situation, Littlefinger may decide it's not worth trying to free her from the Lannisters. Also this Stark sister doesn't look enough like her mother for his tastes.

Meanwhile, Jeyne attends Joffrey's birthday celebrations as fakeArya and Dontos dies. Tyrion arrives in the city to take Tywin's place as Hand of the King. At the tournament for his nephew he meets Jeyne and offers his condolences, but he can't help to notice that something is wrong. She looks older, her eyes are brown, and although her hair is the right color, up close it's clear that she doesn't look much like either Lord Stark or Jon Snow.

Arya has been in a cell for days now, she feels small and helpless like a mouse. One night she starts dreaming again, but this time it's different, she dreams of being a direwolf running free in the woods. She leads an immense pack and hunts every man who wears the Lannister lion. A bit of hope is rekindled in her. One night, in the distance, she sees a girl: it's her sister.

Tyrion begins to ask questions about what happened to the real Arya Stark and discovers the conditions in which she is incarcerated. He has her taken to the Tower of the Hand and allows her to wash and eat. Arya tries to find a secret passage, there has to be one, she thinks, but she can't find it. The idea of sleeping in a real bed overcomes her and she falls asleep. In the morning Tyrion introduces himself and tells her about Robb's recent victory. He jokes about the rumors that her brother has an army of wargs (like in Sansa III). 'Warg'! Yes, that's what those creatures were called in old Nan's stories! She wonders if... maybe she is a warg, and that's why she managed to see her father's death even though she wasn't there.

As in canon, Tyrion offers the Stark girl his protection. Sansa doesn't accept because she doesn't trust him and she has decided to point on Dontos' plan. As we have seen, her sister does not have this option to consider and therefore she accepts Tyrion's protection. Arya doesn't trust him, but she has no real choice if she wants to get out of her cell. Plus the Imp isn't that bad, sure he's a Lannister, but he's the only person who's done anything to help her so far. She doesn't want to be pitied by him, but there's something about that man that she likes. Maybe he reminds her a little bit of Jon, he reminds her a little bit of herself.

Her few belongings are taken to the Tower of the Hand and Chella becomes her personal guard. No matter how wary she is, Arya can't help but find the wildling woman intriguing. In order to avoid losing the few freedoms she has obtained, Arya continues to pretend docility and obedience. Over time this allows her to get out of there to pray in the Godswood, but when she tries to escape the guards catch her, beat her and lock her back in the tower.

In the eyes of the courtiers Jeyne remains the true Lady Stark. The two girls are kept apart and never met. One day she hears rumors about Arya Stark's supposed death: Jeyne was lost during the Bread Riots. The Lannisters refuse to give rise to these rumors and to dispel them they announce an engagement between Arya Stark and Lord X (Tyrion maybe?). Arya hasn't flowered so they won't get married for now, but time passes and the risk becomes more real every day.

Every now and then she still has cat dreams, wandering around the castle, listening to conversations, she even managed to scratch Joffrey once. One night she dreams of being a kitten and enters Tommen's rooms, cats like to go there. Her attention is drawn by a familiar gleam: hanging on the wall, display lika a toy, is Needle. The handle is different, richer, red and golden, but the shape of the blade and Mikken's mark are unmistakable.

During the Battle of the Blackwater Arya is taken to the Queen's Ballroom in Maegor's Holdfast, along with the other ladies of the castle so that Cersei can keep an eye on her. As per canon the queen gets drunk, she leaves and panic takes over the room. Arya sees her chance, she takes advantage of the confusion to exit the ballroom.

Arya runs to find an escape or at least a place to hide, but suddenly realizes that she is in a familiar hallway, just outside Tommen's door. The little prince was brought to Rosby to protect him so his rooms are empty and unguarded. Here we need a bit of luck because it's crazy, but Arya can't abandon Needle. She tries in every way to get in and under this pressure she manages to warg for the first time while she's awake. She use a cat to open the door and retrieve her sword. She steals a cloak and some male clothes, the least extravagant she can find.

She wanders around the Holdfast looking for an opening but there's no secret passage in Maegor's Holdfast. In the corridors she meets a soldier, but manages to kill him by taking him by surprise. In the end she comes across Sandor Clegane, drunk and crying and trying to get away from the battle. The Hound recognizes her and in a moment of madness wraps her in her cloak, throws her on his shoulder and run.

The Hound is not at all kind to Arya and the two have not had the opportunity to bond like with Sansa in canon. He doesn't care about Arya's will, he wouldn't ask her, he would only see it as an opportunity to leave and ask Robb Stark for a ransom. So Sandor kidnaps Arya, cuts her hair, and ties her on his horse. The two escape the city and start a their journey north.

Tywin arrives in King's Landing and is proclaimed "Savior of the City". Then he finds out that Cersei and Tyrion lost their last Stark hostage and he has a nervous breakdown (lol).

A Storm of Swords

During the journey, Sandor and Arya's relationship evolves pretty much like in canon. The two don't like each other, but over time they manage to coexist without killing each other. Arya learns some useful lessons about "where the heart is". But one day some outlaws capture them...

[monstersandmaw]

What if there was a medusa who teamed up to murder a vilalge with her lover?

(CW off-screen assault, not between medusa and reader, and also mention of aphrodisiac venom, because why not...?)

When she sees you, all the snakes on her head rear up and hiss, eyes flashing like emeralds at sunset. Her serpentine body coils up, tail rattling, and she lunges for you.

She grabs your shoulders with claws of adamant and holds you pinned in place like a bird in a gilded cage. Except this time you're safe. You're the only human for whom she'd rein in her magic.

Your body slumps, exhausted and hurting. She picks the pine needles from your hair and brushes her knuckles beneath your chin, tilting your bruised face up to the light of the moon.

"Who did this to you?" she hisses, venom quite literally dripping from her fangs. It makes her lips glossy and it makes you want to kiss and touch and lick and feel the way it changes you and lights you up like the mid-winter fires. You want it to burn through you and cleanse you once and for all.

"Who do you think?"

Her green lips curl and her tail rattles ones again. It's a death knell for your village. They've turned on the wrong witch, and tonight, they're going to get a reckoning worthy of their crimes.

[the-needle-witch]

FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH

! ! ! ! !

[vibrantgutz]

[anyaeras]

A twisted love story Pt.2 || W.Maximoff

─────────────────────────────────────

Pairing || Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summery || after y/n's powers show wanda steps in to protect y/n even more, drastically wanda took y/n far away, slowly making them into her dumb little love

Warnings || long ,, fluff ,, angst ,,they/them pronouns ,, child testing ,, memory loss ,, panic attack ,, possessive Wanda ,, leading to dark!wanda ,, kidnapping ,, nursing ,, manipulation ,, slight innocent reader ,, mommy! Wanda coming up

Masterlist Part one

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Y/n was training well, even though they were brought on the team due to their advanced intelligence, Wanda had mentioned the experiments to Natasha, who felt it was best to test y/n's abilities see if anything new came about yet as of right now, it's only been the fast brain and battle strategies

"No, right leg crosses over and swings back quickly, you need to confuse the opponent" Natasha explained, Wanda was in a meeting so y/n was training with Nat, sometimes cap join, but y/n was pretty sure he was in a meeting with Wanda, y/n quickly attempted the kick getting it correct, but the black widow is beyond ready, blocking the kick harshly, but what the widow wasn't ready for was y/n's to phase through the block hitting Natasha, not hard enough to injure her yet it was still shocking...

"Natasha I'm so sorry I- I didn't know I could do that..." y/n was astonished at themself, they not only hit the black widow, but phased through her arm.

"Y/n it's alright, are you okay?" Natasha asked getting up regaining herself before moving closer you to the new avenger.

"Come on we are done for the day" Natasha lead y/n was a little confused while also worried, were the others going to be mad? Would you be sent away? Would wanda not wanna be friends anymore, that thought was the most worrying. Y/n was so lost In thought they didn't realize they had entered a medical lab.

"Bruce this is y/n, the newbie, well they have a past which is unknown to Shield, yet during training they were able to phase through my block, it was crazy" Natasha didn't know how else to explain what happened yet Bruce seemed to understand. Bruce stepped to the side for a moment typing away on a laptop.

"Okay so, just to be safe Im going to need to run some test and..."

the words kept flowing from his mouth but never processed in y/n's head, after 'run some test' y/n lost touch with reality... the brown dirty lab which was in her childhood 'home' flashed in their mind, the blue straps holding them down, the wires and needles haven't moved from where they were left, everything stayed the same old same old in their mind...

"NO TEST" y/n blared out in a panic, the flashbacks continue to reply for them in their mind, Natasha began trying to calm y/n down it didn't seem to be working, the panic only grew, nat tried to softly tap y/n yet it only triggered their ability's they began to phase in and out, moving inch by inch in the process-

"Bruce get Wanda down here right now!" The widow ordered, and he followed Friday's voice rang in the meeting room, calling Wanda to y/n, the witch shot out of her chair, sprinting to the medic wing, wanda had never ran that fast worried about what may be going on.

The witch froze when she bursted through the medical glass doors, y/n was still in a facing state, Bruce moved behind a wall to stay safe, as Natasha did to once Wanda came in.

"Y/n Дорогой (dorogoy) it's me it's Wanda" wanda wasn't scared of y/n she kept moving closer to y/n, getting in their sit of vision

"Wanda?"

"Yes it's me" wanda was the one who was able to calm y/n down enough to get more reasonable responses

"No test, I don't want to do test" wanda was confused, she hadn't been in the room prior, so she wasn't aware of the situation

"Bruce, give me a rundown" wanda said, but he knew what she meant the real explanation would cause y/n to panic while Wanda also didn't have the option to leave and step out of the room to hear the 'rundown' so Bruce would think the rundown as Wanda was listen to it through his mind.

The witch came up with a plan, as clearly test wouldn't be able to go on at this moment, and she was aware fury would find out about this situation quickly, if he wasn't already completely aware.

"Y/n how about we go back to the room, let's take a rest and chat" wanda proposed leading y/n slowly out of the med wing.

Wanda opened the door to her room, bring you inside, by this point you both pretty much shared this room, most of the time y/n would pass out in Wanda's arm at night, and Wanda would never tell them to leave.

Wanda sat down on the bed, patting the spot next to her for y/n to join. The witches eyes watched y/n's movements, her eyes stayed soft the whole time, as y/n sat down besides her she was quick to turn her body sitting cross legged on the bed, hold one of y/n's hands her her own.

"Y/n I won't let them hurt you, but I want to know about you, if you'll tell me sweetie?" Wanda prompt you to spill everything, her eyes soft and caring, yet her words cut you like a knife opening your mind and your past all to her.

"I wish I knew more, I can't understand the records that I stole very well, it's not the language it's just they are all in code, I only remember snippets of my past, I've been running since the day I got out, I'm scared Wanda" y/n cried out and Wanda just help you, she kept you close, letting you tell her your past, the idea that maybe you belonged to more then just some crazy scientist was starting to set in, cause Wanda to wonder what you really went through...

The idea was like a lightbulb when it hit Wanda, while y/n still sat partly on her lap, she realized that she could probably open up your memory, what was worrying is how it would affect you...

"Y/n honey, do you think I could take a look, maybe I could help you remember?" Wanda asked her long fingers running through your hair.

Y/n nodded allowing wanda to use her powers playing back y/n's life inside now Wanda's mind, noticing by small details that she was part of a hydra experiment, not just hydra though, y/n was a special project, they were talking about the project when Wanda was still at hydra, her own memory helped her fill in the missing truths from y/n's.

"Project MVT" wanda whispered to herself, she was aware that hydra wanted to make a multiverse traveler, someone who could phase through different realities, yet she wasn't oh where they had ever executed the plan.

"Y/n you were apart of a hydra experiment, they wanted you to be able to travel the multi-verse" wanda tried to explain their own story to them but y/n was just getting confused and worked up.

"How about we set this aside, you should rest a little" the witch switched the subject, pushing y/n to lay down on the bed, Wanda tucked them in, helping them daze off into a slumber.

Wanda had left y/n to nap, as she raced to the rest of the team, they were sitting in a meeting room with fury...fuck

"I figured it out." Wanda said as she walked in, causing everyone to stop and look towards her.

"Y/n is project MVT, hydra wanted to make a multi-verse traveler, she clearly was taken from their family young, and somehow ended up in northern Michigan, kept secluded from the world, with a group of scientist, they went through multiple experiments and abuse clearly now they are terrified of what may happened to them, and they are unaware about their own abilities, and their past." Wanda gave everyone a run down, honestly, it put everybody at ease, now knowing what happened to y/n and why this newbie was now in a panic.

"They also said they have some files they stole before escaping, which we can get into later"

Fury who was standing up at the opposite end from Wanda decided it was his turn to speak

"So what I'm understanding is that they could be an asset on the field, their abilities would be great in battle, if they can face through objects, they can face there any blow, bullet, or knife coming their way?" Fury stated cause Wanda to almost explode.

"No. Y/n will not be in battle, they need to be safe, we don't know who's after them!?" Wanda shouted

"That doesn't affect us. They are now a part of this team and I already have a mission I need them for, leaving asap." Fury countered the scarlet witch's statement, before walking out of the room, not letting Wanda say anything before then.

This was not going to happen, no mission, no danger, nothing for y/n. Wanda stormed out of the meeting room, going straight to her room, getting out multiple bags, using her powers to pack everything up very quickly, both y/n's and her own items were being stored.

The witch kept quiet, not making a sound in fear of waking the sleeping beauty in her bed, once the bags were packed she used her magic to take everything down to her car, the only one who noticed what was going on was Natasha, yet the widow didn't say a thing, Natasha only knew a little bit of what was going on. She wasn't aware of the entire situation so minding her business was what she did.

Wanda had now used her powers to force y/n into a deeper sleep, keeping them in a dead sleep as she carried them to her car, buckling y/n into a seat, as she moved to the driver side, and like that...they were not coming back.

Wanda and y/n were both off the grid, y/n stayed asleep the whole extremely long car ride, they didn't wake up till the next morning, when they were sleeping alone in an unrecognizable bed, panic set it quickly, they jumped up looking for a door, yet as they were standing Wanda came running in.

"Y/n baby it's okay, i'm right here" she hushed the panic, walking closer to wrap her arms around y/n's smaller body.

"Wanda, where are we?" Y/n asked innocently to the witch.

"We are home now, it's safe here моя детка (Moya detka) wanda said which was very cryptic, last time y/n was awake they were at the compound, now they are somewhere y/n doesn't even know, and the only one here was Wanda.

"Baby you are going to stay here with me and I'll keep you safe, no more bad guys playing games with you, or the others putting you in danger, here you will be safe with mommy" wanda whispered her words, y/n realized they had been practically kidnapped but with Wanda they felt safe, she never lied to them, so if Wanda felt this was the right move for them maybe it was? Y/n thought about it ignoring the name Wanda reference herself as, honestly it didn't register in their mind yet

Wanda pulled y/n back to the bed, setting them on her lap.

"You're gonna stay here with me, and I'll protect you, do you Understand" the Scarlet witch asked you, a nod was the reply given.

Wanda turned on the tv, putting on a Disney movie, now it was definitely out of the ordinary, Wanda was acting strange the more you thought about it, you were pulled away from the others while asleep, Wanda wants to keep you away from the world in this house she moved you both too, and now she's treating you like a child with the way she was talking down to you, too much was happening to soon, they thought a bit more, but the more y/n thought about everything the more worked up they grew.

Y/n got up from Wanda's lap, causing the witch to give them a confused look.

"Wanda? Where are we! Why am I here! Tell me whats going on this isn't fair!" Y/n blew up quickly, y/n phased a bit, which Wanda noticed, while also picking up that when y/n phased it took a lot of energy out of them. They were tired and emotional now with everything happening so quick in their life they needed an emotional output.

"Y/n. Enough, you are with me, you are safe isn't that enough baby? You gave me my sweet one" wanda kept her voice stern, as she told y/n off, Wanda was well aware y/n was in an emotional spot that's why Wanda was here, to guide y/n and keep them safe...

Y/n snapped after having a little tantrum, tears filled their eyes, as the witch opened her arms to y/n, allowing y/n to slip into her arms.

"Y/n I know you are upset, but you can't yell at me, I'm just trying to keep you safe" she explained softly, pulling y/n back into her lap for a moment Wanda debated on how she wanted to approach what she was going to do next.

"Y/n sweetie, you can rest your eyes again soon, but I need to know, do you like me?" Wanda asked y/n was laying against her still, the small phasing outburst took a lot of energy from them, and the sleep Wanda put them in wasn't very restful

"Of course I like you Wanda? You're like my only friend" y/n replied still not fully aware of what she meant, y/n was so out of it, they couldn't even find her behavior odd anymore.

"No y/n do you love me? Because I love you" wanda explained a little worried about what the reply may be, yes Wanda had pretty much kidnapped y/n and was slowly trying to push y/n to be her perfect little love, but the witch wasn't heartless, she cared what y/n thought.

"Yes, I love you Wanda" y/n whispered their head rested on the witch, they started to drift off yet it seemed they couldn't find sleep.

Wanda watched as y/n tossed and turned trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, nothing was working, she had came up with an idea, worried it may not go over well, but after y/n's confession wanda thought they could keep pushing y/n a little more

"Y/n baby sit up for a moment" wanda softly pushed y/n up gaining a whine from them which made the scarlet witch smile a bit, as she pulled off her top and bra, pulling y/n to lay into her, now y/n was tired and confused, while also feeling childish from Wanda babying

"Baby open your mouth" wanda guided y/n mouth over her breast allowing y/n to attempt to nurse, what surprised Wanda was when y/n went for it, now Wanda sure had to encourage y/n but they started to suck, eventually falling asleep while nursing....

Wanda knew then that it'll work out, y/n was gonna be the perfect one for her....her plan from day one finally was in action

[supersoakerfullofblood]

Reading Like a Writer and "Stealing Like an Artist"

Reading is one of the top two exercises we have to improve our writing (the other being writing itself), but reading as a writer is a fairly different experience from reading as a reader. How do we strengthen our prose with our favorite texts?

Readers are by and large concerned with a story's "cool factor," how much a story makes them oooh and aaah. This is what Aristotle calls "spectacle" in his Poetics. Do your characters have a dragon dogfight where the hero jumps from his mount, lands on the villain's, and they fight on his dragon? Does your story have its own techno-fantasy flavor of magic? Does your witch wear a shaded cloak and have an edgy name? These are all spectacle. As a writer, you should be much less concerned with spectacles themselves and much more concerned with how those spectacles are created. You can and should analyze things like character arcs (how one character has ended up where they are, and how and why they've changed in each step of their journey), but if we really want to better our stories, we need to get more granular in our analyses.

What formal elements (words, punctuation, anything relating to the "form" of a text) does your favorite writer use, and how do they use them? You may be tempted to start your textual analyses by looking at the big pictures of character arcs, themes, settings, etc., but as a writer, we understand that these things are created by a text's formal elements. It sounds simple and boring--and I promise it stops being boring once you really get into it--but words make a story, and writers are concerned with words before they're concerned with story.

DISCLAIMER: I'm not saying you can't be interested in a text's broader story or its spectacle. I'm saying you should be more concerned with how those things are created.

Let's analyze section of prose from my favorite author, Virginia Woolf, in her novel To the Lighthouse:

But his son hated him. He hated him for coming up to them, for stopping and looking down on them; he hated him for interrupting them; he hated him for the exaltation and sublimity of his gestures; for the magnificence of his head; for his exactingness and egotism (for there he stood, commanding them to attend to him) but most of all he hated the twang and twitter of his father's emotion which, vibrating round them, disturbed the perfect simplicity and good sense of his relations with his mother. By looking fixedly at the page, he hoped to make him move on; by pointing his finger at a word, he hoped to recall his mother's attention, which, he knew angrily, wavered instantly his father stopped. But, no. Nothing would make Mr. Ramsay move on. There he stood, demanding sympathy. Mrs. Ramsay, who had been sitting loosely, folding her son in her arm, braced herself, and, half turning, seemed to raise herself with an effort, and at once to pour erect into the air a rain of energy, a column of spray, looking at the same time animated and alive as if all her energies were being fused into force, burning and illuminating (quietly though she sat, taking up her stocking again), and into this delicious fecundity, this fountain and spray of life, the fatal sterility of the male plunged itself, like a beak of brass, barren and bare. He wanted sympathy. He was a failure, he said. Mrs. Ramsay flashed her needles. Mr. Ramsay repeated, never taking his eyes from her face, that he was a failure. She blew the words back at him. "Charles Tansley..." she said. But he must have more than that. It was sympathy he wanted, to be assured of his genius, first of all, and then to be taken within the circle of life, warmed and soothed, to have his senses restored to him, his barrenness made furtile, and all the rooms of the house made full of life--the drawing-room; behind the drawing-room the kitchen; above the kitchen the bedrooms; and beyond them the nurseries; they must be furnished, they must be filled with life. Charles Tansley thought him the greatest metaphysician of the time, she said. But he must have more than that. He must have sympathy. He must be assured that he too lived in the heart of life; was needed; not only here, but all over the world. Flashing her needles, confident, upright, she created drawing-room and kitchen, set them all aglow; bade him take his ease there, go in and out, enjoy himself. She laughed, she knitted. Standing between her knees, very stiff, James felt all her strength flaring up to be drunk and quenched by the beak of brass, the arid scimitar of the male, which smote mercilessly, again and again, demanding sympathy.

It's pretty dense prose, and it isn't for everyone, but let's dig into it. How does Woolf use the formal elements of her writing?

POV: third-person omniscient. But the narrator here sounds dramatically different from any other omniscient narrator you've probably read. Woolf uses her narrator's omniscience to freely flow between viewpoint characters, starting with Mr. Ramsay, moving to Mrs. Ramsay, and ending with Charles Tansley. It's a style of train-of-thought narration that's pretty unique to Woolf and incredibly difficult and risky to pull off. It makes it feel like the group of people she writes about is a person in itself with its own conscience Woolf is following.

Punctuation: Lots of commas and semicolons. Woolf wrote in an era when formal maximalism was fairly in vogue (the 1920s-30s), but even by those standards, Woolf is doing a lot.

Sentence style: Long sentences, likely longer than anything else you've read. This gives the text a dreamlike feeling, heightening the idea that you're in these characters' heads. Notice also how she paces her longer sentences, building substance and tempo before coming to a short, lucid conclusion:

"By looking fixedly at the page... But, no. Nothing would make Mr. Ramsay move on." "Mrs. Ramsay, who had been sitting loosely... He wanted sympathy. He was a failure, he said."

You can analyze a text for much more than this, but these are the things I notice immediately about Woolf, and going any deeper would require a thesis of a post, which I don't have time for hah.

Now that I've recognized these elements of Woolf's style that I admire, I can tinker with my own writing. This is what people mean when they say to "steal like an artist": not to copy and publish an author's work itself, because that's plagiarism, but to adapt what you like of their use of formal elements into your own style. Below is me playing with Woolf's sensibilities in one of my novels (spoilers if you're currently reading Camp Catechism):

Piper left to her position on the field with a roil in her stomach she had never felt before. Her finger touched an ember in a field of ash, and she kindled, grinned beyond a grin where Carmen couldn’t see, where she wished Carmen could see. But he would in time. In some distant month, he would watch her redden, recall the thousand reds he had painted her, and recall also that the ghost had left or was absent; that Camp Catechism shrunk in memory as a shore dropping from an outbound boat; that she joined him on deck and followed him to foreign lands, that she would walk this land with him. They had escaped the past, if only for a time; for a time, nothing drowned resurfaced. The drum major raised her hands, and the waves stilled.

The second sentence is longer than the first, the third longer than the second, then a sharp, short revelation: "But he would in time." Then, I try my best at a long, Woolfian sentence metered out with commas and semicolons, driven by a fresh and innovative bit of figurative language (notice how the ocean and boat imagery works through the whole sentence, not just one of its clauses), and resolving in another bit of concise prose: "The drum major raised her hands, and the waves stilled." I didn't take Woolf's omniscient narrator (if I did, we'd probably see into Carmen's head here as well).

Now, my writing doesn't sound like Woolf's, in part because she is a much greater master of the craft than I, but also because, well, we're different people with different styles! The truth is that you will never write like your favorite author, and that's okay. The point of reading like a writer isn't to become your favorite writer but to see why they are your favorite writer and to adapt your prose styles together. We're aiming for adaptation, not mimicry.

This is only one example of "reading like a writer," and I don't go super in-depth to begin with. You can talk at length about the figurative language an author uses, how they build their metaphors, their noun, verb, adjective, and etc. choices, the grandiosity of the prose ("the arid scimitar of the male, which smote mercilessly, again and again, demanding sympathy" is no ordinary prose), and much, much more. Every bit of text carries an infinite wealth of analysis and discussion, and if you want to better your own writing, you must engage with texts on this level. I don't mean you need to do this every second you read, because then you would forget the story itself, and as much as we should be concerned with the nitty-gritty, you should still read as a reader. Whether or not you enjoy a story is the first step in knowing if and how you want to adapt that style into your own, and if you've read enough books, understanding if you think a book is "good" and also understanding if you personally enjoy the book take a load of time and introspection. What I mean is that every writer should be attentive while they're reading to the author's style in addition to the story itself. Be on the lookout for words and phrases and punctuation that wow you. When you finish a reading session, ask yourself why the author chose to do X with the narrator, or why they write with so many Ys. There are no right answers, and you'd be hard-pressed to find an unpopular answer.

You may also not get much out of a novel, or you may only have a loose feeling of "I want to write like this." This is perfectly normal. If you press a book once, you may only get a drop of cider. Rereading yields much more cider than the first press, as does reading other books--books help you understand other books. Also, if you want to press more cider from a book without rereading it, just keep that book in the back of your mind. Meditate on it. Which scenes/characters/images stuck with you and why? Currently, I have the Patrick Melrose novels and The Haunting of Hill House rattling around in my brain. Let something rattle around in yours!

As always, my asks are open for any questions/comments/etc. :)

[slashingdisneypasta]

Dorothy Must Die (Danielle Paige):

A p p e a r e n c e s.

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Tin Woodman:

He looked more like a machine that had been cobbled together out of spare parts, a hodgepodge of scrap metal and springs and machinery pieces all held together by screws and bolts. His long, spindly legs were a complex construction of rods and springs and joints, and bent backward at the ankles like a horses legs; his face was pinched and mean, with beady, flashing metal eyes and a thin, cylindrical nose that jutted out several inches from his face and ended in a nasty little point. His oversized jaw jutted out from the rest of his face in a nasty underbite, revealing a mess of little blades where his teeth should have been.

I half remembered the Tin Woodman's story. He had been a flesh-and-blood man until a witch had enchanted his ax to make him chop off pieces of his body one by one, and one by one he had replaced them with metal parts until that was all that was left of him. From what it looked like, he had been making improvements ever since. The only thing that was really familiar about him was the funnel-shaped hat he wore. I guess some things never change.

//

He had fingers like knives and needles, each one of them twisted into a slightly different shape. Like dentist tools.

Dorothy Gale:

This was not the same girl I'd read about. She was wearing the dress, but it wasn't the dress exactly- it was as if someone had cut her familiar blue-checked jumper into a million little pieces and then put it back together again, only better. Better and, okay, a little bit more revealing. Actually, more than a little bit. Not that I was judging.

Instead of farm-girl cotton it was silk and chiffon. The cut was somewhere between heaute couture and French hooker. The bodice nipped, tucked, and lifted. There was cleavage.

Lots of cleavage.

Dorothy's boobs were put to here, her legs up to there. Her face was smooth and unblemished and perfect: her mouth shellacked in a plasticky crimson, her eyes impeccably lined in silver and gold. Her eyelashes were so long and full that they probably created a breeze when she blinked. It was hard to tell how old she was. She looked like she could have been my age or years older. She looked immortal.

She had her hair pulled into two deep chestnut waves that cascaded down her shoulders, each tied with red ribbon. Her piercing blue eyes were trained right on me. I knew I was supposed to look down, like the Tin Woodman had instructed. Instead, I found myself falling into her gaze. I couldn't help it.

The Scarecrow:

At Ozma's side stood a tall thin man dressed in a baby-blue, one-size-too-small suit. Beneath a small hat, bits of straw and yarn stuck out in every direction. His face was a skein of tightly pulled burlap with two unnervingly lifelike buttons sewn on in place of eyes. His lips were thin lines of embroidery stitched in pinkish-brown yarn underneath a painted on red triangle for a nose. His buttons were fixed on me.

A chill shot through my body. It was the Scarecrow. Like the Tin Woodman, he had been twisted and warped into something I hardly recognised.

//

His head lolled over to his shoulder and a little felt tongue I didn't even know he had dangled limply from his mouth.

The Lion:

Or maybe like something was waiting them: at the front of the line, I saw the Lion himself for the first time in the flesh. He had been a vague, hazy shadow in Glamora's scrying pool, but now, in person, I realised exactly how terrifying he really was.

Really, he was barely recognisable as a lion at all. He looked like a monster, like some warped nightmare version of the king of the jungle. He was huge and golden, with bulging, grotesque muscles and a filthy, snarled mane. His lips were curled back, baring a mouth crowded with sharp, long, crooked fangs.