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almostempty · 14 days ago

Text

right kind of dream (joel miller x f!reader) part one

wc: 12.5k | other fics | rating: 18+ | read on ao3 | PART TWO HERE

summary: rebuilding your life, chasing cans, and hitchin’ a ride to the rodeo with team roper joel

to my pedrostories secret santa recipient @katiexpunk: this was a challenge for ya gurl to be srs (and it’s not a tentacle gangbang, i lied in ur asks babe i’m srry) i hope i hit the mark on a handful of the prompts though, i had high hopes that i could really challenge myself and deliver some breeding kink cowboy but i fear it’s more of a creampie kink—i hope that still hits, i have horse knowledge, but only rodeo adjacent experience so if any rodeo queens find glaring mistakes pls forgive me — but happy holidays bb, i really hope you enjoy-- EDIT: I MADE IT TOO GIRTHY (or something?? sorry!!) and had to split it into two parts, the second part will be up and linked as asap as possible, and i'll add the full text to ao3 so it'll be in one spot

tags: modern cowboy joel au/ team roper joel and tommy, no sarah, enemies to lovers, dbf lite, choose your own age gap, small town romance, city girl returns to the country, miscommunication, guilty yearnful joel, horsegirl!joel, smut, ridin’ that cowboy bareback as the good lord intended, no beta–mistakes are my fault for writing at 4am

thanks: to @syd-djarin, @auteurdelabre, @lovely-vamp-princess for support, eyes, ideas, etc.

The sun beats down on the gravel driveway as you pull your truck toward the old house. It looks almost the same as it did the summers you spent here as a kid when it was your grandparents–the peeling white paint on the porch railing, and the barn standing sturdy, but weathered further down the driveway. The fields stretched on as you rolled down the driveway, dotted with occasional wildflowers and critters dashing into the denser brush.

The air blows warm through the window, same as you remember, but the weight of the memories feels different now. The summers used to feel endless here, the fields seemed endless, as did the sky. It all used to feel so liberating. It’s not an endless summer now. Everything looks smaller and more weathered.

Except for the shiny white PVC fences on the other side of the driveway and the modern-looking house and barn built on the same soil you used to spend hours patrolling with your pony, Clover. She’d search for the best bits of grass as you laid across her back coming up with stories—some days you were an old-timey cowgirl traveling west or Clover was a wild horse you were training or you were on a quest to a magical kingdom together.

But now it’s a new home for whoever bought up the parceled land your dad sold to cover the updates on the house when he inherited it. Someone with enough money for a fancy barn and shiny truck. You pull to a stop and hop out of the cab, still scanning the neighbor's property, making your first impression.

Your dad emerges from the barn, wiping his hands on a faded rag. He gives you a smile and a nod. “About time you showed up,” he calls, his voice warm and teasing. “Thought maybe you had changed your mind.”

You shake your head softly, rolling your eyes. “Nope. Nothing worth staying in that city for.”

The gravel crunches under your boots as you round the bed to grab one of your boxes. All your belongings fit into a few boxes. At least, everything that mattered to you, everything that was still you. “Where do you want this?” You wonder how you’re going to manage living in the same house with your dad now that you’re an adult.

“Just set it inside,” he said, gesturing to the house. “We’ll get you sorted after we have something to eat.”

As you followed him toward the house, the outline of the neighbor's property loomed large. The barn caught your eye. It was close. A pair of horses stood in the near pasture, swishing their tails in the afternoon heat. The contrast was stark. Where your dad’s place still carried the scrapes and scuffs of decades–theirs looked new and polished. Smug even. Can a house be smug?

“The neighbors are closer than I thought.” You cross the porch, the nostalgic screen door squeaking as your dad ushers you inside.

“Don’t mind it. We look out for each other.” He points to the room you stayed in as a kid. “He damn near built the place by himself, and helped me with the new roof on this place.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “You said you were gonna hire roofers instead of climbing around up there at your age.” He shrugs you off. Always stubborn. Convinced he can do it better and cheaper. Despite the toll on his body.

“Paid him to help,” he argues, “wasn’t up there by myself. You don’t gotta worry about me like that.”

You set your box down at the end of the twin-size bed, the room falling quiet for a moment. Your dad stays planted in the doorway, but his brows pinch and lips purse briefly before he lets out a breath. You scan the room, gaze landing on the floorboards, waiting.

Instead of addressing the elephant in the room, he says, “You hungry?”

You grin at that, letting out a shaky breath. Your father’s daughter, neither of you likes to dig into your feelings. He taught you to show love through actions, like keeping you fed, taking on hard labor jobs without a complaint, or changing your windshield wipers before the rainy season starts and you’re cursing yours out.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing past the knot in your chest. “Starving.”

The rumble of a diesel engine jolts you awake the next morning, the deep growly sound reverberating through the walls like thunder on an otherwise quiet morning. You groaned, stretching and blinking blearily at the pale light filtering in through the old curtains. It was barely dawn yet, which explains the dull headache you’ve got.

Sleep had been restless. Tangled thoughts, ruminating on what you’d left behind. A failed engagement, the job you hated, the mix of excuses you had rehearsed for why you’d come back. You’d hoped coming here would ease the ache, but just when you were finally falling back asleep—the truck from hell pulled up to the house.

The engine is already cut off, but now you can hear voices on the porch. Your dad’s, low and steady, just a hum, and another unfamiliar drawl. Whoever it is, they’re carrying on like the rest of the world wasn’t still trying to wake up.

You drag yourself out of bed, wearing your soft sleep shorts and a thin shirt. The worn fabric clings to your body in places it shouldn’t, but you’re not thinking about being presentable, you aren’t really thinking at all yet. You drag your feet crossing to the kitchen to pour yourself coffee, for a brief moment you miss the coffee shop you used to stop at on the way to your old job, but the familiar roast your dad’s been loyal to has its charm. Like the free coffee at an AA meeting. It’s there and you need something to keep you going.

You push past the squeaky screen door, stepping out onto the porch. Your dad sits on the worn bench, coffee in hand. Next to him, leaning casually against the railing is a man you don’t recognize. His black Stetson gives him a classic cowboy silhouette, the morning sun catches on the sharp cut of his jaw and the scruff on his cheeks. His plaid shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, his jeans are worn and dusty in a way that speaks to more than just appearances.

He straightens when he sees you, pulling his hat off with one hand in a fluid, effortless motion. “Mornin’,” he says, voice low and rich. “You must be the daughter. Joel Miller.”

You take a sip of your coffee. “Morning,” you mutter, voice still thick from sleep. “You always roll up this early, or is today special?”

Your dad shoots a look at you, but Joel just chuckles softly.

“Guessin’ you’re not a morning person?”

Your eyes are narrow, defensive. “I’m just fine in the mornings,” you say in a clipped tone that doesn’t support your statement. “Just not when I’m woken up by a jet engine at the asscrack of dawn.” The chill in the brisk morning air causes you to shiver for a moment somehow making you look more irritated.

Joel glances at your dad with a faint smirk before tipping his hat to you. “Noted.”

Your dad laughs. “Should’ve heard her when she was ten,” he says leaning back. “Wouldn’t let anyone tell her what to do. Still doesn’t take shit from anyone I guess.”

“I’m right here,” you mutter, glaring at him.

“Just sayin’,” your dad replies, raising his mug in mock surrender. He turns back to Joel and they resume their conversation about fence posts or something equally riveting. You let your eyes roam as you wake up, drinking the rest of your coffee, tuning in and out of their conversation about their plans for the day.

The easy camaraderie between the two of them was clear. Like a friendship forged through shared labor and quiet mornings. They flow between their plans for work and that subtle gossiping that men do–convinced it isn’t really gossip–as they share updates about other folks in town and a few of the local businesses.

“What about you?” Joel asks, turning to you and pulling you out of the fog. “You’re back for a while then?”

It’s an innocent question, but it grates at you anyway. You stiffen. “Yeah, just taking some time,” you say vaguely.

Joel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push for a real answer. You can feel the weight of his curiosity in the air between you. He looks to your dad, who doesn’t elaborate, letting something unspoken pass between them.

“Well,” Joel drawls, “good timing. Lot of work to do this time of year. If you’re up for it.”

The comment makes you pull a face. “I’m familiar with hard work,” you reply, your voice sharper than intended.

Joel’s lips quirk again, into something like a smirk this time. “I’m sure you are,” he says with the faintest edge of a challenge.

He takes a long swig from his stainless steel travel mug, trying to fix his eyes on the horizon. But damn, if it isn’t a challenge to see you standing there, looking every bit like you’d just rolled out of bed. In a shirt too damn thin for a morning like this, leaving too little to the imagination.

He knew he shouldn’t be noticing something like that, shouldn’t look at you like that–especially not while you’re standing next to your dad. Hell, he shouldn’t want to look at all, but his eyes betray him. Darting for just a moment to your soft curves and the evidence of the chill in the air–the impression of your stiff nipples protruding in the soft fabric.

Christ. He swallows hard, landing his eyes back on the scowl you wear on your face. You’re his friend's daughter. It just ain’t right. Sweet young thing like you. He battles the devil on his shoulder that reminds him you aren’t a kid. You’re a woman. A grown woman with your own life and clearly your share of grit, if the sharpness in your voice was anything to go by.

He shifts on his feet, forcing his attention back to your dad who was still chuckling softly at something. Joel didn’t catch the joke, head too full of thoughts about you–or how to not think about you. He could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, unsettling him in front of your dad.

You and him made loose plans for the day while Joel’s mind continued to wander. He shouldn’t have asked about why you were back. Your answer was vague, brushing him off like it was a privilege he hadn’t earned. For some reason that lodged it in his head further. He wanted to know more, even if he shouldn’t.

Your dad stood up, stretching and declaring that all of you have work to do. You take that as your cue to head back inside, leaving the screen door swinging behind you. Joel lets out a low breath, shaking his head as he turns back to your dad.

“She’s a spitfire,” Joel comments, keeping his tone neutral.

“She is,” your dad agrees, adjusting his hat. “Good to have her back.”

Joel huffs a small laugh, “S’pose we could use a strong woman around here. Keep us in line.”

“No doubt she will,” your dad says, clapping him on the shoulder. The whole exchange stuck with Joel though. Something under that edge of yours, something unpolished that has him curious in a way he isn’t used to. He shakes his head knowing it isn’t his place to go digging.

Your dad starts down the front steps. “Let’s get moving, then.” Joel moves mechanically, boots falling in line with your dad’s, but his mind is half on you—in that t-shirt, with that scowl on your face, and that faraway look that he’d like to unravel.

You were used to hard work but your muscles weren’t exactly dialed in for the functional conditioning. It was humbling as you found yourself aching and exhausted by the end of the night. However, the fatigue did make it easier to fall asleep once your head hit the pillow instead of spiraling on about your failures until the birds started chirping.

The next few days gave you a jump start into the rural routine. In bed early, up before the sun. Hot showers before dinner to wash away the layer of sweat and sweet-smelling dust from the pine shavings and hay. You found yourself looking forward to the strong coffee and the cool morning air before you started with your day.

Your dad, and Joel, learned quickly to let you wake up rather than ask questions as they caught up on their plans before heading out together or splitting up. You didn’t mind listening, but you could feel Joel’s eyes lingering on you now and then. It made your spine straighten, determined to hide the sore muscles in your shoulders from him. If he was waiting to hear a complaint from you it was never gonna come.

Despite getting more rest and having an endless list of labor to keep you moving–you often found yourself working solo and in silence during the day. A silence that your mind was more than happy to fill. You rehashed memories and dissected those little moments from your relationship with your ex-fiance that you wish you had seen more clearly at the time.

You’re deep in one of those memories, mindlessly stacking bales of hay onto the trailer for a delivery your dad is making tomorrow when Joel enters the other end of the barn. He leans against the door, arms crossed loosely over his chest, just watching you work. The warm scent of hay fills the air, grounding and everpresent in his life.

It wasn’t anything remarkable, just a common chore he’d do without thinking twice. But watching you was a whole different story. Your shirt was damp with sweat as you leaned into the work like you’d done it your whole life. You climb up a stack of bales and toss down some from the top of the next row, unaware of his presence.

He is mesmerized by you. The sharp look on your face like you were mulling over an argument, the fluid movements as you worked, and the determination radiating off of you as you worked at an urgent pace.

His gaze drifts lower as you climb down and bend to heave another bale onto the flatbed trailer. The muscles in his jaw tense as he lingers on the curve of your back as you bend to grab another. The way your legs shift as you work. The outline of your body in that shirt, the soft grunt you let out as you hoist another bale had him thinking indecent thoughts before he could stop himself.

Joel drags his hand over his face, fingers brushing his scruffy jaw. Heat burning within him that has nothing to do with the Texas sun transforms into irritation. He was considering copping out and disappearing before you even noticed him when he was outed by the damn barn cats.

The orange cat comes sprinting towards him, but it’s the black and white one meow-yelling at him down the aisle that catches your attention. A dull thud echoes through the barn as you drop another bale and watch as Joel squats down to give the cats the attention they demand. You watch, catching your breath. He’s gentle with them, murmuring something you can’t hear before he stands and strolls toward you.

“Afternoon,” he greets you in his deep baritone voice. Joel grabs the two-string bale of hay in front of you and drops it on the trailer with ease, grabbing another before you can interject.

“I can handle it.” You huff as you resume your task.

“Never said you couldn’t,” he replies smoothly, setting another down. “Thought it’d go faster with two sets of hands.”

“I wasn’t in a hurry.” You eye him warily for a moment before slipping into a coordinated dance like it was natural. Tossing the rest that needed to be loaded up into the aisle for him to grab. You work in silence, just the sounds of hay shifting and boots scuffing against the barn floor.

You break the silence first. “Dad says you and your brother hit the rodeo circuit in the summer. That true?”

Joel huffs a soft laugh. “True.”

“You compete?”

“Team roping,” he says, his voice warming slightly. “Me and Tommy hit most of the circuits within a day's drive from here. Keeps us outta trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Hard to picture you in trouble, cowboy.”

Joel’s smirk returned, faint but there. “You’d be surprised, sweetheart.” He matches your playful tone.

His words linger as you work, stirring something you don’t quite know what to do with. Your mind drifts to the idea of rodeoing, the adrenaline of it, the discipline it demands. You forgot how much you missed it, how much you gave up chasing a life that didn’t pan out the way you hoped.

Joel shifts beside you, the faint scrape of his boots pulling you back to the present. You glance at him, catching the way his shirt clung slightly to his back, the easy strength in the way he moves.

For a moment, the quiet feels comfortable. Easy. The steady rhythm fills the space. But eventually, Joel speaks again.

“Your dad said you used to spend summers out here,” he says, in a low and easy tone.

“Yeah,” you say, a little out of breath from the exertion. “When I was a kid.”

Joel brushes some loose hay off of his shirt. “Guessin’ it’s different now.”

“Everything’s different now,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him.

His brow furrows slightly. “What brought you back?”

You hesitate, not looking him in the eye. You’re searching for an answer in the dust particles caught in a beam of sunlight. “Just needed time to…rebuild.” It’s still vague.

“You runnin’ from something?”

You tense at that, before covering it in sarcasm. “I’m not an outlaw,” you jest, earning you a small smile. He doesn’t press further, but you feel his eyes on you, steady, and patient like he’s waiting in case you offer more.

“It’s not as simple as people make it sound,” you say finally, the words slipping out before can stop them. “Starting over, that is.” You sit on a bale and pull your work gloves off, running the back of your hand over your forehead smearing sweat and dust in a most unsatisfying way.

“No, it ain’t,” he adds quietly.

Something in his tone makes your chest tighten, but you ignore the sensation. “What about you? How’d you end up here?”

“Had to start over myself, I reckon,” he muses, dusting off his hands before sitting down next to you. The words hang in the air, heavier than you expected. He doesn’t look at you, instead, he watches the cats play with a piece of baling twine. “This place made it easier—focusing on getting the house built and getting the business running. Your dad helped too.”

That catches you off guard. “My dad?”

Joel nods, finally meeting your eyes. “Just seemed to understand, I guess.”

You stare at him. You’re disarmed by the softness in his tone. Like there’s more beneath the surface if you ask for it.

Joel feels the air thicken. He takes in the way your sweat-damp shirt clings to you, and the heavy rise and fall of your chest. For a split second, an image flashes in his mind—your chest heaving for a very different reason, your skin flushed and shining. His throat tightens, and he looks away quickly, cursing himself for letting his thoughts slip.

The cats weave between your legs, easing the silence. But the air between you still feels charged. Your thighs are nearly touching. The proximity feels overwhelming for some reason and you're suddenly caught up in the details of his profile as he stares down at the floor. The lines at the corner of his eye, his nose, his lips.

He clears his throat and slaps a palm on his thigh. “Well,” he starts, standing up rather abruptly. “Just came by to check-in. See how you’re settling in.”

“What?” You frown. You miss the grimace that flashes on his face, your eyes drawn to the cats darting away from the two of you. “How I’m settling in?”

“Yeah, you know…” he gestures vaguely around the barn and your brows furrow and your eyes sharpen at him. Irritation flickers behind your eyes.

“I told you I’m not afraid of hard work,” you snap, jumping to your feet in front of him.

“That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles, like you’re misunderstanding him.

“Did my dad send you to ‘check in’ on me? Or did you want to see if I could keep up?”

“It ain’t like that.” He says lowly.

“Right.” You cut, crossing your arms. You’re over this rollercoaster of a conversation. Your eyes catch on the deep crease between his brows and the glint in his dark eyes. Something flares in your chest. You can’t tell if it’s indignation or something else entirely. “Then what is it?”

His jaw tightens, gaze locked with yours. Something unspoken flickers in his expression. But instead of answering, he straightens, stepping back. “Doesn’t matter,” he says curtly.

Your stomach twists at the coolness of his tone, the connection you just felt snapping like a wire.

“This was a mistake,” Joel mutters to himself.

“What was?” you asked, your voice deadly quiet.

Joel only shakes his head before striding toward the far door. His boots echo on the floor and the cats follow after him like shadows, their tails swishing as they dart out into the sun. Joel pauses in the doorway, glancing back with a look you don’t understand.

“Don’t work too hard now.” His voice carries easily before he stalks off.

Your thoughts have you spinning. “The fuck is his problem?” you wonder out loud, sharp in the warm air. In the space he left.

But deep down, you can feel the edge of something else. Something more than frustration, curling low and unwelcome in your chest. The weight of his gaze was still lingering, and try as you might, you can’t ignore the way his presence had pressed into every corner of the barn, or the faint scent of leather and bourbon that still hangs in the air.

Your routine locks into place, and the days begin to pass in a blur. Joel stops by for coffee and acts like the conversation you had in the barn never happened. The stoic, gruff cowboy thing works just fine with you.

Except for the moments you catch him staring at you like he’s trying to find an answer to something he never asked.

If you’re honest, though, despite your hostility, you seem to catch yourself studying him with the same frequency and intensity. You’re loath to admit you catch yourself hung up on his obnoxiously broad shoulders, his arms sculpted from the physically demanding work, and that gravelly morning voice he has before he finishes his coffee.

Aside from whatever Joel’s problem with you is, everything else seems to be falling into place. You catch up on your dad’s list of projects. You pick up a part-time job at the feed store in town, keeping yourself too busy to have idle time and too tired to dwell on the past or the future. You get to know folks in the town while you work at the register.

The town seems smaller than it was when you were a kid, but there’s also a charm in the simplicity that you find comfort in. The regulars keep you up to date on the town gossip, and you’re laughing loudly with your boss, Linda, one day over a joke she’d never admit to teaching you when your neighbor struts up to you with a list in hand for a bulk feed order.

You’re cordial to him and the man at his side who gives you a flirty wink that has you raising your eyebrows in disbelief for a moment before you put it together. “You must be Tommy?”

He grins brightly and offers his hand. “And you must be the neighbor?” You give him your name and a polite smile. Your eyes flick to Joel, taking in his neutral expression. His hands rest in his pockets, but his posture is loose, his broad shoulders back in a way that draws your eye before you can stop yourself.

As you enter the details of their order into the prehistoric computer, Linda chats both of the men up, asking them about their horses and when their next rodeo is.

You give Joel his total and take his payment, trying not to roll your eyes when he doesn’t make eye contact with you. You’re ready for the interaction with him to be over when Linda puts you on the spot.

“This one’s been talking about looking for a project horse of her own.” She nods her head toward you. “You boys have any leads for her?”

You can feel your face heating up as they both look at you. It’s not like it was a secret, but you weren’t planning on making Joel privy to your plans. You still haven’t forgotten the way he said this was a mistake after having one conversation with you. Or the way he is always looking at you. Like you don’t belong here or something.

“I’ll do you one better,” Tommy says. “We’ve got a couple of colts just getting started under saddle. They could use the miles, and they’re real sweet-tempered if you wanna come by during the week.”

“Thanks, Tommy.” You give him a genuine smile. “I’m actually going to take a look at one that’s got potential this weekend. Marilyn from the post office said her cousin’s got a six-year-old quarter horse she’d sell for a steal.”

Joel lets out a dismissive laugh under his breath. “You mean that Hancock gelding? The blue roan?”

“Yeah.” You confirm, slowly growing more confused by the reactions on all of their faces. “Why?”

Linda’s mouth is hanging open like you said the devil was gonna sell you his horse. Tommy gives you a modest smile like you’ve told him two plus two equals eight, but he’s too polite to correct you. Joel’s expression remains unreadable, but the crease between his brows deepens.

“Am I missing something?” you ask, hoping for an explanation. You do not like feeling like you’re being played for a fool.

“She’d sell that horse for a dime and a handshake,” Linda says. “Her cousin broke her jaw getting bucked off that horse. That’s why he’s been out to pasture ever since.”

You’re quiet for a beat before the familiar challenge and determination wrap around your heart. “Can’t hurt to look,” you say with a shrug.

“Hancocks are notoriously stubborn and broncy,” Joel adds, his tone low and edged with warning.

“They’re also incredibly smart, loyal, and full of try if you earn their trust and ask ‘em the right way,” you shoot back, meeting his eyes for just a moment too long. Why does it always feel like he thinks you’re out of your element? Does he think you’re incompetent? It only strengthens your desire to prove him wrong.

Joel’s mouth presses into a thin line, but his gaze doesn’t waver, and it stirs something uncomfortable low in your chest.

“So I’ve heard,” Tommy cuts the tension simmering between you and Joel. “Offer still stands if he doesn’t work out.”

“Thanks.” You pointedly direct your appreciation to Tommy, not looking back at Joel. “We’ll give you a call when the order’s in.”

They take that as their signal to move along. You think that would be the end of the drama for the day, but Linda’s got one more tidbit in store after the door closes behind the two men.

“God, those two are so hot it’s unbearable,” she sighs. It catches you off guard, and you blink at her. “Too bad they’re cowboy Casanovas.”

“What?” You give her a scrupulous look, shifting on your feet as she leans against the counter.

“Oh, yeah,” Linda says with a knowing smirk. “Every buckle bunny in a three-county radius knows those two. I hear they have a sign-up sheet at the trailer.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head, but the image comes unbidden—Joel, shirtless and panting, sweat glistening on his chest, his jeans slung low on his hips, every muscle taut as he leans over some woman. His gravelly drawl slides through your mind like warm honey as he murmurs something low and dirty, but you can’t make out the words. Your thought derails violently, and you scowl at yourself, heat rushing up your neck, but Linda’s still talking.

“I’d stand in line for either of ‘em if I were single,” she adds with a shrug.

The image morphs into smug Joel tipping his hat, a self-satisfied grin on his face as some random woman climbs out of his bed. Your throat tightens unexpectedly, and you shove the thought away, scowling at the knot of irritation it leaves behind.

The trailer rocks faintly as you haul it slowly down the driveway toward the barn. Blue shifts inside, and the loud thud of him pawing at the floor, anxious to get out of the small space, echoes loudly in the driveway as you ease to a stop. You cut the engine and hop out of the cab, you can hear your dad’s boots on the porch steps before he’s striding toward you. “You actually brought him home, huh?”

“You knew I would.” You grin. Your dad unlatches the trailer door and you slip past the divider to untie your new gelding and back him out of the trailer. Blue’s ears flick rapidly and he snorts like a dragon, wary of his unfamiliar surroundings, but you steady him with a calm voice and wait for him to drop his head before coaxing him backward.

His hooves hit the solid ground and he blows out a sharp breath, shaking his neck to de-stress. “He’s gonna be perfect,” you say, running a hand along his neck. “Just needs someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Your dad gives you a look that says he knows he couldn’t change your mind if he tried. His gaze flicks over Blue’s body, taking in his confirmation and conditioning, the scar on his back leg, the brand on his flank, and the stocky ranch horse build. “Linda said he’s got a bad reputation.”

“Linda says a lot of things,” you shoot back, leading Blue toward the barn. “He was misunderstood. Had a rough start, that’s all. That girl who got bucked off never shoulda had him to begin with—not after he’d been out to pasture for so long. She was scared, and he felt it.”

Your dad hums, the kind of sound that tells you he’s skeptical but not enough to argue. “Well, he’s in good hands now.”

“And we both know I like a challenge,” you say with a steady voice, edged with something sharper.

The sound of boots on gravel draws your attention and you glance back to see Joel strolling over from the direction of his property. His hat tipped low as his dark eyes flick between you and Blue.

“Afternoon,” he calls, steady and smooth.

Your dad turns and gives him a nod. “Joel.”

“That the Hancock gelding?”

“Yeah,” you reply shortly, adjusting Blue’s halter.

Joel steps closer, his expression unreadable as he studies the gelding. Blue swishes his tail before shifting his weight, resting one back leg like he’s already starting to relax. Joel walks a circle around Blue, before pausing next to your dad. “Well-built,” he comments. “Is he sound?”

You can barely hold back your eye-roll. “I had Barb meet me at the farm for a pre-purchase exam. Passed with flying colors.” You swallow down your irritation. Once again Joel thinks you’re a fool? That you’d go off and pick up a horse without a vet inspection?

Before you give Joel a piece of your mind you take a steadying breath, grounding yourself and whispering into Blue’s ear. “He might doubt both of us but he’ll be eating his fuckin’ words real quick once you and I get started.” With that, you turn away and lead Blue to the barn.

Joel watches the two of you walk off, resting his hand on his hip. “She got a death wish or somethin’?” he grumbles.

Your dad crosses his arms, both men still watching the barn door where the two of you disappeared. “She’s tougher than she looks. And she’s got more patience than the two of us combined—for animals that is. Lord knows she’ll let us have it just for looking at her sideways.”

Joel grunts, ignoring the heat crawling up his neck at the thought of you telling him off. “Hope you’re right.”

“It’ll be good for her to have her own project. Haven’t seen that light in her eyes since she got here. S’about time she started moving on.” Your dad’s words eat at Joel. He still wants to know what you’re trying to rebuild from, but he doesn’t ask. Letting the silence stretch before your dad continues.

“Plus, she’s got the right touch for it,” your dad drawls, tone laced with pride. “Always drawn to the ones that seem a little rough around the edges.”

Joel doesn’t respond right away. His eyes narrow on the horizon, but his gaze flicks back to where you walked off, the sway of your hips lingering longer than it should. The deeply twisted interpretation of your dad’s words messing with his mind.

In the barn, Blue seems less concerned about getting the lay of the land now that there’s food in front of him. He munches greedily, tearing hay out of the net tied in the stall. You’re buzzing with a mix of emotions, already imagining the next steps for the two of you.

Your thoughts fall back on Joel and your dad, their low voices carrying faintly in the warm air. You can picture Joel still standing there, one hand on his hip, eyes fixed on you, that infuriatingly unreadable look expression he always has.

Your chest tightens, heat rising in your cheeks as you lean against the stall door. You hate how Joel looks at you like that. Like he’s waiting for you to fuck up. To prove him right. Like he’s already decided you’re in over your head.

“He doesn’t know me,” you mutter under your breath, “doesn’t know you,” you tell Blue, “doesn’t know shit.”

Blue snorts softly, and you take that as his agreement, a smile tugging at your lips.

Days blur into a steady rhythm—early mornings with Blue, afternoons at the feed store, and long evenings under the arena lights. Each ride sharpens your connection with him, his turns growing tighter, his strides more confident. Progress comes in small, steady victories, each one lighting a spark of hope in your chest.

One afternoon, when the sun hangs low in the sky, painting the fields with warm hues of orange and gold. From his spot near the fence of his own property, Joel leans one arm against the top rail, his black felt Stetson shading his eyes. Across the way, you’re working with Blue in the makeshift round pen.

Joel can tell from the way you hold yourself that you’re tired. Your shoulders seem stiff and your jaw tense. But you don’t stop. Your voice carries in the breeze, warm and steady as you encourage Blue to make another pass.

The horse resists, throwing his head and stomping at the ground, but you don’t flinch. You give him the space to settle before asking again. Joel’s lips twitch, with a hint of a smile. You’ve got grit.

He can’t shake the feeling that you’re working off more than just the horse’s rough edges. You move with purpose and focus, but with a weight that doesn’t seem entirely about Blue.

From where Joel stands, he can’t make out every detail, but it doesn’t stop his eyes from lingering. You draw his attention with a pull that he can’t resist.

Against his better judgment. He traces the line of your spine as you step forward, the way your hips shift when you pivot. He knows better than to look, knows it’s wrong, but he can’t stop himself.

Blue gives in, his steps evening out as he settles into a steady rhythm circling you. Joel watches as you slow him to a halt. The tension in your posture releases and you reach out with ease and satisfaction to stroke Blue’s neck.

That invisible pull between you draws your eyes to where Joel is standing. Your face hardens when you catch him observing your training session. He gives you a nod before pushing off the rail and heading into the barn.

He catches glimpses of you working together in the mornings and evenings. He tries to stop himself from watching, but it’s useless. He catches himself inadvertently timing out his schedule to be able to keep an eye on you. Tells himself he wants to be sure someone’s keeping an eye on you in case something goes wrong. Or that he’s curious about your progress.

He can admit he admires your perseverance and the skill you have. He would never admit the way he finds himself waking up hard and aching thinking about you and what it’d feel like to have your hips rocking on his lap instead of a saddle, your tits bouncing in his face, and your sweet blissed out smile. And when trudges up the steps of your porch in the mornings to see if your dad needs anything from town—he prays neither of you can see the remnants of his sins in his eyes.

He can’t stop himself from trying to talk to you, though. One morning he asks straight up, “How’s the project horse coming along?” He tries to sound casual, averting his eyes as he sips his coffee.

Your smile flickers, equal parts excitement and hesitation flashing across your face. “Good,” you say after a beat, sitting on the wooden bench. “He learns quick, got good stamina and drive.”

Joel hums, tilting his head slightly. “He give you any trouble?”

Your jaw tenses, though you try to hide it. “Nothing I can’t handle,” you reply, tightly.

Joel nods. “Good,” he says simply, but he still looks at you, like there’s something else weighing on his mind.

Your dad clears his throat, breaking the tension. “She’s got him started on the pattern already.”

“You gonna run barrels?” Joel asks, curiosity sneaking into his eyes.

“That’s the plan.”

Joel hums, taking a long pause. “You wanna run him in a real arena? Bring him over to get some practice in with the right kind of footing and see what he’s really got for a motor?”

Your eyes narrow and your shoulders tighten, straining with disbelief. A real arena? It’s like nothing you do is ever good enough for him. “We’re getting along just fine as is, thanks.” The words are dripping with venom as you slip back into the house letting the screendoor slam shut behind you.

Joel’s brows furrow. “Didn’t mean no harm, by it,” he says to your dad. “My mistake,” he adds gruffly.

Your dad looks a bit miffed at the sharpness of your rejection but gives Joel a shrug back. “She’s always gotta do it her own way.”

The conversation with Joel sticks in your mind. You’re still chewing it over that evening as you run Blue through some drills, working on his lead changes and corners. When you finally bring him down to walk to cool down you hear the sound of hooves hitting the dirt across the field. Sharp and rhythmic. You walk Blue along the fence line. Pausing when you catch sight of Joel and Tommy in their outdoor arena.

Their horses move like extensions of their bodies. You loosen the reins, letting Blue’s head sway with every step as you stay transfixed on the two men. Tommy’s bay gelding moves with a quick, snappy stride. His hindquarters tucked under him as he spins on a dime at Tommy’s commend. You can feel the thrill and see Tommy’s grin from where you sit. It’s infectious. You roll your eyes as he tosses his rope catching the dummy steer in a single fluid motion.

You make another lap before you let yourself study Joel.

He’s riding his big red mare, her muscles rippling in the sun as she powers forward at a lope. Joel’s hand is steady on the reins, his posture relaxed but exact. Every movement he makes is calculated, and deliberate, yet to an untrained eye seems completely natural and fluid. Like he and his horse were born to do it. He barely shifts to ask the mare to pivot. Her body arcs beautifully, bending around his leg as they make a sharp turn toward the roping dummy.

You’ve seen good riders before, but there’s something different about the way works. He doesn’t just ride—he leads. Every muscle he moves is a quiet conversation between him and his horse. It’s seamless and controlled. And damn if it isn’t mesmerizing.

He leans forward slightly, and your mouth goes dry watching his arm flexing as he tosses the rope with precision. His red mare halts instantly, kicking up dirt around her hooves. Joel adjusts his hat with a smooth motion, you can see the focus on his face. Serious and competitive.

You swallow hard as you change directions, still walking on a loose rein very aware that Blue’s sweat is long dried by now. You feel warmth burning in your core that has nothing to do with your tired muscles. He looks good out there. Too good. The kind of good that makes you think about things you shouldn’t be thinking about. Your eyes drift, taking in the way his jeans hug his thighs, the line of his back as he shifts in the saddle. You imagine his hands, thick, precise fingers. Something coils hot and tight within you. You shake your head at yourself. You are not having those thoughts about Joel Miller who thinks you don’t know your ass from your elbow. You swing your leg over the back of the saddle dropping to your feet. Loosening your cinch and still trying to shake your thoughts out of your mind when you hear Tommy hollering at you.

“Watch and learn, neighbor!” Tommy calls, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You glance up, cheeks burning as Tommy tips his hat your way with his charismatic grin. Joel follows his gaze, dark eyes locking on you for a moment. Tommy gives you a demonstration of his prowess with the rope–as if you hadn’t been watching–but, Joel says nothing before turning his mare and heading in the opposite direction.

His cool look sends a shiver down your spine.

You walk back to the barn, and the sound of their horses fades behind you, but that image of Joel sears into your mind. His commanding and maddeningly attractive exhibition just stoked a fire you’re desperate to ignore.

You have the same stubborn streak as your father and you’d be damned if you’re gonna cave and ask Joel to use his facility. You find a summer barrel series in a nearby town with low entry fees.

You start hauling Blue out to get some experience. At first, his runs are clumsy, but as you get your miles in, his turns get tighter, his confidence grows, and your times get quicker. And you quickly feel like the two of you are ready to enter your first rodeo.

The air smells like dirt and livestock, as you unload your horse and tie him to the side of your trailer. There’s a hum from the generators, buzzing conversations, and the occasional whinny of a horse or thud as one paws at the dirt.

You had made a point not to ask if Joel and Tommy would be attending, but you catch his familiar shoulders tapering to his slim waist, with one boot on the lowest rung of the fence a few yards ahead when you head toward the warmup pen before your division gets called. He isn’t even facing your direction but you instinctively square your shoulders and raise your chin. You wonder if he’s just here to see if you’re going to fail. Or maybe he’s just watching to earn some other woman’s favor.

Something ugly simmers in your blood and your chest feels tight. You attribute it to irritation, refusing to acknowledge any alternate reasons. You’re going to prove him wrong.

You’re still staring at him when he turns to say something to the man standing next to him. You grit your teeth. Superstitious–as every cowboy is–his usual salt and pepper scruff is neatly trimmed, he’s got on a pair of deep blue Wranglers–nicer than you figure he owned, and a crisp long-sleeve pearl snap. Dressed to earn Lady Luck’s favor.

The devil on your shoulder whispers a thought in Linda’s teasing voice. He doesn’t need to do all that to get lucky. You take a deep breath and peel yourself away from the sight. You’re here to focus on Blue, not your asshole neighbor and his conquests.

Despite trying to let go of your issues with Joel, a scowl stays plastered on your face throughout your warmup. Blue picks up on your distraction and he’s a little hot, as you head him toward the alleyway when it’s time for your run. Against your will, your eyes search for Joel. A wash of heat floods your veins when you find him already watching you. He mouths good luck at you and you can only manage a curt smile before you’re pushing Blue to a lope, making one tight circle before you cross the start. The sound of his hooves pounding into the dirt matches the blood pounding in your ears. The burst of adrenaline is instant. The run isn’t perfect. He breaks his stride around the second barrel and you lose time nudging him back into rhythm, but you finish the pattern without knocking anything over. The announcer calls your time as you slow to a trot, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. It’s such a blur you don’t think to look for Joel. You don’t think about him at all until you’re untacking Blue at your trailer, brushing sweat marks from his coat when movement near another horse trailer catches your eye.

Joel stands close to a woman with long, shiny dark hair. She flashes a wide smile, leaning toward him and resting a hand lightly on his arm. The sight makes you grimace. You shove down the feeling. “None of our business,” you mutter to Blue as you keep brushing. But, your eyes flick back despite yourself. She tilts her head, laughing at something he says, or doesn’t say, you can’t tell. He stands stiffly, hands in his pockets. You can’t see his face from your angle.

The woman reaches to touch him again, and you feel a headache brewing in the back of your skull. Joel glances away from her, landing in your direction for the shortest moment, before his weight shifts and he takes a small step back. You scowl again, tossing your brush back into the tack room shelf with more force than necessary making Blue toss his head. Your heart thuds louder than it should and you run a hand over Blue’s cheek, murmuring softly to calm both him and yourself. When you glance back, the woman is still talking, but Joel’s looking at you again. His dark eyes are sharp under the brim of his hat. He nods, barely noticeable, before turning away from the woman entirely. You clench your jaw, forcing yourself to take another deep breath before loading Blue back into the trailer to head out. You weren’t sticking around to watch any of the other events. Especially not the team roping.

You smile when you pull onto the highway. You count the day as a success and feel ready to enter a bigger rodeo. The idea makes you glow. Finally feeling like you’re getting back to your true self. You feel like a new woman compared to the version of you that showed packed up her truck desperate to put miles between your ex-fiance and your corporate nightmare.

“It’s not that bad,” you argue, crossing your arms as your dad leans against the truck with a skeptical look. “The hell it’s not,” he replies, gesturing toward the trailer. “That’s floor is one step away from dropping your horse onto the damn highway.” You sigh, dragging a hand over your face. “I know,” you grumble lowly, disappointment sinking in your stomach. “I was just hoping you’d see something I didn’t.” “Sorry kid,” your dad says. “S’fine. I’ll figure something out. Or just eat the entry fees I paid.” “Or,” he says pointedly, “you could ask Joel.” You glare at him, fire burning in your chest. “I don’t need his charity.” “Ain’t charity,” he interrupts your sour attitude with a gruff tone. “He’s practically family. Don’t let your pride get in the way of your goals.” The words stick, heavy and uncomfortable. You’ve got half a mind to keep arguing. Joel might be your dad’s best friend, but he’s nothing like family to you. But before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re dragging yourself up the steps of Joel’s front porch.

You realize as your boot hits the last step that you’ve never been to his place. He always offers to have you and your dad over for a whiskey or for a fire out back, but you always brush him off. You see why your dad takes him up on it though.

It’s beautifully made with stunning wooden chairs and a bench for seating on the porch. You’d consider complimenting him on his craftsmanship if you weren’t already dreading what you’re about to say. Joel opens the door, his hat already in hand like he’d been expecting you. “Somethin’ wrong?” “Yeah,” you admit, trying not to hesitate. “Uh, trailer’s shot,” you point your thumb in the direction of your dad’s place. “Was wondering if you’d have room in your trailer to haul Blue with your horses.”

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches. The gleam in his eye makes you want to say never mind. You brace for a smart-ass remark. “‘Course,” he replies. You blink, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. “Of course?”

He leans back into the house to grab something, then he’s handing you his keys. “Load your tack up tonight, and get your bags in the living quarters.” “No need,” you shake your head, leaving him holding the keys between you. “I’ve got the truck. And a tent.”

Joel leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. You pointedly avoid how his sleeves strain around his biceps. “You’re ridin’ with us. Not riskin’ that truck dyin’ on the highway.” You glare, lips pressed into a thin line. Of course, you’ve got a trailer with a busted floor and a truck with more miles than you’d like to admit on it—while Joel has a shiny truck from this decade and a horse trailer with a tack room and living quarters. Probably has AC and everything.

You catch the glint in his eye, realizing you’re the one asking for a favor and you steel yourself, reminding yourself to bite your tongue.

“Fine,” you grit out, holding your hand out for the keys.

The truck hums beneath you, the steady vibration doing nothing to ease the thick tension in the cab. Tommy’s passed out in the back seat, his hat tipped low over his face, leaving you alone with Joel and the steady drone of the country ballad playing through the speakers.

“You always listen to this?” you ask, breaking the silence as you reach toward the radio.

Joel glances at you, one hand resting casually on the wheel. “Somethin’ wrong with it?”

“Didn’t know you were a ‘sad songs for sad cowboys’ kind of guy,” you mutter, flicking through stations before he can answer.

Joel doesn’t stop you, but when you pause on something irritatingly upbeat, his hand moves toward the knob just as yours does.

Your fingers brush his, and the contact jolts through you like a live wire.

You pull back instinctively, your breath catching as your heart slams against your ribs. Joel pauses for half a second before retreating, his knuckles tightening faintly on the wheel.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Joel stares ahead, his jaw clenching as his thoughts spiral. He knew telling you to ride with him was playing with fire. But he can’t stay away from the heat. You glance out the window, pretending the spark you felt wasn’t real. It’s just Joel, always better than you, always an ass. The charged silence stretches on though, every shift of his hand on the wheel drawing your attention. Every shallow breath reminds you of his proximity.

“This’ll do,” you say tightly. Joel huffs softly, but says nothing, keeping his eyes pointed straight ahead. Neither of you speaks again for the rest of the drive, but the weight of the accidental touch remains, thick and suffocating. The rodeo grounds are already alive with motion by the time you’re parked and unloading the horses. The evening sun casts an amber glow over the circus of trucks, tents, and trailers. You help get the portable fence set up and the horses settled before the three of you head off to check in at the visitor's tent and get your meal tickets.

The smell of barbecue wafts through the air and you get in line to fill your plate. Folks chat eagerly. Tommy strikes up an easy conversation with a group of riders near the picnic tables.

You watch as some folks head back to their campsites, hesitating on whether you want to do the same or find a table. Joel passes you and sits at a nearby table and before you can debate any longer a voice interrupts your thoughts. “Long travel day?” the wiry cowboy drawls, tipping his hat and gesturing to the bench next to him. “Take a seat.”

You give him a quizzical look, but you’re hungry enough to take the opportunity to sit and eat.

“Name’s Cody.” He introduces himself while you eat. He tells you he’s a bull rider. Asks if you’re runnin’ barrels tomorrow. He’s chatty with a smooth and easy voice and a playful look on his youthful face. You answer his questions, politely, suddenly keenly aware of Joel’s gaze boring into the back of your head. It makes your spine prickle with something you can’t name. The heat of his stare burns into you, fierce and unwavering, making every laugh at Cody’s jokes feel like defiance. Cody continues on and you find it easy to listen to his stories, but you can’t help feeling compelled to glance over your shoulder betraying the distraction you’re trying to ignore. Cody points out some of the other riders he knows and invites you to come hang out at their campsite and have a drink. You’re still searching for the right words when you catch sight of Joel walking swiftly past your table. He mutters something to Tommy–who seems to be proving Linda’s rumors true with a woman wrapped around his arm and batting her lashes at him–and stalks off. Your stomach twists as you watch him go, irritation flaring hot and fast. “The fuck is his problem?” you mutter under your breath, turning back to your plate. Cody shrugs, clearly oblivious. “Who knows? Anyway—” But you’ve already tuned him out, your eyes following the path Joel struts down before he disappears.

You joined Cody and his friend for one drink, hoping it would ease your nerves. He had a kind group, a little rough around the edges, but tough as nails like you’d expect bull riders to be. They kept your mind distracted with their wild stories, but you decided to head back to the trailer before anyone got drunk and stupid. The walk back to the trailer feels longer than it should, every step weighed down by something stirring within you, something that has you on edge. You check on the horses before pulling the door open and climbing into the living quarters. The cool night air hasn’t soothed the heat that’s been simmering within you since dinner—or since that moment in the truck if you’re honest. You toe off your boots before looking up to see Joel, leaning against the wall, his jaw set tight, and his eyes sharp as they snap to yours.

“Where’s Tommy?” you ask, realizing it’s just the two of you in the small space. “Reckon he’ll be out til the sun's up,” Joel says in a quiet, low tone. “Alright,” you nod. Another point goes to Linda for that one, you figure. Joel’s jaw remains set in that infuriatingly unreadable way that seems to be his signature look. The dim light in the trailer casts sharp shadows across his face that darken his gaze. “You enjoy yourself? With your new friend?” he asks, his voice raw, edged with something you can’t place. You stop short, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?” He steps closer, reaching past you to hang his hat on the hook by the door. “Took your time gettin’ back.” He says, his eyes flick over you, dark and assessing.

You’re acutely aware of the scent of the campfire on your shirt and beer on your lips. It swirls with his leather and bourbon musk like they were designed to enhance each other. His words sink in, cutting and daring. “What’s your point?” “Did you fuck him?” The bluntness of it knocks the breath out of you. Your mouth falls open. Shock and fury battling for control as you glare at him. “What did you just say to me?” “You heard me, sweetheart,” Joel says, his voice calm but razor-sharp. “Just wondering if that cowboy got what he was after.” It takes everything in you not to slap him across the face. “What the fuck,” you hiss, stepping closer, your fists clenched at your sides, “makes you think you’ve got the right to ask me that, Joel?”

He shrugs his shoulders, but his expression remains cold. “Lookin’ out for you. Your dad’d kill me if I didn’t.” You laugh bitterly. “Bullshit.” His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond. Silence fanning the flames within you. “You aren’t my dad,” you snap, voice trembling with rage. “And you sure as hell don’t get to tell me who I can or can’t fuck.” Joel’s eyes narrow, his shoulders stiffening as he steps even closer. “That’s not what I—” “Save it,” you cut him off, word sharp as a whip. “I don’t know why you think I’m so weak or clueless all the time. Like I can’t handle myself. Like I’m some kid you’ve gotta babysit.”

Joel’s expression hardens, his dark eyes flash with something that looks like hurt beneath his anger. “That’s what you think I see?” his words come out like a dangerous growl. “That’s how you’ve acted toward me since day one,” you fire back, stepping toe-to-toe with him. “If you don’t respect me, Joel, just stay out of my business.” His chest rises and falls sharply, his breath warm against your skin as the air between you thickens. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” he grits, voice tight with frustration. “Explain it to me then,” you challenge. Shaking with the force of everything you’ve been holding back. “Or stay away from me if I’m such a thorn in your side.” He works his jaw, and for a moment you’re glued to the corded muscle in his neck and the exposed golden brown skin of his chest. He glares at you, making no move to back off. His voice drops sinfully low and quiet. “You really wanna know?” “Yeah,” you breathe, heart pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage. “I do.” His hand moves fast, gripping your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to make your breath catch. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he accuses in a rough and uneven voice. You blink. “What?” “You heard me,” he rumbles, dark eyes locked on yours. “From the first day, you showed up here, lookin’ at me like you had somethin’ to prove.” Anger burns in your veins. “How does that make me your problem?” His grip tightens, his body presses closer. “You ain’t my problem,” he mutters. Guilt twists into his words, “Shouldn’t even be lookin’ at you like this. S’wrong.” He swallows thickly, only sharpening the edge in his voice. “But I can’t stop thinkin’ about you, and it’s pissin’ me off.” His confession hits you like a brick over the head. The trailer is silent, but the sound of the blood rushing in your ears, and your ragged exhale seems deafening.

“Then stop,” you challenge, voice trembling with defiance. “If it’s so wrong, just leave me alone.” Joel’s eyes darken, his other hand settles on your hip, fingers digging into you. “Can’t,” he says, voice so thick with frustration, it sounds like it hurts. “Don’t think I want to.”

Silence stretches and time feels thick and warped. Your ragged breaths fill the space. His eyes search for a reason to stop, but he finds none.

You don’t get a chance to reply before he drops your wrist to wrap a large hand around your jaw, pulling you into a feverish kiss. Nothing gentle about it. It’s raw and desperate, equal parts frustration and hunger. Your fingers curl into his shirt as if you could pull him any closer as your teeth scrape over his bottom lip, in a sharp, biting challenge that makes him groan low in his throat. He angles your face so he can kiss you deeper, harder, until your knees feel like they might give out. Your mind goes blank, flashing white with anger and need. All you can process is the hot slip of his tongue against yours and the sharp bristle of his facial hair against your tender lips. Your back hits the cool metal wall of the trailer before you realize your feet had even moved. Joel’s hips press into yours, pinning you against his body–solid and unrelenting. His lips trail down your jaw to your neck, the edge of his teeth scraping at your skin. The rasp of his stubble sends sparks to your core, and you dig your fingers into the hair on the back of his head. Pulling him toward you, needing him in a way that verges on painful. He lifts his mouth, breathing hotly against your damp neck. “This what you want?” he says, his tone matching the burning desperation coursing through you. “You want me to fuck it outta you? Til you can’t keep runnin’ your mouth at me?” “Shut up,” you snap, but the way your body arches into him betrays the hostility in your voice and the subtle stretch makes you keenly aware of how wet and needy you are already. He makes a low, guttural noise in his throat that makes your cunt throb. His hand slides down to grip your thigh, hitching it around his waist as he grinds into you. The hard ridge of his cock pressing into you makes you gasp. The sound you make sends heat ripping through him like wildfire. We can’t, he thinks, but the words die on his tongue. The thought of how wrong this is flashes in his mind, but it’s drowned out by the way you’re looking at him. The way your nails dig into his shoulders as you pull him closer, your breath hot and shaky against his cheek. He can’t think. He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to. Not when you’re so soft and warm and furious beneath him. He’s helpless. His hand slips under your shirt, rough fingers brushing over soft skin, leaving a searing trail that grounds you as your mind spins. He pushes your shirt up, baring you to the dim light of the trailer. Time slips back into the warped, syrupy dimension as you absorb the unbidden lust and awe in his eyes. You’re the one exposed, but you feel like you’re seeing something just as naked in his face. Time catches up and you pull your shirt the rest of the way over your head, committing to sin wordlessly. You shiver at the sudden contrast between the heat radiating off of his body and the cool air hitting your flesh. “Joel,” you gasp, your head tipping back as his mouth closes over your nipple like a wet furnace. His teeth graze the sensitive skin causing you to spew breathy curses over the top of his head. They only spur him on. He sucks hard enough that you tug him off you by his hair, but he only switches to your breast, delivering the same delicious punishment as his fingers roll and pinch at the wet, puffy, flesh he abandons.

It’s like he can predict your needs before your mind can, biting down harshly enough to pull you away from the angry, hissing thoughts and keep you desperate to stay lost in the physical sensations. He palms the full weight of your tits, gliding his thumbs over both, slick and shining with his saliva. He presses them together before releasing them. “Goddamn,” he murmurs, taken by the way they bounce more perfectly than he could’ve imagined. It’s wrong to have you topless and panting beneath him, but his name falls so sweetly from your lips that it doesn’t matter. The heavy-lidded look you have makes him feel confirmed. When you moan lowly as the pain melts into pleasure when he kneads your soft, slippery skin, his cock aches and weeps for you. He needs more. He needs everything. Needs to wreck you, to see you so fucked out the only thing you can say is his name.

It’s an exquisite brand of torture.

You hate how good this feels, how badly you want him to keep going. To show you every move he knows. To break you down with his hands and mouth. You should push him away, tell him to fuck off. But your body doesn’t want that. You don’t want that. You roll your hips against his, begging wordlessly for more, as you tug at his hair hard enough to pull a throaty groan from deep within him. The sound he makes nearly has you short-circuiting, but he doesn’t give you the respite to fall apart. His hands are everywhere, frenzied like he’s losing control. Hasn’t he already lost it? You wonder distantly. Slowly, you realize he’s littering dirty little threats and filthy promises into your warm flesh. You hate the way his words make you shiver, how much you crave every pledge he makes. “You’re gonna feel me for days, sweetheart,” he husks hotly, just behind your ear. It’s a commitment you unwittingly pray he keeps. Some part buried deep within you blooms at the idea of feeling every memory of his touch as you go about your day tomorrow. “Get to it then,” you snap, hands reaching for his belt with urgency. Joel doesn’t need any more encouragement. His hand slips between your legs, teasing you through the soaked fabric of your underwear, and the sound you make at the pressure—the breathless, needy, whimper—makes him forget how to breathe. All he knows is that he needs to hear it again while he fucks into your soft, warm cunt.

He wrenches your jeans open and works them down your thighs as you tear at his shirt buttons. He’s barely able to let you go long enough to pull his shirt off; watching you kick your pants off the rest of the way makes him nearly trip over himself.

The air between your naked chests is sticky and warm. He dips his hand beneath the hem of your underwear, fingertips gliding over the soft hair on your mound making his eyes roll back.

The edges of your vision blurs when he prods two big fingers between your slick lips, but you’re glued to the way his dark eyes are nearly black now. He looks every bit possessed by a beast, and fuck if you aren’t driven by the sick desire to make him snap.

“You like having me touch you like this, don’t you?” His voice drips with need underscored by the slick sounds coming from between your legs.

“No.” You rasp, as you grind your clit against his palm. He pumps two fingers inside of you, curling them just right to make you moan.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he drawls, thick like honey. You grip the muscle flexing in his arm to steady yourself. His concentration and competence makes your walls flutter around his fingers.

“You’re gonna come for me, right here.” He declares.

You shake your head. “I’m not—fuck—I won’t.”

“You will,” he interrupts. Dark and calm. His pace quickens, fingers focused on the spot inside you that makes you a mindless wreck. His thumb draws circles around your clit.

“Can feel how close you are.” Your hips rock and your muscles all pull taut. “If you’d quit fuckin’ fighting me.” He somehow crowds even closer to you. You feel like you’re about to snap when he pulls his hand away, leaving you feeling empty and ragged. “But you’re too fuckin’ stubborn, ain’t you?”

“Joel,” you whine, angry and devastated. “I hate you.”

You grip the back of his neck with one hand, and both of you watch as he finally takes himself out of his jeans.

The view makes you salivate.

Everything about Joel is rugged and masculine. The muscles carved into his arms and chest. The trail of dark hair leading down his stomach that thickens around his base. The deep flushed color of his thick cock. The ragged inhale he makes when he presses the blunt tip against the drenched fabric that clings to your swollen folds.

“Say it,” he growls, rubbing along your barely clothed seam.

“I hate you,” you whisper unconvincingly, digging your nails into the back of his neck and arching off of the wall.

“Tell me you want it.” You can’t tell if it’s a demand or a plea. This strain in his voice and the muscles tensing across his broad frame make you tremble.

“I don’t.” You lie. You snake one hand down your body, peeling your ruined panties to the side so he can slot his tip at your dripping entrance. You tilt forward, impatiently, stretching around him just enough to override your filter.

“Oh, fuck,” you start. Unable to stop the stream of whispered curses from rolling off your tongue.

“Yeah,” Joel rasps, inching deeper inside of your tight, warm walls. He feeds himself into you slowly, the overwhelming fullness as you adjust makes your thighs shake. He pulls out and you whine, unable to say a word before he’s moving, dipping you onto the thin trailer mattress and slipping your underwear down your legs.

“Gonna fuck you full,” he mutters. You spread your legs, making room for him to settle above you. He draws his cock back through your lips, coating himself in your arousal before driving into you with a powerful stroke.

Your lips part, sucking in air as he sets a pace. He fills you deeper than you’ve ever felt, relentlessly making room for himself as he saws in and out of you. It’s powerful and primal, but refined by his athleticism. Fluid rolling hips and his strong core make you see stars as he fucks into you.

“That’s right,” he rasps above you, and you realize he’s responding to you.

“So good,” you’re murmuring, “so full.”

“Taking it like you were made for it,” he says to himself. The intensity of your tight, warm pussy coaxing him deeper makes him spill his thoughts. Unfiltered.

He sets a pace, slow and deliberate at first, each stroke filling you completely before pulling back, leaving you desperate for more. The friction is maddening, plunging his length into your sensitive walls as he pins you beneath his hard body.

“You feel that?” His breath is hot against your neck. “Feel how deep I am? How I’m splittin’ you open?”

You nod frantically, your nails digging into his shoulders as you whimper his name.

Joel’s control falters at the sound of it, his hips snapping harder, faster, as his desperation takes over. “Thought about this,” he rasps, his voice hoarse. “Fuckin’ hell, I’ve thought about this too damn much. But you’re better than I ever imagined.”

His confession sends a jolt through you, but you’re too far gone to process it, your body tightening around him as pleasure builds again, sharper and hotter than before.

“Joel, please.”

“Fuck,” he chokes the word out, his pace faltering for a split second before he slams into you harder, deeper. “Say that again.”

“Please,” you whisper, your voice breaking as your release breaks through you, leaving you gasping and cursing.

Joel’s hips snap erratically, pinning you into the mattress with a tight grip, as he buries his cock as deep as he can inside of you.

“Gonna fill you up,” he mutters, his voice ragged. “Every drop, sweetheart.” Make you mine, he barely keeps the last thought in his head.

“Yes, yes, yes.” You chant as your body jolts with each collision with his.

“Fuck,” Joel mutters, cock driving deeper and swelling at your words. “That’s it. Take it all, sweetheart.”

Your release hits again, your body trembling violently. Or maybe it never stopped—he only drew it out of you in waves.

Joel curses low, his hips slamming into yours one last time before you feel him pulsing inside of you, hot and thick.

When he pulls back, his eyes linger on the mess between your thighs. “Look at that,” he mutters, his voice low and reverent. His wide hands slide up the back of your thighs, bending your knees to your chest so he can watch the mix of your releases glistening and dripping from you.

He takes one hand and drags it through the mess, pushing it back up inside of you. You squirm, sensitive to the touch, but fixated on whatever is burning behind his eyes.

You wait for him to say something characteristically Joel.

To dismiss you as naive, to rub it in that he broke you down. That he had you crying his name. That you shouldn’t have done that.

But it never comes.

You’re convinced he was trying to put you in your place. To give you another reminder that he thinks you’re useless and clueless. You’re too wrapped up in the thoughts to speak or move.

He doesn’t say anything at all which nearly makes it worse.

Instead, he pins you under a heavy arm, holding you against him until you both doze off. Succumbing to exhaustion.

-> PART TWO

dividers by @/saradika-graphics 🤠🤎

tagging the usual babes in case you want some cowboy!joel for christmas too:

@lovely-vamp-princess @gothcsz @auteurdelabre @adoreyouusugar

@swankyorange @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ivoryandflame @magneticecstasy

@indiegirlunited @syd-djarin @harriedandharassed @bbyanarchist

@94namkooksworld

#pedrostories #pedrostoriesgift24 #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal character fanfic

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zeebee3 · 9 days ago

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Mother!! Your last fic slapped so hard? Omg. You're genius.

I wanted to ask you for some recommendations.👀 I love everything you've ever written, so I'm sure I'll love what you've enjoyed reading too.

If/when you have time, of course.💙

Ahhhhh okay this is going to be a long list, I can already tell 😂 I've tried to limit myself but there are SO MANY fics out there that I eat up again and again, and there will never be a comprehensive list of stuff I've enjoyed because so far, it's truly endless.

That said, here are the first handful that jumped to mind which I've read at least twice (that's got to be a metric of something, right?). I'm going to do the absolute barest summary for them because really, the author's summary and tags do more good than I ever will.

It also goes without saying that every fic by any of these writers is a 10/10 slam dunk, so make a cup of tea and scroll their work lists for more gems. I hope you enjoy!

Note: all of them are rated E

In no particular order...

Dramione

While They Were Sleeping by Dizzle00. The sexual tension in this one!!!!!! pls. I die, even on rereads. Mind the tags as it's an infidelity fic (dating not married).

Full Tilt by Khakis. BDD and a Hermione who is determined to take it. You're welcome in advance.

I Won't Kiss a Death Eater by Orolin. Wartime, forbidden love, clandestine meetings, THE SPICE, the moody vibes!! The podfic of this (linked at the bottom) is also insanely good.

A Healer's Guide to Mating with a Werewolf by sad_millennial. The build up and storytelling is so wonderful, it's truly mind boggling that this clocks in under 8k words for how rich and full of life it is!

The Horny Virgin Chronicles by SilverDragonGemini. 8th year, Hermione asks Draco to help her learn what she likes in bed. Every chapter is amazing, I read it in a single sitting and will be rereading for sure!

Serpents & Skulls by Wanderingfair. Muggle uni AU, secret society, mystery and romance! The moody, dark academia vibes are exceptional.

horny devil by SultryNuns. Draco grows horns, and they are sensitive. I know, I know--say less.

Mount by molivier. Brazilian Ju Jitsu as foreplay. AGAIN, say less.

I was just thinking about it, I'm not gonna do it by malfoyesque. Draco pulls out every time...until now. This is the Draco POV of our dreams.

The Wandmaker by Charingfae. Draco makes magical sex toys; Hermione buys one 🙃

A Marriage of Inconvenience by Beforetherealbook. The title says it all--add in virgin!Draco, pining!Draco, and baby we're cookin'

The Summer After by youhavemyswordandbow. Set in the summer before 8th year, Draco is sent to live with the Grangers. I have a crush on this whole story.

Triads

The Cock Tongue Incident by neilistic. (Hermione/Draco/Astoria). Hermione is summoned to Draco and Astoria's home to help with something. I'm full-on on my knees for this Astoria, and the premise is so unique and so so well done!

Tarnished by westxnorthwest. (Draco/Theo/Hermione). 8th year, the start of a triad, no prior Dreo (which is very very fun to see bloom).

Drarry

Only for October by DodgerKedavra. Every chapter is written based on the 2023 HP Cocktober prompt. Every chapter is also FANTASTIC 🫠

Former Things Come to Mind by DodgerKedavra. Okay I'm cheating on my self-imposed "one fic per author" rule but I simply can't not suggest everyone read this one. The prose. THE CHARACTERIZATIONS. I tear up every reread.

That Old Black Magic by bixgirl1. God-tier marriage law fic. This is the one that got me into that trope to begin with. PHEW.

Lumos by birdsofshore. Another classic Drarry but hey, if you haven't read it, let this be your cue!

OKAY that's it for now, but I am curating a list of my favorite other/rare pair fics as well so once I get that together, I'll do a follow up post.

Annddddd now I want to go reread half of these AGAIN 😅

#fic rec #ao3 fanfic #dramione #hp fic #hp fanfiction #hermione granger #draco x hermione #draco malfoy #read on ao3 #drarry #drarry fanfiction #harry x draco

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afterdarkprincess · 4 months ago

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Unfinished Business

Pairing: CM Punk/Drew McIntyre Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2,091 Summary: Drew hears Punk's remarks to Cathy after Bash in Berlin and seeks him out in his hotel room.

AO3 Link

Tag squad: @feelschicken @elementaldoughnut12 @harmshake @thlayli-ra @sparklylap @yugiohio (if anyone else wants tagged on my Punkintyre fics pls let me know!)

This fic is Explicit and contains: Dirty Talk, Canon-typical violence, blood, Anal fingering, Rimming, Anal Sex, obsessive behavior. (Full list on AO3)

🖤🩸🖤🩸

Punk feels the weight of the day settle into him. The jet lag that still hasn’t fully settled down, the ache in his bones that follows a hard fought bout. He’d showered off the sweat and blood that had covered him post-match at the arena, so now as he boards the elevator up to his hotel room he looks forward to just crashing into the comfort of his bed.

He checks his phone again, flicking through his social media profiles, trying to convince himself he’s just passing time and not looking for one name in particular.

Still nothing.

He’d figured Drew would have something to say by now, but he reminds himself that it doesn’t really matter. He meant what he said to Cathy backstage. With the bracelet back, Drew is in the past. It’s time to get back to what he’s really desired since he came back to the WWE, a world title.

The elevator comes to a stop, and with a soft chime the door opens to his floor. Punk takes a few steps out and rounds the corner before he stops dead in his tracks.

Well so much for him being in the past.

Down the hall sitting against the door to his hotel room is unmistakably Drew, though his face is covered by his dark hair and a hoodie.

His heart rate picks up, dumb he thinks since he kicked this guys ass just a few hours ago. With the bracelet back on his wrist, he doesn’t have anything to fear from Drew now.

He contemplates saying something, calling out before approaching, but if he knows Drew he’s already noticed his presence in the hallway. Probably clocked him by smell alone when the elevator doors opened.

Punk takes a breath and strides forward. Drew doesn’t look up.

“Hey,” He nudges Drew’s shin with the toe of his shoe. “Ain’t you got somewhere else to be man? You’re really not beating the whole obsessed with me allegations doin’ shit like this-“

The joke dies on his tongue as Drew finally looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, but they’re more lifeless than he’s ever seen. It’s unnerving to see that look on Drew, those insanely blue eyes of his usually are so lit up, full of fire when they gaze upon him.

He should be happy, should be proud to have beaten the fight out of this man that’s wished him harm for months on end. But somehow he can’t find it in himself to be pleased about what he sees.

“Did ya mean it?” Drew’s words are soft, barely audible even in the quiet of the hallway. “What ya said?”

So he did see that.

Punk fishes in his pocket for his key card, unlocks the door and steps inside, holding the door open.

“Come inside, man. Let’s talk.”

Drew looks frustrated, but stands all the same and follows Punk inside.

Punk motions him to the chair and takes a seat on the king size bed. Drew looks uncomfortable and out of place here, almost like a caged animal. His eyes drift to Punk’s wrist, where the bracelet falls down his arm, elastic worn out.

Punk sighs, “Listen, this has been fun and everything-“ Putting it mildly ”But I came back to WWE with a goal in mind. And you said after Summerslam, you wanted to put this rivalry behind you too, so…”

Drew’s eyes slowly moved to meet his. “Aye, but I still had the bracelet then.”

“Meaning?”

“I still had a piece of you.” Some of the fire that Punk has come to know so well returns to Drew’s face.

He can’t deny the thrill that runs through him, but he doesn’t want to give Drew the satisfaction.

“C’mon, isn’t there anything else you wanna do? You could go after Gunther, he’s been a pain in your ass before.” The words are hollow and unconvincing, even to himself.

Drew shakes his head. “I don’t want anyone else, don’t ya get it? I need you. All the years I’ve been workin’ here, I’ve never had a fraction of the success as I’ve had chasing you.”

Punk scoffs, “You know that’s not how this business works.”

“It is when you’re CM bloody Punk!” Drew spits venomously, getting worked up. He takes a few breaths before continuing. “That’s not all though.”

Something settles over Drew’s face, a steely determination. He slowly descends to the floor, eyes never leaving Punk, watching his reaction. Drew crawls toward him on his hands and knees, calling to Punk’s mind his display at Wrestlemania. He fights to keep his face neutral, unsure of Drew’s angle here.

The Scotsman crawls right up to the side of the bed, resting back on his heels and staring up at him. His hands hover above Punk’s knees, so close to touching.

“I could feel ya,” He says, voice thick and low. “In the ring, you were- you cannot lie to me now, I know you desire this too.”

His big hands finally touch Punk’s skin, and it sends a shock through Punk’s system that rivals any smack from the strap he received earlier.

Almost on auto-pilot his hands move, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Drew’s ear before burying his hands into the dark strands. Drew can’t take all the power here, this is a delicate dance they’ve been doing together.

“Could you blame me, seeing you like that?” He leans forward, bringing their faces close. “It was intoxicating.”

Punk feels his dick filling again, as it had in the ring. Something about seeing Drew McIntyre on his knees just drives him wild, and he’s tired of denying it.

Drew’s eyes catch the tenting of his shorts, and he grins, letting his hands drift up to Punk’s thighs. “Ya gonna make me beg for it?”

“You know what? I think I will.” Punk leans back, removing one hand from Drew’s hair so he can unbutton his shorts. “Tell me how badly you’ve wanted this.”

His hand cups his growing erection, and he’s not sure who groans louder, him or Drew. It’s the arm that bears the bracelet, stretched out now as it is.

Drew’s hand reaches for it, holding on to the beads and the skin beneath them, pulling both towards his face. His tongue, thick and pink, licks at the plastic. “When I had this, any moment I wasn’t in the ring or in the gym, I was touchin myself, pretendin’ it was you. Done much filthier things than just keepin’ it in me briefs.”

Punk pulls his free hand from Drew’s hair to his chin, grip tight. “Go on.”

“All I could think about, all the time.” Drew let go of his arm and began unzipping the hoodie, revealing bare skin beneath. “Like you were my own personal demon, tempting me into filth and sin.” The fabric drops to the floor, and Punk drinks in the sight of Drew’s skin covered in welts.

His masterpiece.

“In locker rooms, behind hotel doors, wherever I could get even a glimpse of privacy. It got risky, when I’d moan yer name in the showers, three fingers shoved in my arse and tuggin my dick. D’ya know how embarrassin’ that is?”

Drew unbuttons his jeans and shoves them down his thighs, exposing the thick length of him. Punk figured he’d be packing, but it’s different when faced with all 8 inches of angry red cock. He feels his mouth water.

“You think you deserve to have me? The best in the world?” Punk can’t help but poke at the bear.

“No,” Drew growls. “I deserve better, but yer gonna fuck me anyway. Cause yer just as sick as I am.”

“Damn straight,” Punk laughs. “Get on the bed before I change my mind. No clothes- I wanna see every mark I’ve put on you.”

Drew groans, but does as he’s asked, rising from his knees before kicking out of his jeans.

Punk stands on wobbly feet, moving to his duffel to retrieve the bottle of lube he keeps tucked away inside.

He watches Drew settle on the bed, admires what a pretty picture he makes on his hands and knees, hole peeking out between the meat of his thick cheeks.

Punk quickly divests himself of his clothes, but grabs one more item from his bag before returning to the bed.

He rubs a soothing hand through the soft hair that coats Drew’s upper thighs and ass, giving one cheek a light squeeze. The pale untouched skin stands in contrast to the red lines that cover his back and torso.

Punk can’t leave the job unfinished.

His fingers tighten around the leather belt he’d pulled from the bag.

SMACK

Red blooms, leaving an imprint on Drew’s ass as the man writhes and groans, biting into a pillow to contain his scream.

Punk watches Drew’s cock drip precum pathetically, dripping onto the sheets below.

“Beautiful,” he mutters, running his thumb along the mark.

Drew pants, muscles tensing. “You didn’t get enough of that earlier?”

“I missed a spot, that’s all.” He lets his fingers wander to Drew’s crack, already a little slick with sweat. He teases along the furl of Drew’s asshole, petting at the damp hair that surrounds it, taking in the earthy masculine scent.

No way Drew showered after their match, smelling this rank. But Punk wouldn’t have him any other way.

He sucks his thumb into his mouth, coating it with some saliva.

“You fall asleep back there, Punker?” Drew huffs impatiently.

Punk changes his mind, and spits on his pointer and middle fingers instead before plunging them inside of Drew’s hole. He doesn’t meet much resistance, but the Scotsman howls anyway, and its music to his ears.

He takes his time, exploring the soft squishy heat of Drew’s insides, marveling at how easily his body yields for him, the way his walls cling to his fingers when he pulls them out.

It’s like Drew was made for him specifically, nothing feels more natural.

He adds his ring finger inside, watches in fascination as his rim stretches to accept it. A thought crosses his mind and he can’t help but indulge himself, pulling his fingers free and watching Drew’s hole wink before replacing his fingers with his mouth.

Punk licks around the rim before sinking his tongue inside, giving it a filthy kiss. He savors the salty sweet earthy taste of his opponent, his nemesis, his lover. Drew’s thighs shake and tremble beneath him, his moans unintelligible.

He comes up for air, licking at his lips as he watches Drew’s cock weep.

Punk’s own dick is aching and hard between his legs, completely neglected this far. He palms it before grabbing the lube, drizzling some on his dick and spreading it over his length.

He nestles himself between Drew’s cheeks, rutting in his crack.

Drew keens, hips rocking back in frustration. “Are ya gonna fuck me or not, ya daft bastard?”

Punk reaches forward and wraps his fingers in the hair at the base of Drew’s neck, giving it a tug. Drew’s back bows beautifully, arching back to him, allowing him to breathe his next words into Drew’s ear.

“Be patient, or you won’t be getting my dick at all.” He takes a moment to nip at Drew’s earlobe, just hard enough to sting. “Now flip over, I wanna see your face as I fuck you.”

Drew wastes no time in flipping over, legs flopping open creating the perfect space for Punk to fill.

Punk grabs the closest pillow to him and motions Drew’s hips up, stuffing the pillow under. His knees will thank him later.

The action causes the bracelet to slide back down his arm to his wrist. The way this thing is stretched out now it moves all over the place, but it gives him an idea.

He hooks his thumb under the beads, stretching it over his knuckles until it dangles free. Punk grins, watching the way Drew’s eyes follow each swaying movement.

Punk lifts one of Drew’s legs, almost like he’s going for a pin, but instead of applying pressure he lets the dangling beads brush up against Drew’s skin. He moves slowly, sensually, watching the plastic catch on the thick body hair that covers Drew’s body.

When he gets to the soft skin at Drew’s hip, the heat of Drew’s cock draws him like a magnet. His own cock throbs, and he adjusts his hips to rub their lengths together before wrapping his hand around them both. He keeps his grip loose with the bracelet between his fingers, rolling the beads around the sensitive flesh.

Drew’s head falls back against the pillow as he mewls in pleasure at the sensation, and Punk chokes back a cry at finally getting some action on his dick. A mix of their precum coats the beads, leaving them slick and sticky in Punk’s palm.

“Open up,” Drew obeys for once without complaint, jaw going slack and letting his tongue loll out of his mouth, ready to receive whatever Punk wants to give him.

Punk lets the bracelet hang a few inches above Drew’s waiting mouth, watches as a drop forms and falls before landing on Drew’s tongue and he moans, tasting both of them together.

Fuck it.

He lets the bracelet fall into Drew’s mouth, the beads obscured by his tongue suckling up their combined juices.

It’s obscene. It should be revolting, but he has to concentrate for a moment to keep himself from coming before he can even get inside Drew. He reaches inside Drew’s mouth and takes the bracelet back, sliding it back onto his wrist.

Drew’s face is a mix of confusion and indignant anger and hunger, and before Punk knows what his next move is, he smashes their lips together.

It’s like an extension of their matches, desperate and intense. Their tastes are mixed between their mouths as their tongues knock into each other and intertwine.

Punk’s not sure how long the kiss lasts, he finally breaks to come up for air, unable to wait any longer to finally get inside Drew.

“You ready for the real thing?” He grins, holding himself up and adjusting his hips.

Drew stares up at him with stars in those deep blue eyes and nods. If only Punk had known that this is how to shut the damn Scot up he’d have done this ages ago.

He presses inside, reveling in the tight heat of Drew’s body as it welcomes him in. They fit together like puzzle pieces, like this space inside of Drew was made for him to fill.

Punk draws his hips back slowly, savoring each inch.

“So fuckin’ tight for me,” he grits out. “You a virgin Drew? Anybody else ever fuck you like this?”

He watches Drew’s cheeks turn pink, expression soft. “Aye, I mean I’ve buggered myself, but no one else. Only you.” It’s punctuated by a broken moan as Punk drills inside of him again.

The thought that no one else has ever explored Drew this way, that this is a side of the other man that is only for him, it drives Punk wild, snapping his hips in a rough and unforgiving rhythm.

He wants to devour and destroy Drew, mark him as his own, ruin him for anyone else that might come along and try to take the man from him.

Punk buries his face into Drew’s neck teeth first, biting and sucking at the fragile skin. His hips still humping away at Drew’s hole as he tastes the metallic tang of blood and sweat.

He’s getting close, each depraved act heating up the liquid fire in his gut that aches to fill Drew completely.

His hand moves to grab onto Drew’s cock, giving the hard flesh a few rough tugs. “Mine- you’re mine, fucker. You gonna come for me?”

Drew’s hot breath fills the space between them. “Aye, but yer mine too. Don’t even think about goin’ after anyone else.”

“Never,” Punk sighs, knowing that it’s the truth. “Nobody could understand like you.”

Drew yanks him down by the back of his neck for another bruising kiss, teeth cutting into his bottom lip. The stinging pain combined with the moans Drew makes directly into his mouth sends Punk hurtling over the edge, cock pulsing deep inside.

He releases Drew’s cock and presses his hand against the soft swell of Drew’s stomach, petting the soft hair. He imagines he can feel the heat of his come, marking the Scot just as thoroughly on the inside as he has on the outside.

“You feel my come inside of you? Is it everything you wanted?” He grinds his still pulsating dick, the slide just edging towards too much.

His vision is torn between Drew’s face and his cock as he shatters around him. Cock shooting cum all over his torso, head thrown back in rapture.

Drew’s ass is trying to milk every last drop out of him. Punk huffs a laugh, of course the greedy bitch can’t ever be satisfied.

He lets his hands wander over Drew’s chest, smearing the drying come into his skin as the man breathes through the remnants of his orgasm.

Punk’s softened dick flops out of the warmth of Drew’s hole, and he shudders through a cold chill. He puts on his best shit-eating grin for Drew, who looks peeved at the mess that’s left on his chest.

“So how’d it feel having the best in the world?”

“Fuck you, Punk.”

“Maybe later if you behave.”

#punkintyre #drewpunk #cm punk #drew mcintyre #wwe ship #wwe fanfiction

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marty-parties · 4 months ago

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Happy September 15th! Which, if you didn't know, is 'leave a comment day.' I could be wrong though, since my source is a poll i took on my other blog - either way, i've come up with a fun idea.

In honour of ‘leave a comment day’ i’ve made a list of all of my favourite fanfics/authors that I can think of atm, and I wanna leave a nice little note about them and their work! This isn’t in any particular order, tbh it’s mostly me going through my AO3 bookmarks and re-reading all of my fav fanfic, haha.

I honestly had no idea 'leave a comment day’ was a thing, and if you didn’t either, show your favourite authors that you appreciate them! Anything from a heart emoji, or a key smash, or an insightful/heartfelt comment will do wonders in terms of showing/being appreciated.

A lot of these fics below have influenced me in some way, big or small, into how/what I write today. I guess I wanted to give thanks where I could. (It’s also just really sick to make a doc full of your favourite things,and I highly implore you to do it too, even if you don’t wanna post it. (That's totally fair, no pressure.) I keep going over in my mind what I like about each fic and ‘oh, this fic is different from that, but it’s still fantastic, oh and this fic, too,’ etc. it’s such a fun little snowball effect of positivity, i definitely recommend you do this if you have time and need a pick me up, haha.)

Little note, here, If you’ve seen that I’ve read your fic, but found you’re not on the list - it’s not that I don’t like you/or work! I probably very well did enjoy it! I found as I was making this list it was taking a lot of my free time. (Free time that i’d rather like to use writing or reading more, haha.) And, I feel like this list is already so wickedly long ‘cause I can't shut my mouth to save my life, to add more might be a little bit much to read all in one go. 😅

So, please don’t be upset if that’s the case! ily *mwah*

Also, there’s a few nsfw fics mention at the end, so if you’re a minor, pls buzz off, that content isn’t for you! I also recommend you check the links on some of these fics. I think I’ve included warnings where I think they’re due, but you know yourself better than i do. And, who knows, I might’ve accidentally missed a tag or two - So, please take care of yourself out there!

You’ll notice i’ve either included a source for either the authors tumbr, or AO3. I originally was going to try and do both, but i lost steam. Each story is linked to their author, on some site, promise.

Last thing, most of these fics are in the undertale fandom, tbh. It’s been my ride or die since highschool, so i’ve got a lot of love and things to say. You won’t find any frans or foncest here, i’m a reader insert girlie, simply put, and I don't care much for those tags on the fics i read.

Quick legend here:

Complete = complete work

Ongoing = still updating / i think they’re still update

Incomplete = either hiatus, or just incomplete

So, without further ado-

Road Side Attraction (Ongoing, teen+ rating) and Dirty Laundry (Complete, teen+ rating)

By Popatochisp (AO3) / popattochisp (Tumbr)

I’m going to be grouping together fics by author. Usually when I find one I really like, i really lurk around their tumblr/AO3 for others, haha.

–AND because I can’t think of one fic without the other. I find myself going back to read them both quite frequently, usually on rotation, they’re my little bedtime stories i keep on repeat in my mind, lol.

I mean, if you’re in the undertale fandom how can you not know about pop? For me, them (and luluwrites, among a few others i can’t remember rn,) –were really impactful to me growing up, as I think it was to a lot of people. (Tbh they’re still impactful, actually. I find myself going back even pretty often to read the same fics I read in high school.) They’re like the one piece of media you read in English class in high school that sticks with you throughout your adult life. (Looking at you, monkey’s paw.)

Pop has like 1,000 different au’s to choose from, all with fantastic and deep characterizations and lore.( I don’t know how they do it, i’m only writing a/b ONE skeleton rn, and i feel like a hamster on a wheel trying to get his characterization right. I couldn’t imagine doing that for every single au they have. God damn.)

I especially love Roadside Attraction, because of how easily i can relate to it? I’m deep in the sticks, a town more populated by livestock and people. When I read this, I can really put myself i MC’s shoes - b/c i’ve been there! (Hah, maybe not the dating skeletons part, granted, lol.) But it’s such a fantastic read, I love any and all media that has a vibe that it could take place in like a rural Montana. (think scenes in Twilight. Tall spruce/pine trees, misty morning, the possibility of seeing bigfoot, that sorta thing.)

And Dirty Laundry? Come on, dude. What a love letter to the swapfell universe, truly. If you haven't read it, you gotta. The world building, and the changing POV’s are so damn good, that every chapter feels crisp, and like you’ve got a really good inside scoop of each character. You can’t knock the characterization in this one, fellas. All the dynamics are so dead on - how Sans and Papyrus interact, how Sans and Alphys – dude, even how Sans and Toriel interact read so deeply in character. Everyone’s motives and ideas make sense to each character and the conflict that it brings. Big fan. 10/10, will definitely read again and again. (There’s also a ‘Menswear addition, where the reader has he/him pronouns if that’s your cup of tea!)

Bones Picked Clean (Incomplete, teen+ rating) and) Apéritifs (Ongoing, Mature rating)

By Skelezbian (tumblr) / luluwrites (on AO3)

Woof, where do I start?? I think Bones Picked Clean is another one of the first fics I remember being a really impactful piece of undertale fanwork that stuck with me. I know they’re not the one who created the whole ‘lodge’ scenario, (if you know, you know. Thank you @Tyrant_Tortoise, we’ll be seeing you next,) but they put a spin on it that is so interesting to see. The problems feel very realistic, like something that can easily happen in a house full of busy bodies with not enough communication. And, ohmygod the MC. My first love, truly. You get to see each set of skeleton brother’s, and watch how MC’s befriends them all. Granted, they have a track record of putting themselves in dangerous situations, for reasons revealed in the fic, but they’ve got a heart of gold, and a PHD in being a sweetheart.

The horrortale boys really shine here. I haven’t read much horrortale centric fanfics, but I really like the soft horrorale’ spin. The healing after the damage, the sunshine after the storm, watching the fauna overgrow, etc. I love watching characters grow when love is shown, and here, you can really see it here. I love domesticity, and using food as a love language– which is something this fic has in spades!

(I also love love swapfell characterization in this fic, chapter 13 does a REALLY good job of walking you through the mindspace of sf pap. But in terms of favourties, i’d have to say that would be Chapter 18. You get to see sf pap’s relationship with his brother! You really see/understand their dynamic, and how they really act as brothers behind closed doors. The other reason it’s a favourite is the inherit domesticity! Maybe I’m a sucker for the normie, slice of life, but how MC and sans chit chat at the start of the chapter is so cute! )

Warning: mention of past cannibalism, past murder, past abuse? I think that’s it, maybe check the tags to be sure. They sound scary, but I promise it’s a very sweet story.

Ohh, Apéritifs. First of all, what a clever name! I’m a sucker for word play, and this title alone really did it for me, haha. (if you don’t get it, please google ‘define Apéritifs’, and you’ll be just as jazzed as me.) They’re three stand alone one-shots featuring a different skeleton each chapter. I will say, I think chapter 3 is my fav. It’s actually heavily inspired me to make one of my one shots - it’s that good! I love the world building in it, as well. Really, you can’t go wrong. (Lulu really knows how to nail flirty dialogue, in very funny ways. ‘“so, you a fan of spare ribs, or just mine?”’ (ch. 3 – Apéritifs) KILLS ME, oh my god, what a funny flirty little one-liner.

Skeleton Squatters and The LandLady (Incomplete, teen+ rating)

By Tyrant_Tortoise (AO3) tyranttortoise (Tumblr)

Man– SSLL walked so we all could run. The amount of ‘lodge’ type fanfic dynamic i’ve seen, BECAUSE of this fic is wild. I might be wrong in saying this, but I think they were the one who came up with the whole ‘lodge’ type scenario, like all the reverse harems with all the au’s.

I haven’t read anything of theirs in a long time, but I wanna pay my respects where respects are due. Tyrant made one hell of an influential fanfic, enough so, that I’m pretty sure if I had a timeline of fandom evolution on undertale alone– I think there would be a noticeable difference in the before and after SSLL. Which, is so sick!! To have influenced a whole fandom with a concept that we’re still seeing it years later? (I get that trends sorta tend to last longer in fandoms than they do irl, but isn’t that such a neat thing to think about?)

I’m going to age myself (and maybe you, reading this a bit, but–) the first chapter was posted in 2017. 2017! Isn’t that nuts to think about? I was literally 17 at the time. No WONDER it stuck with me, my teenage brain was looking for all the serotonin it could get from fandoms. (wow. Things haven't changed all that much for me, haha.

Skeleton Ex Machina (Incomplete, teen+ rating)

By Cryptid_jack (AO3)

Ohh, okay, for all the SSLL fans out there, you probably already know who cryptid_jack is. And if not, I'll gladly tell you!

They’ve made this cool ass AI AU (it’s a LOT cooler than it sounds, I promise!) in their words, ‘a fanfic of a fanfic’ that’s actually in Skeleton Squatters and The LandLady (see above.) I’d recommend reading SSLL to fully understand this - although, if you’re good at picking up context clues, or maybe don’t mind missing some context, I don’t necessarily think you’d have to, since jack does a really good job of showing the reader everything that’s going on. (although, i really recommend you do.)

I think this au is so cool, it’s literally tagged as ‘Quarantine Sans’ (which, i’ll be the first to say, that maybe that name didn’t hold up too well, with recent 2020 events, an’ all that. Pandemic aside, it’s a cool name for an AU!)

It’s also really fun to see two friends in the fandom interact with each other's works like this. Even reading the note at the start of the fic, you can just feel the camaraderie and care that went into paying each other's proper respects.

Big big ups, hats off to proper manners and friendship!

All’s Fair In Love and (Prank) War (Incomplete, teen+ rating)

By torrikor (AO3)

Ohh, this is a short and sweet 2 chapter read. I don’t the author is going to circle back to it, but i suggest you read it anyways! the idea is so so good! In essence, MC and sf sans are roommates, and MC starts a prank war. I love love love their dynamic, their bickering is a real treat to read, that, coupled with their size difference? Sign me up!

My Favorite Thing (Complete, teen+ rating) and A Conversation Starter ( Complete, teen+ rating)

By peachwhimzy (AO3) peachwhimzy-things (Tumblr)

I’m a slut for their characterization of sf pap here, oh my god. Both are so so good, and i know i must sound like a broken record by saying I love how this author interpreted his character - but i can’t help it! So many people have good ideas and ways to showcase a character! Sue me.

A Conversation Starter is another one that’s inspired me to write a little one-shot. It’s so fantastically written, sf Papyrus and MC are at a bus station, both the first human and monster either have met. The world building is subtle, but wonderfully done. MC is so damn cute in this, and so is Papyrus, who’s really just trying to keep the conversation going, lol. There’s a delightful slice of life aspect to this.

Honestly, a lot of of Peach’s work feel very domestic, and sweet, and romantic. Sorta like i’m reading a studio Ghibli movie. Do yourself a favour and go check em out!

Late Night Shift Romance (Complete, teen+ rating)

By Inumaru12 (AO3)

The one fic on here that’s not a romance,how about that. (I guess that’s not technically true. There's possibly something budding, if you squint. I always read it as platonic friendship- it’s fanfic! Read it with whatever context you’d like!)

Burgerpants and MC are at the same convenient store late at night, and there’s a robbery. Friendship ensues. I love seeing the background character of undertale, and honestly, who doesn't relate to Burgerpants? Perpetually working shitty minimum wage jobs, trying to chase his dreams - that’s rough. I appreciate a character who can give a nod to class solidarity.. I think Inmuaru12 did so well writing his character, it feels like he was plucked out of the game himself, haha.

My Dearly Detested Delivery Man, (Complete, teen+ rating) and Black Coffee (Complete, general audiences rating)

By Little_old_lady (AO3)

Lol yet another set of swap fics, haha. (Yet another great example of different interpretations of the swapfell au!)

My Dearly Detested Delivery man is so fun, I love an ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ type of fic. I love the dialogue, it’s so funny! Like almost sitcom-esk with how good the one liners are. I think my favourite thing about writing fanfic is the dialogue- but reading what other authors have cooked up is such a treat, too. I love seeing authors with a certain brand of wit/cleverness they think the character would have, and seeing their own comedy bleed through, too sometimes. Little_old_lady does a good job showing the reader what you can gleam from the characters with how they talk to each other, in a way that sets the tone for their relationship. (whether it’s platonic, romantic, etc.) There’s so many ways you can show friendship, but I think the “passion” (lmao I don’t know what else to call it!) that’s at the heart of any argument is what can create the difference between friends arguing, vs two people who could be more. (Better put, I think what I like about two characters arguing is the sorta obvious chemistry it can create.)

Black Coffee does a good job about that too! I’ll be the first and last to say that I love any characters whose love language is ‘argue’ (lol even though irl I wouldn’t last long in any relationship like that, haha. ) I can be hit or miss with a soulmate au, but there’s another layer that I think undertale adds another level to in a soulmate au-since the game established that monsters and magic are real— that it almost feels a little more plausible of an au, than say, a soulmate AU of parks and rec? (no hate on the au or parks and rec, haha. I guess it just feels more “realistic” being that undertale is already a world made of magic, that magical soulmates, is one more step into weird that also makes sense?) I also love the bro-ship mc has with pap, in this one. Coming from someone who’s constantly worked retail/with customers one-on-one, somedays you want to go ape shit, so it’s nice to see an MC who can.

Half Your Age Plus Seven (Complete, teen+ rating)

By KassyKins

Ohhh, what a little treat this was to read. Tragedy! Romance! Love-rivalry! (NOT a love triangle!) People just Trying to do their best, they’ve got it all! This is another MC i’m in love with. They know what they love, and what they’re passionate about, but when push comes to shove, they’ll choose their family over themselves every single time. I think it’s a very admirable trait to have, integrity, and the ability to self-sacrifice. I think those two tropes/characteristics can really lead a story in so many interesting directions - weather it be an MC who’s too self-sacrificing, giving parts of themselves to everyone, leaving nothing for themselves, or an MC who’s pushing themselves through the ringer trying to do what they think is right according to their integrity, burning them up in the process. In this particular case, it’s maybe a little bit of both, coupled with (sad) a slice of life meet cute, with a healthy dose of growing pains.

There’s something about it that always hits extra hard to me, the ‘thrust into the lime light, or power, or a position they have no business being in. But, they’ve got people on the line, their people to take care of, so by god they’ll try.’ There’s something so tragic and poetic about it – but who knows, maybe I'm waxing poetic about the eldest daughter trope.

This fic really nicely written, and there’s so many fun hijinks and shenanigans in there to make you chuckle. Featuring another MC who’s able to shout at their boss and get away with it- big ups from me, lets goooooo working class!

Fair warning, this is a notable age gap from MC and swapfell gold sans. It is talked about in the story as well. I personally don’t mind it too much, but if that’s a no-go from you, you’ve been warned. (Maybe just check the tags on this one, (spoilers!) I know someone gets pregnant later. But, I know that can freak some folks out, so, heads up.)

There’s some smut mentioned, but it doesn’t go into detail about it, so i’ll leave it above the NSFW section. Just fair warning! (Maybe not a story for minors? I don’t know, read at your own discretion if you are?)

For the smut mention, be warned that I couldn’t find any age in their bio, do with that what you will.

And Now It’s Crystal Clear(Complete, teen+ rating)

By nighttimelights (AO3)

Oh, man. What another banger read.

Fun fact- i read this in . . . highschool? But i forgot the name of the fic,and it took me FOREVER, im talking YEARS before I found it again. I actually gave up the hunt, and just found it again one day– what an utter joy that was for me to rediscover it. I felt like I ran into my highschool sweetheart at the grocery store after not thinking about them in years.

It’s really cool concept on the whole ‘machine gaster’ situation. I respect someone so damn much who incorporates a bit of sci-sfi in their fics, I have no idea how to write it, but I love to read it/see it in media. So to see it, and understand it, and how it’s relevant to the plot is a real treat!

I also love the ending. :)

Wish Bone (Ongoing, Explicit rating)

By timeofjuly

I could not, in good conscience make this list without including my bestie, the OG and probably the reason why I'm actually posting what I'm writing today. I really can’t sing their praises high enough – but for the sake of comment day, I sure can try, haha.

July really does a good job of creating a wicked atmosphere in her works. The stark difference between Wish Bone (a political romance drama) and Resisting the Currents (reverse harem, but the gf likes you too. It's linked in the nsfw section, please check it out if you can.) is so incredible – they’re really an author that can do both, haha. Even though both fics are so different, what they have in common is their ability to get you right in your feelings, in whichever way the story calls for.

In Wishbone – Flint (the MC) has a bad case of being a massive asshole, that’s verging on becoming chronic. Their paranoia has caused their head to permanently be a swivel, and they’ve developed a taste for their own brand of Justice (however malicious as it is.) That sounds like the start of a vigilante story, but in all truth, Flint is a dick. Which, is another thing July is great at! Writing MC’s who are assholes! You love to hate them, you hate that you love them!

This is a MC x sf Pap, and later X sf Sans as well, If you’re hoping for a sappy romance, you’ve come to the wrong place. This is a reluctant soulmate AU fic, a fantastic spin on the traditionally very romantic au, a meet ugly, sort of vibe. If you love arguing, political drama, fantastic world building, and a very, sad, broken MC – you’re going to love this. Hell, even if how I described it doesn’t sound appealing to you – I implore you to check it out anyways. July will absolutely knock you on your ass with her writing. By god, there’s themes, motifs and symbolism that I'm not smart enough to analyse, let alone talk about. Whether July intentionally put them there or not, I have no idea, but they’re there and it adds another layer of depth in a delightfully, painful soul crushing way.

Go, see what I mean for yourself!

Tbh, i feel like I could go on forever about what I love about their fics, and my little personal theories on them – but I feel like I already look pretty unhinged. For the sake of my ego, i’ve gotta move on.

In terms of warnings, I think I sorta covered them? There's Plenty of anger, and hatred, ummm monster phobia? There might be some sorta nsfw stuff down the line, thus the rating, but as it stands now it’s smut free! Just a heads up, I suppose.

In Two weeks time and Red is my favorite color

By who_wants_a_muffin (AO3)

My other current ongoing fav, in two weeks time! Another swapfell sans one, to the surprise of absolute of no one, haha.

This MC is a dude! A man! Which is a refreshing change up, I don’t think there’s many many fics out there with a male leaning/male dominant MC’s. The characterization of MC is very good,

is so so good, it’s and X sf sans, and he’s got the exact right amount of snark and sass to keep you coming back, haha. (Or, I guess in this case, he keeps coming back. MC works at the pool he frequents.) Their banter is really fun to read, bordering on bickering, really. They’re almost like a little old married couple, haha. Which is to say, you can really feel the chemistry they have even though they’re basically strangers.

sf Papyrus is such a little shit in this one, i love it. He’s perpetually the youngest brother, and how Muffin writes him is so snarky and funny, and very endearing.

The chapters are short and sweet, enough so that you can read it a few times in the same day and still enjoy it, even though his updating schedule is crazy fast! I don’t know how he does it, but they’re just motoring along, haha. I get excited whenever I get an email saying Muffin updated. It’s like a little treat to brighten your week.

I’ve been reading a bit of his other stuff, and he just gets it! Like the dynamic between MC and fell sans in Red in my favorite color, is just perfect. I love the soft!underfell au, and he does a really good job of capturing how underfell sans straddles the line between being a bad boy, and a boy that's not all that bad.

I also love the notes he writes, ‘Hello gays and other assorted sillies!’ (from Chapter 2 in Red in my favorite color,) Like COME ON, that’s so funny!

– Undertale related

Bonley Hearts Club (Demo available, Ongoing, teen+ rating)

Bonely Hearts Club (tumblr)

owl-bones (tumblr) is the Developer and Director and (self proclaimed! I’m not being mean!) Lead Nerd. Here is a link to their cast, although it might not be fully updated. (It’s \a big one, so I'm going to leave it as a link.)

I don’t even know how to begin to explain my love for Bonely Hearts Club. It’s a fanmade game, made entirely of love, which you can tell, even before you play it. The sprites are so cute, and fantastic, and the writing is so in character and on point, do not get me started on the voice acting - which is also incredible. I’m not kidding, when I first played the demo, I immediately followed the voice actors on tumblr after, haha.

This is the kinda piece of art that you just stand back and look at it, and just go ‘wow’. It’s such a big undertaking! I know very little about game development, but from what i vault remember from my comp sci class - is that is’s hard. Mad respect from me to Owl, and everyone a part of the team/process.

This is off topic, but I wonder if Toby Fox has read any of these fics, or played the demo of this dating sim, like in the same way Alex Hursh has played a bit of Swooning Over Stans: A Grunkle Dating Sim. I’d pay serious money to have Toby play the dating sim demo. God, could you imagine the energy in that livestream? It would be goddamn electric.

[ Soul Redacted ] (Completed, teen rating) and The Great Noodle Jape (Completed, teen rating)

By nighttimepixels (game jolt) nighttimepixels (tumblr)

// active twitter lethalhoopla

//active tumblr lethalhoopla

Good god, talk about a . . .what, triple, quadruple threat? There’s nothing nighttimepixels can’t do. They write, they make art, they’ve made two complete games, (and the beginning of another,) and they animate!! Like oh my god! Another love letter to the fandom, everything they do is so so good.

[Soul Redacted] is a very cool rpg sidescroller explorer/mystery, and i’d say a touche of sci-fi in there, too. It has fantastic writing, and features Q! (from Cryptid_jack au, in Skeleton Squatters and The LandLady fromTyrant_Tortoise fic! see above for all!) Truth be told, I got a little scared playing this. Granted, I played it at like 2 am in the dark - and I am a coward lol. I don’t think the average person will get scared, but fair warning anyways, haha.

They’re not into the undertale fandom anymore, I don't think. Which is sad to hear, but also understandable. It’s not fun making art and other creations if you’ve lost that spark there. However, if you’re a mass effect fan, they’re making a bunch of art on their other bog. I personally really love their art style, so i’ll gladly keep checking back. Also, there’s so much undertale content on their blog that you’ll be good for a long while. And if not, you can always go back and look again! If you can’t experience it for the first time, the next best thing is to experience it again.

Warning: I think there’s some flashing lights at some point? Maybe double check the tags on that one if that’s a concern for you.

The Great Noodle Jape is so damn cute. As night put it, ‘a visnov style silly whodunit’, which I think it captures it perfectly. The writing is so fun, all the characters feel very well written/in character, and i love how they all interact with each other. As well, the sprites are so fantastic! Night has that kind of art style where you just know it's theirs without needing to confirm.

No warnings that I could think of, other than you’ll be wishing for the experience of playing it for the first time once you’re done.

– non-Undertale related fics -

Cult of the Lamb—

The Rehabilitation of Death

By bamsara (AO3) / bamsara (Tumblr)

WOOF. I am an ‘happy ending angst’ lover, and a ‘energies to lovers slow burn,’ and this fic takes the cake on both regards. Truly, who could pine better than a god, who’s named literally ‘The One Who Waits’? What an aptly named character for one of the major troupes in the fic, haha.

But for all you freaks out there (lol me) who don’t mind horror some of the time, I recommend reading it! Even if you’re not into CoTL, the pining is so goddamn good! (Considering it’s about gods, they’ve been pining for hundreds of years without even knowing it– the slowest of burns, like oh my GOD.) Bam also is known to post longer chapters- so if you like a read that lasts a couple days, PLEASE do yourself a favour and check it out. I don’t wanna spoil anything, but they’re getting to the part where the main couple is starting to be nice to each other, plus, the subplot B couple is starting to sorta shack up too. There are so many good, funny dynamics that are in this fic, that I don’t have enough words to properly explain them.

They also make fantastic artwork and sketches for just about each scene in their fics - which for all you visual girlies out there (myself, haha.) I think you’d appreciate it! I wish I was that type of triple threat, but I think i’d burn out too quickly if I was also drawing scenes of my fics – which is why I think it’s so impressive when other authors/artists do it!

They do art streams pretty frequently, too, and they make stickers too! A true triple threat,

Just, fair warning- like Cult of the Lamb (the game the fic is based off,) this fic mentions a lot about gore, and death, and mention of cults and religion. So if any of that is a turn off, or something you don’t like to read about, this might not be your cup of tea.

Non-fanfic Undertale fandom related material–

FNAF—

Solar Lunacy (Incomplete, Mature)

By BamSara

(I kept these two separate on the account they’re different fandoms, lol)

I was very briefly into the FNAF fandom, I only read a handful of fics— but Solar Lunacy really stuck with me!

Robots with trauma! An overly curious MC! I think what I like most about this, is how driven mc is? Usually it gets them into trouble, haha, but I love that troupe where the MC really puts themselves through the wringer looking for answers. (I.e like ford and bill from gravity falls.)

What’s not to love? For all you robot fans out there, it’s pretty sick! I’m sure if you dig deep enough on Bam’s tumblr you’ll find all their old DCA fanart, and draw parts from this fic.

Fair warning! Scary robots, the regular tags of the fnaf fandom (past child abuse/past child murder), robots don’t understand boundaries, maybe check the tags on this one, just in case.

Sleuth Jesters (Series!) (Complete, teen+ and mature ratings, depending on which fic in the series you’re reading.)

By naffeclipse (AO3)

This was the other FNAF fanfic that really stuck with me when I had the robot bug. (lol) I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m not overly into the whole ‘mafia boss’ side of self-ships, but if I had to choose one to read for the rest of time – it would definitely be this one. It’s like a detective noir, where mc is the vigilante who’s only law they follow is their grey moral code - but usually it’s for the good! So you can’t really feel to bad about that, haha.

Tbh it’s almost hard to verbalise what I like about it, it’s one of those fics that give you a feeling you can’t name, and it’s so frustrating to have this unnamed feeling you can’t quite pinpoint! (PLEASE tell me some of ya’ll know what i’m talking about!)

I feel so tragically for the MC, if that makes sense? They’re constantly putting themselves in harm's way for answers, and for others. They’re selfless, yet selfish, and they never let anyone too close, except for when they do. There’s some heavy themes and very toxic relationships, but there’s a happy ending!

Ahh warning for a very possessive, toxic robot, and kidnapping in later fics - i suggest you read the tags just in case! Bam is really good at tagging triggers accordingly,

Fair warning: blood and injury, very possessive character, toxic relationships (one sided), mention of injury, violence, kidnapping, guns, gunshot wounds, shootouts, broken bone- probably some more. I recommend checking the tags on this one as well, just to be on the safe side.

NSFW Below – Minors get out of here pls!

A quick mention, before I get into this–

I tried to check and make sure all the authors below are all well over 18, i’ve indicated which link has their age posted in their bio’s if you’d like to check for yourself. If I couldn’t find it, I made sure to be clear that I don't know.

Just doing some light housekeeping, here. You should also check the tags on each fic for what kinda . . . stuff it has, lol.

Play With Me (Incomplete, explicit rating)

By grimrester (AO3) / grimrester (tumblr/ age in bio here.)

Oh my god. Oh my god! For all you queers on the ace/aromatic spectrum just like me, this is the fic for you!

I could easily go back and read this again and again - tbh I already do. It’s plot with porn, and then it turns into porn with plot, but emotional! love the relationship between MC and Sans. There's something about their intimacy that’s so casual (maybe not the right word for what I mean,) but vulnerable, and realistic, but very enthusiastic and personal? I don’t think I even have the right words to properly and fully describe what all I like about this fic, but what I do know is that I like it a lot, haha.

I like that it shows sex and intimacy in a different way. I know it’s pretty common for undertale smut to have some kind of ecto junk involved - this one doesn’t. I personally, like the creativity involved in thinking different ways a person can get off that isn’t just penetration. (Don’t get me wrong, that’s in here too, but that comes a little bit later.)

I’m also s Big Fan of the sf sans interpretation here. It’s like a soft swapfell, one of my favourite version of him. I said it already, but there’s so many ways a person can go with his character, and I really really like the worldbuilding. It’s a nice subtle nod told through the characters. I love his relationship he has with Alphys, it all feels so incredibly in line with the character, even though he’s a swapfell version, he still does have some sort of friendship with her – even if to him it’s under a guise. To me, it’s one of those things that you can see the core traits that make him a sans, and that’s a hard needle to thread! Just an all around great character study.

ALSO, I think I have a particular penchant for MC’s with oddly specific niche jobs?? In my heart of hearts, Pixy’s (the name of the arcade MC owns in Play with Me) is like right next door to Faunas (the name of the pot store my MC owns in Into The Weeds.)

Warnings: i’m pretty sure this one is tagged accordingly on AO3, so i’m not going to tag it all here, just know there’s smut.

Something Good (Ongoing, Mature)

By skeletonlvr22 (AO3)

WARNING: No age in bio that I could find. This fic isn’t at the smut yet - but becuase of the 'eventual smut' tag, and for the sake of transparency, i’m letting you know. (I’m like 90% sure this person is an adult though, since there’s a tag thanking their husband for their help.) Do what you will with this info, you’ve been warned.

This is another one of my current reading obsessions lately!

I think i’m realizing I have a particular penchant for some of the lesser known au’s? (niche, I suppose?) Fellswap Gold Pap sets out on his own in only his trusty bus, to explore the surface above, away from the (over-) protective eyes of his brother.

This is the escape fantasy of my dreams. A stray skeleton on the adventure of his lifetime, seeing the sights and the city lights. The romance portion in the later chapters is so damn cute too, it’s very much the ‘first love’, type of romance that’s very sweet and charming. (also, c’mon, who doesn't love a coming of age story?) Love love seeing a Fellswap Gold fic, and a Papyrus based one, too! People are so damn creative, I never would've ever thought of this plot for a fic, but now that I know it’s real, I love it!I I’m really not kidding when I say it’s prime escape fantasy material - I think it would be the cats ass to have a van and travel across north america, thanks skeletonlv22 for letting me vicariously live through Pap in your fic. :)

Warning: Only the ones i’ve given at the top! It’s a very cute story. I put it in the NSFW section b/c of the eventual smut, there’s none in it now – although, they certainly are starting to get flirty.

Resisting the Currents (Ongoing, Explicit)

By timeofjuly (AO3) timeofjuly (Tumblr)

WARNING: No age in bio that I could find, but I’ve been chit-chatting with July for months now and i’m 99.99% sure they’re well above 18. It’s not my info to give out, and i’m trying to be transparent on my end, do with this info what you will!

Edit: age confirmed in the tags!

This is easily another fav of mine for sure.

Resisting the Currents is a reverse harem fic (with all the au’s!) but with a twist - the gf likes you too! It’s a refreshing take on the ‘reverse harem’ tag you see often in the undertale fandom - and holy shit, truly ‘only love can hurt like this.’ The relationship they have with the MC is so painful, verging on devastating. There’s love there! There is! But there’s also hurt, and a lot of it, the kind that doesn’t just go away, not on its own, anyway. I’m trying not to spoil too much, because I truly think you should read it for yourself.

But, Oh My God, their MC? Holyshit- I have a(n aforementioned) weakness for impressionable MC’s, oftentimes, I end up loving them more than the love interest in the fics. I can’t help it! The electrician is personable, relatable, and funny! They’re a lovable goofball with a rough past, with a history of doing the wrong things.They're recovering/recovered? (I’m not too sure which is the correct term, here,) drug addict, and they’ve come a long way! They’ve changed a lot, and I love love love to see that kind of realism in an MC.

If you’re reading RtC (which you should be,) you can 100% see me going apeshit in the comments trying to figure out what the elections and Quinn’s deal is. (ESPECIALLY chapter 11!

(Sorry if they’re not coherent, at one point, those theories made sense in my head, but looking back on them, I think they’re more so like the crazed ramblings of a conspiracy theorist, haha.)

This fic is in the NSFW section b/c it does have a chapter where two characters get it on, but i can’t say that’s what the whole story is about. I put it down here to be safe rather than sorry, haha.

Ahh, fair warning, there is past drug mention, and past abuse child abuse I think? Plus, a bit of mention of religion and the negative effects that can have on a person. Read the tags just to be safe!

Shark Teeth (Complete, Mature rating)

By luluwrites (AO3) skelezbian (Tumblr)

Warning: No age in bio that I could find. If it makes you feel any better, they joined AO3 in 2012, while I joined in 2016 and i’m 24 currently. I’m not good at math, but I think we’re all in the clear here. But like always, do with this info what you will!

I will say, this isn’t full on smut - it’s saucy, but I’m trying to keep anything suggestive, kinda together?

Not to divulge myself too furiously here, but uh–There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about Shark teeth. C’mon. Y'all get it, right? It’s just a funny, saucy little number! A funny moment that happens between couples that we get to see. There’s so many different interpretations on the fellswaps, (I know i’ve said it a lot,) but Lulu’s just happens to be one of my favourites interpretations!! Sf Sans is a very precarious character, and I think Lulu does a good job showing that the swaps can be written in a multitude of ways, he doesn’t just have to be the dickhead all the time, lmao. They really do a good job showing how he shines, y’know?

Warning: teeth and/or biting? Not full on smut, or anything, but it is saucy. So, take that into consideration.

The Fulfilling Ordeal of Being Known (Complete, explicit)

By nighttimepixels (tumblr) / // active on twitter lethalhoopla (age mention in bio here)

Ohhh, for all my sapphics out there – you’re going to love this.

Blade (fem horrortale sans, who’s apart of her ‘Lillytale’ au, a sapphic take on all the au’s,) and MC settling down for a nice night in, MC playing breath of the wild (BIG UPPS, great game, lol) while Blade plays some games of their own - hopefully you get the picture.

Just some great lady-lovin’ smut! Size difference! If you love the pillow princess treatment, this is the fic for you.

Warnings: (Lesbians? Queers?) really going to town on each other, def NSFW. Check the tags before reading, it’s nothing Dead Dove, or anything - just want you to be aware.

mothiepixie (tumblr / age in bio here)

mothiepixie (twitter, age in bio here too)

No fic to tag, but their art? AHHHHH. They’re more active on twitter than tumblr since The Ban, but ohhh their art is very, very good. Very great if you like fictional hunky men, and beautiful shapely ladies.

Warnings: tasteful (shameless) smut, you’ve been warned, lol

Woof. That was a lot of typing. If you made it this far, circle back to one of the recommendations above and get to reading!

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fireflylitsky · 7 months ago

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Yōkai Sunset Chapter Update

Chapter 7 is updated 🦈🌸 mind the trauma (sorry Sakura 😭)

Fic: Yōkai Sunset (AO3 link) Pairing: Kisame/Sakura Rating: M Word Count/Chapters: 40k, 7/? Genres: Horror / Romance / Humor / Dark Other Tags: Canon Divergent AU / Yokai AU / Timeskip / Slowburn / Swordsman Sakura / BAMF Sakura / Too much banter someone just end me pls / Let Sakura be muscular

🦈🌸🦈🌸🦈🌸🦈🌸

“Come back later?" Sakura scoffed. "Kisame, at the very least we need to stay here and help.”

Kisame pulled a disapproving face. “Help? They seem like they’re doing just fine.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sakura's nostrils flared from a deep exhale. “You heard her as well as I did,” she huffed, slapping a hand to her cocked hip. “Some yōkai has been snatching up beautiful women around here. Does that not seem problematic to you?”

“No?” Kisame shrugged. “Not like you’re in any danger.”

Oh. Oh, so it was going to be like that.

She could say something to defend herself, sure, but trying to argue that she was definitely attractive enough for a picky yōkai to eat didn’t exactly seem productive.

“Your new friend is though,” she pointed out. “Don’t you care about that?”

“You’re the only thing I care about keeping alive.”

“My, that’d almost sound sweet if you didn’t refer to me as a ‘thing’.”

He cracked a grin. “Oh, you want me to be sweet to you, Kunoichi? It's about time you asked, I could give it a try.”

#Firefly writing #fic: yokai sunset #KisaSaku

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apoptoses · 10 months ago

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DANIEL -

3. What first drew you to this character? 12. If you could write effortlessly and as much as you wanted, what story (s) would you write for this character? 26. If you look for this character’s name on AO3, what tags are you including or excluding? 34. Does this character inspire you with little things in your daily life? 50. Link your fav song, playlist, aesthetic board, fan-fiction, reference pile, personal artwork, analysis post, meme, headcanon, or quote for this character. Whichever one (s) you are most comfortable with!

okay you also asked for Armand with the same questions so for the sake of organization i'm gonna do both in one post!!!

What first drew you to this character?

Daniel: I just really like what a great stand-in for the reader he can be because yeah, I'm sure EVERYONE who read these books at some point had the same thought- that they would want to be turned and they'd see immortality as a gift. I like his shameless love of these monsters, the line about liking kissing and snuggling with dead things? Made me absolutely insane. I like that he's not afraid to mouth off to something so dangerous while he's still mortal. I like his drinking issues, his weird craft fixations. Basically everything we got in the text was incredible imo, he's a fave!!

Armand: Honestly Armand didn't really click with me until QotD. In my mind he was a Louis-simp in interview, and then an angry bitchy little Jesus freak in tvl, but then he shows up in QotD and he's putting cigarettes down the garbage disposal and throwing money at Daniel to make him teach him about international calls and I was like- damn, this one is a FREAK deep down. So seeing him be erratic and out of place and curious about the world made me view him in a new light, and the moments of gentleness he shows later in the book really pulled the pieces together for me.

If you could write effortlessly and as much as you wanted, what story (s) would you write for this character?

Fuck, I really want some newly turned Daniel at Night Island for both of them. Like what went wrong? What kind of maker was Armand with all these ghosts from his past around? How long did it take for things to fall apart and what were the ups and downs of that period like? I really, really wanna work through that but I don't have even the slightest inkling of where I want to begin yet.

If you look for this character’s name on AO3, what tags are you including or excluding?

So generally I start with fic rated Explicit or Mature, not just for pervert reasons lmao But I feel like if a writer can write some smut that really gets the characters and explores something interesting about them then most likely their fics with lower ratings are gonna be interesting and not pure woobification. (also if they're writing the kind of smut I like? Then we're likely similar flavors of freak and I know anything else they do is gonna be safe)

Also while I wanna write some vampire on vampire stuff, I generally prefer Daniel to be mortal for bodily exploitation purposes 😂

Does this character inspire you with little things in your daily life?

Kacy pls you know what things have been like for me lately, every two weeks something is going on that has me feeling like I'm living the Full Molloy lmao I'll never live down the experience of sitting in my car at 10pm and having that liquor store owner come outside and wave to me while Lixx runs around inside with an armful of bottles of wine for my shot nerves.

Anyways in all seriousness I think about Daniel's speech to Armand when he's dying a lot:

“But don’t you see,” Daniel said, “all human decisions are made like this. Do you think the mother knows what will happen to the child in her womb? Dear God, we are lost, I tell you. What does it matter if you give it to me and it’s wrong! There is no wrong! There is only desperation, and I would have it! I want to live forever with you.”

The refusal to ruminate or get sucked into thinking of all the possible wrong outcomes, that at the end of the day there is no wrong decision there's only action- I think there's something poignant there and I would do better to not be like Armand, convinced everything will turn out poorly in the end.

Link your fav song, playlist, aesthetic board, fan-fiction, reference pile, personal artwork, analysis post, meme, headcanon, or quote for this character. Whichever one (s) you are most comfortable with!

The fanart of Daniel that will always live rent free in my head is @nightislandofficial's art of him in tank top and cut off shorts bitching about 'give me what I want' lmao (though honestly all of their comics featuring Armand and Daniel send me, what a fandom gift)

Your series the Usher will forever have me in a chokehold like. Fic of all time!!! Also the thing you wrote for my wedding 🥹

God, for headcanons- anything stupid. Any headcanon that is really just a shitpost.

And my favorite quote for the two of them, just off the top of my head, would be Daniel saying "let me be a lover in the savage garden with you". He really had some killer lines, despite what little he got lol

#apoptoses answers #armand/daniel

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dance-in-the-morning-glow · 7 months ago

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Casually dropping the link to my lengthy Cutler Beckett/OFC fic. I like to describe the vibe as “what if Pirates of the Caribbean, Pride and Prejudice and The Night Manager had a baby?” Plus, it’s very heavy on the angst and sexual tension and if that doesn’t lure you in, idk what will.

Chapters: 20/?

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Pairings: Cutler Beckett/Original Female Character(s), Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters: Cutler Beckett, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Elizabeth Swann, Theodore Groves, Jack Sparrow, Brethren Court (Pirates of the Caribbean)

General Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, post-AWE, Spy oc, Opposites Attract, friends to enemies (kinda) to whatever this mess is, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Dubious Morality, Betrayal, Forbidden Love, Doomed Love, they're both delulu, Unhappy Ending, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, historical inaccuracy (probably), Slavery, Mind the tags pls, The dove is not dead but it’s not having a great time either, The Author Regrets Nothing, Cutler Beckett being Cutler Beckett

Summary: Lord Cutler Beckett’s former almost-betrothed turned pirate wouldn’t have thought she’d ever see him again after seven years apart. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and suddenly, Florence Crowan is part of a scheme designed to bring down both Beckett and the East India Trading Company. Soon, she finds herself entangled in a web of deception while memories of a shared past threaten to rise to the surface and feelings that should have stayed buried reawaken.

To distract from her real intentions, she said the first thing that came to mind, commenting on the bust. “They say Caesar was one of the greatest strategists of his time.”

In a strained voice, Beckett answered, “Indeed, he was.” His hands, intertwined with each other, twitched in his lap.

“In some ways, you remind me of him.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment, Miss Crowan?”

“Perhaps,” Florence replied. “And perhaps they will immortalise your face in marble someday.” A shadow of a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. Of course, he liked to hear that. Cutler Beckett has never been immune to flattery.

#i just realised all of these pieces of media have Tom Hollander in them #screaming #that’s accidental i swear #pirates of the caribbean #potc #potc fanfiction #cutler beckett #cutler beckett x oc #ao3 #UTLHS

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nowoyas · 1 year ago

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Actually just for like nuance purposes bc I'm sure OP of that post is probably annoyed as hell by the notes already but I HAVE to nuance this shit since there's a lot I want to add to that post, re: ao3 etiquette

kudos when you feel like it. different people use kudos for different reasons. I use them because I actually liked the fic. it's like giving a thumbs-up. apparently some people just use it to say they finished it. that's not standard, there is no standard. consider it like a facebook "like" in that it kind of ticks a number up but doesn't really tell you anything further than that.

comment when you feel like it. it's nice to do. a lot of authors enjoy comments that aren't worded super rudely and will enjoy anything from "<3" to "asdkljfhdksljfhdjksh" to an essay about why you loved it.

"pls update" comments are a toss-up. some people love em, some people hate em, some are ambivalent. comment how you like but understand that some people see requests to update as pushing them along while others think of them as really nice reminders that that fic they've been avoiding eye contact with IS liked by people, and it's difficult to tell which a particular fic author will be.

general rule of thumb: if they didn't ask for concrit, they probably will consider it rude if you give it. before you start whining in the notes, yes it's the internet and you can do what I want, you're very entitled I get it. it's still rude to walk up to someone painting on the street or something and tell them how they can do x y and z better when they didn't fucking ask. no matter how combative you get over the right you do have to be an asshole on the internet, you are still being an asshole. some people on the internet are kids. sometimes a fic is intensely personal to someone. sometimes they're just starting out. sometimes they're just having fun and not particularly interested in learning the nitty gritty of grammar and story structure. sometimes they just didn't fucking ask because they don't want it. you're never going to make it not rude by insisting on leaving concrit anyway. if you really really want to, there's a really simple solution: leave a comment POLITELY asking them whether they'd be open to constructive criticism, and then respect the answer they give you. in this case, silence is an answer, too.

metas and theories are allowed under TOS. ao3 is for "noncommercial, non-ephemeral fanwork... that is fannish in nature". ao3's faq explicitly calls out meta as allowed under TOS.

what is not allowed under ao3 tos: "help me find this fic!" requests posted as "fanworks", links to or mentions of donations or patreons/monetizing fic, posting a request for someone else to write a fic/rp with you as a fic, posting straight fic prompts

ao3 has a goal of "maximum inclusiveness". it was created with the express intention of allowing "as many fanworks as possible". it was created in response to fanworks on other sites being removed for "decency", "moral reasons" (anything from "this is harmful because the characters are x age" to "this suggests the existence of queer people"), or simply not being appealing to advertisers.

you are in fact responsible for your own reading experience. if you find something you don't like, the back button is always there. tags exist for a reason. if you think it's morally reprehensible or whatever, okay, cool, hit the back button. it's not for you.

from the ao3 tos faq: "One basic consequence is that users are responsible for reading and heeding the warnings provided by the creator. Risk-averse users should keep in mind that not all content will carry full warnings. If you want to know more, you may also wish to consult the bookmarks that people other than the creator have used to categorize the fanwork." (emphasis native to faq)

that being said, if it's very obviously incorrectly tagged ie "gen rating on a fic with explicit sex and gore in it" you would be within your rights to ask them to update the tags accordingly and/or report the fic.

subscribe whenever you want even if the fic is complete I promise you unless the author is super obsessive they likely won't even notice let alone think it's weird

delete your fics if you want. you're not required to keep them up. it'd be nice if you orphaned it or added it to the anonymous collection instead for others to read, and I personally would encourage you to do so as I've personally regretted a lot of fic deletions I've made, but it is your content and you don't have to let it be archived forever if you decide that you hate it/it's no longer representative of you/etc.

character/character is indeed intended for romantic/sexual pairings. character & character is intended for platonic pairings. most people searching the '&' tag for a ship tend to be annoyed if you tag a fic with both unless it's explicitly intended to be read either way, because they are in the & ship tag because they DON'T want romantic and/or sexual content for the involved characters.

the only tagging you are required to do is ratings and specific basic warnings, however you are also allowed to use "not rated" and "creator chose not to use archive warnings". tagging helps people find your fic and also helps people who aren't right for your fic avoid your fic, so it would be nice to do more than just rating + archive warnings for your sake and others, but at the end of the day, it's your choice.

if tagging confuses you, my rule of thumb is "would someone in x tag who found this fic be annoyed that it had this tag?" and "what would someone looking for this fic generally be searching for, tag-wise, to find this?"

ao3 is not social media. there is not an algorithm. there will never be an algorithm. it is a place for storing fan content from basically any fandom. the closest thing to an algorithm is the front page of recently updated fics for a fandom, and it's extremely poor taste to use tricks to stay on the front page. depending on the fandom, it's also an extremely losing battle. (eg. there have been days where I've posted a bnha fic and it was IMMEDIATELY pushed down to page three of the fandom simply bc the fandom's so big.) I recommend posting your fic and then going to like take a shower or take a nap or something to step away.

#distant citrus sounds #ao3

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rhaenyratargeryn · 3 years ago

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Tagged by @binaryeclipse

How many works do you have on ao3?: I have two accounts— because I have two longish fics on hiatus on one and I felt guilty posting other things djsjxjsjs. So in total 14!

What’s your total ao3 word count?: 169,751

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?: Agent Carter, Fallout: New Vegas, Detroit: Become Human, Cyberpunk 2077, Destiny 2, Loki series and The Wayhaven Chronicles.

What are your top fics by kudos?:

1. Continuously, Without Interruption (pwp) (CP2077)

2. The Ostensive Fumblings of Being Human (DBH)

3. Honey, I’m not much of a dancer. (but for you I’ll try) (Agent Carter)

4. Exit Wounds (CP2077)

5. A concession (Loki series)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?: yes I do respond to comments even just to say thank you!

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?: no angst ending only happy unless you count the ones people are waiting for me to update

Do you write crossovers?: nope!

Have you ever received hate on a fic?: no, I did get some very critical comments on a chapter of my DBH fic which ended in me pulling and rewriting the chapter… the story was better for it but that shit HURTED.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?: mostly of the pwp with feelings variety. I don’t get very kinky and if I can’t visualize the characters being intimate I just??? Cant write it. Sometimes I write indulgent and very explicit porny fics and sometimes it is very emotional and less slutty LOL. Ive written a TON of porn for the Obey Me fandom on @belpheroo

Have you ever had a fic translated?: yes! Someone translated Cont., Without Interruption into Russian and I think someone started working on translating my DBH fic but have not seen it posted.

What’s your all time favorite ship?: currently it is darklina, which I have never even written for. I also enjoy reylo and ATTEMPTED a fic and ultimately gave it up. I’m a huge fan of interactive fiction and x reader fic so— my fav ship is my self insert with my fav character?! LOL

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?: My agent Carter fic… I just can’t get back into that mindset. I’m worried my last chapter of my DBH fic will go the same way.

What are you writing strengths?: I’ve been told portraying romantic and platonic banter/chemistry and that I’m good at invoking all the senses in scenes. Makes them feel tactile in the readers mind.

What are your writing weaknesses?: 🙃 finishing. I always have the ending preplanned and everything follows a flow and an outline and then I start daydreaming my next project and move on before things are done.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in your fics?: I don’t do it very often or I cop out by italicizing the words and saying what language they are speaking. I included some Japanese in one of my CP2077 fics but it was like— one word sentences.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?: on ao3 it was dragon age 2. That fic has since been orphaned!

What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?: ehhh I’m not sure. I like a lot of my TWC fics especially the one titled “Sense”. My DBH fic holds a special place because I spent so much time on it.

Tagging: UHHHH idk who all has an ao3 account in my mutuals?! CONSIDER YOURSELF TAGGED— feel free to @ me as your tagger so I can read your answers!

#tag meme #tag game #ao3 tag game #pls be mindful of tags and ratings on the fics I linked

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dreamofbecoming · 2 years ago

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pale shadows of forgotten names

so people seem to be enjoying my writing lately, and i realized i never properly posted my first witcher fic on here when i first wrote it- i posted a link to the ao3, but i wasn’t super active in the fandom yet and i didn’t make it readable on tumblr. so i thought i would share it here now, in case anyone is interested, and because it’s nice to have all my writing together in my tag on here

pls note i knew even less about the non-netflix canon then than i do now, so everything about spying is just made up lmao

ao3

geraskier, post-s2, getting together

rating: t

wc: 13k

“Might be best if I stay out of Redania for a while, actually.”

“If you get arrested, I’ll just break you out again. There’s a book there I need, the copy in Kaer Morhen’s library was destroyed. Vesemir said he knew someone in Oxenfurt who might be able to get his hands on one.” Geralt’s tone, as usual, leaves very little room for argument. Luckily, Jaskier has never needed much room when it comes to arguing. Certainly not with Geralt.

“It’s not just that, I really shouldn’t get close to Tretogor anytime soon, either. Especially with Ciri being hunted by half the Continent.” He’s hoping desperately that they won’t ask why, but who is he kidding. His luck is never that good.

“And why, exactly, is Tretogor a problem? Not that we would want to parade around a capital city regardless, but I’m curious. Oxenfurt I get, they’ll be looking for the Sandpiper, I’m sure, or at least the twit that broke out of their jail, but what’s in Tretogor?”

Damn the fucking witch, always too perceptive for her own good. And to think he was almost starting to like her. Well, at least the familiarity of wanting to claw her eyes out is comforting.

Jaskier sighs. He should probably be honest with them if they’re going to travel together, though who knows how long that state of affairs will last this time. Still, he’s not going to risk Ciri. He’d have kept his silence if it were just Geralt and the witch- he already has, in fact, and it worked for nearly 20 years, after all- but Ciri is precious cargo. The rules have changed.

Plus, Yen could probably just read his mind now that she has her magic back. Fucking sorceresses.

Speaking of, “Alright, but not here,” he sighs. “Wait until we make camp and Yen can set up wards or silencing spells or something.” He hasn’t noticed any white owls following them, but she’s always been good at avoiding being seen. That’s sort of the point, he supposes.

“Who do we need wards from, Jaskier? Are you being followed? Should I have left you behind? Did I put Ciri in danger by trusting you?” Geralt’s voice is hard, and Jaskier feels hurt pool in his belly for a moment before cold anger takes its place again.

“Considering I just traipsed halfway across the continent and back, no questions asked, and nearly died trying to help stop a fucking demon from killing her, what the fuck do you think, Geralt? I’ll remind you that only one of us has known and loved her since she was small. Do you really believe I would do that to her? To you?” And maybe that last bit wasn’t really meant to come out, certainly not in that small, sad little voice, but Jaskier is nothing if not a master of pushing through slip ups and missed lines. He’s a goddamn professional. He doesn’t let his expression change where he’s glaring up at Geralt’s stupid, angry, handsome face. Fucker.

He’s traveled with Geralt a long time. Almost a quarter century, on and off (including this last year, which was most decidedly off), more than half of that physically by his side. He knows the Witcher’s face better than he knows his own, and he can predict Geralt’s reaction in almost any scenario you care to name. A perceived threat met with scorn will make him double down on his anger, almost guaranteed. Jaskier knew this going in, but he didn’t spend half a year belting his rage and betrayal to every student and passing traveler in a hundred miles (not to even mention the whole ‘living through a massacre’ thing) to be cowed by Geralt’s glower now, no matter how distressingly sexy it may or may not still be. Or how it maybe still makes his stomach twist with something sick and anxious at the idea of having disappointed him. Again. Fuck that. Geralt has no right to be disappointed in him, not this time.

So naturally he’s a little shocked when, after a few more seconds of unreasonably attractive scowling, Geralt, improbably, backs down.

He heaves a sigh where’s he’s perched on (new) Roach, a sleeping Ciri safely ensconced in his arms on the saddle in front of him. His eyes fall shut for a moment, and when they open, the cold fury is gone, replaced with something that looks a lot like…regret? Sadness? It’s hard to tell in the dark, but regardless, the air of melancholy around him right now is out of character for this particular situation, and extremely disconcerting. Jaskier is definitely disconcerted.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Jaskier. I do trust you. There’s a cave not far from here, it shouldn’t be too hard to secure. We can make camp soon.”

Was that…an apology? An actual, genuine expression of remorse, unprompted and freely given? He pokes Geralt’s upsettingly firm calf, staring incredulously.

“Are you really Geralt? Do I need to check you with silver or something? Yen, read his mind. Is he some kind of Doppler? Is this actually our Witcher?”

Geralt’s face is flatly unamused, and he kicks out to swat Jaskier’s hand away. Luckily, Jaskier has decades of practice avoiding Witcher speed for annoyance purposes, and pulls his hand back before Geralt can accidentally break his fingers or something. At least, he thinks it would be accidental. Probably.

Atop her borrowed mare, curtesy of Kaer Morhen’s surprisingly impressive herd, Yen raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at Geralt’s obvious irritation. “It’s a fair question, Geralt. Immediate, unsolicited apologies for bad behavior are not exactly your brand.” Jaskier is grudgingly impressed that she manages to keep the arch look on her face despite his current frigid distance from her. Apparently they’re not back to mutual teasing levels of familiarity yet, though he’s sure it will only be a matter of time before they’re back to forgetting he’s there mid-sentence to go fuck like stupidly attractive, scary, powerful rabbits. Won’t that be fun to live through again.

Geralt glares harder. Jaskier can’t actually see his face well enough to be sure, but he can always feel when Geralt is glaring, and the angry face quotient in the air definitely goes up a few degrees.

“Cave’s just up here. Jaskier, start setting up camp. Yen, wards. I’ll get Ciri and the horses settled and find something for supper.” He nudges Roach’s flanks and pulls ahead, aiming for a little gap in the trees near a rocky outcropping Jaskier can just barely make out in the scant moonlight. Conversation over then, at least for now.

Yen looks vaguely affronted. “Is it always like this? Traveling with him?”

“What, the glowering? Or the barked orders and being left behind?” If perhaps those words are a touch more bitter than they would have been a year and a half ago, well. That’s no one’s business but his own.

“Both, I suppose? The time I’ve spent with him has rarely been on the road, but he’s never been quite so…demanding. We didn’t exactly do much talking on the way to Kaer Morhen. I’m quite sure he would happily have killed me, or at least have been actively trying to shake me and leave me in the dust, if he hadn’t been so focused on getting to Ciri as quickly as possible.” There’s something brittle and harsh in her tone that feels uncomfortably familiar. It’s far too much like the heavy weight in his ribcage these days, sharp-edged and desperate and miserable.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” The hurt and dread freezing his blood in his veins, ice cold and inexorable. The awful silence, waiting for him to take it back, to laugh, to say it was all a horrible joke, or even a dream. The yawning pit of heartbreak and despair that started to rend his chest open, as the reality set in that this was actually it, actually the end, after everything-

Nope. No. Absolutely not. He is done with that, thank you. He is quite finished reliving that moment again and again (and again), he has put it behind him, he is a different man now. A stronger man. A man who won’t betray the loyalty he promised so long ago, but who refuses to let his heart back into the mix this time. He wrote a song about it and everything.

Funny how he almost believes it.

“Oh, I’m sure he was always far more…solicitous with you, darling. This is pretty much standard. The apology is new, and I’m a little surprised he’s letting me set up camp unsupervised,” (this is said with an impressively deep eye-roll, of course), “but besides that, yeah.”

He should be offended that he’s surprised to be given that responsibility, probably. He’s actually a remarkably competent traveler, both with company and without, but even towards the end it rarely occurred to Geralt that Jaskier managed to survive by himself for months or years at a time, or that the camp ended up much the same as it started even when he felt the need to redo all of Jaskier’s work, or that he wasn’t the one cooking the food he hunted or patching his own wounds when Jaskier was around. Not even the handful of times their camp was targeted by bandits, and several of them were already dead by the time Geralt got to them, seemed to register. Or all the times he came back addled and injured from a hunt, and Jaskier knew exactly which potions he needed to recover, and where to find them. Jaskier isn’t sure the great White Wolf ever even noticed a difference. He’s once again a little amazed that it took him so long to see it, that those furious words on the mountaintop actually managed to catch him by surprise. Love really is blind, he supposes.

The cave isn’t huge, but there’s enough room for four bedrolls and a small fire pit without having to snuggle up too close to each other, and it’s dry and lacking in horrid smells or angry monsters, so Jaskier has definitely seen worse.

Roach is tied near the cave entrance, under a small overhang jutting out from the rock to provide her some shelter from the elements. He wants to ask what happened to the old Roach, his- well. Not his Roach anymore, he supposes, not for a while, but he was still fond of her. It had taken years to win her over, but they were good friends by the end, he thought. Certainly she was freer with her affection than her rider. (Which, he realizes now, probably had more to do with his dearth of affection actually available than with his crushing emotional incompetence.) It isn’t really his place to ask, not anymore, but he wishes he could. New Roach is fine, she’s admittedly beautiful and probably a lovely animal, but he misses his friend.

Jaskier has the camp fully set up and a small fire going, near enough to the entrance not to fill the cave with smoke, but far enough inside so as not to be easily seen, and Yen has left her mount next to Roach, filled their waterskins, and is finishing up with the last of the wards shielding them from being found or overheard, when Geralt returns bearing…an entire deer. Fucking overachieving cockhead. He’s cleaning that shit himself, Jaskier isn’t interested. It definitely isn’t sexy seeing Geralt stride in, slightly blood-spattered, biceps bulging, thighs flexing, evidence of his prowess slung easily over his shoulders like a king’s mantle…nope. Not sexy at all. Jaskier isn’t even looking. He certainly isn’t biting back an embarrassing whimper.

He turns around hastily to begin rummaging through his pack for his spices and cooking supplies, filched from Kaer Morhen, of course, since all he had on him when Geralt found him in Oxenfurt was his charm and good looks. He wishes he had his lute, but it’s probably in pieces, rotting in a rubbish heap in Redania. He’ll mourn her at some point. Besides, he’s not sure he would be able to stop himself playing Burn, Butcher, Burn just on reflex, so it’s probably for the best.

They eat a decent supper of venison stew, Ciri waking just long enough to scarf down a bowl and collapse back onto her bedroll. Demon possession and Sphere-jumping really seem to take it out of a person.

Yen tosses another silencing charm around Ciri’s bedroll (they’ll fill her in tomorrow- they don’t intend to keep secrets from her but she deserves her sleep) and Geralt gets to work packing the leftover venison in salt for the road, before they both look up at him expectantly with eerily similar, piercing gazes. Violet and gold, a royal combination if ever there was one. Oh, that’s nice actually, there’s a song in there somewhere. Not one he wants to sing, really, but he’ll probably end up writing it at some point anyway.

“Alright, sharing time, I guess. Always figured this was coming eventually. Not that I imagined anything like this, what with the demons and the horrible rock monsters and the dimension hopping and- yes, yes, alright, I’m getting to it. Calm down.” He heaves a sigh. Hopefully they don’t toss him out on his arse after this, or just kill him. He doesn’t think they’d kill him. Would they? No, they wouldn’t. Probably.

“So you know I’m technically Redanian.” Yennefer nods expectantly while Geralt just. Blinks at him. Fucking gods, honestly. “Wow, ok, you really never paid attention at all when I talked, huh? That makes sense, actually. I guess I should have figured that.” He’s staring into the fire to shield the hurt in his eyes, so he misses the matching look on Geralt’s face before he presses on.

“Anyway, yeah, I’m Redanian, from Kerack, Lettenhove to be specific. Seriously? I’ve introduced myself to a dozen people in front of you with my full name, you really never- ok, yeah, right, never mind. Moving on. Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. That’s me. Or, it was. Technically it still is, but I never wanted the title. I never wanted that life. I left for Oxenfurt as soon as I was old enough, and when I graduated I went on the road, and then. Well. Then I met you, and, well, you know. You were there. For the rest. Some of it, anyway. Right. Well, Vizimir, or more likely someone on his council, since Vizimir is about as savvy and creative as a garden slug, and almost as charming, and I’m not sure if Dijkstra was advising him at that point-“ He catches Yennefer’s sharp look at Dijkstra’s name, but barrels on, “-anyway, someone noticed that a minor Redanian noble was doing a lot of very visible traveling all over the Continent and associating with a lot of people the Crown wouldn’t normally have an in with, and figured that would be useful. I think at this point, we’d been traveling together…2? 3 years? Something like that. Long enough that I’d started building a name for myself, definitely. Or, for us, I suppose. That’s why they noticed me in the first place.”

He knows he’s babbling, but there are nerves roiling in his gut like a cauldron, and that feeling has always translated into more words, for him. Like a pressure valve. He pauses and risks a glance at the person whose reaction he’s genuinely worried about.

Yen will understand, she’s been in and out of courts and noble circles and political tangles for decades, she knows how this works. She probably won’t trust him, but he’s fairly sure she doesn’t trust him now, so that’s no great loss. He doesn’t trust her either.

Geralt has a more…rigid concept of morality. In Geralt’s world, there are Right Things and Wrong Things. Sometimes you have to do Wrong Things to prevent Wronger Things, but that doesn’t make them not Wrong. And anything to do with kings and courts is usually Wrong. There’s a good chance Geralt might never forgive him for this, or if he does, he won’t be able to look past Jaskier keeping it from him so long.

Geralt’s eyes are fixed on his face, sharp and intent, and utterly unreadable. Jaskier thought he had gotten pretty good over the years at reading the subtle shifts in Geralt’s expressions- the tiny crinkles around his eyes when he wanted to laugh, the minute furrow between his brows when he was confused, the slight tick in his jaw when he was frustrated- but his face is as blank as new parchment right now, nothing but the glint in his golden eyes that says he’s listening to every word out of Jaskier’s mouth.

What a time for him to start doing that, he thinks bitterly. Decades of tuning him out when he thought they were friends, and now that Jaskier might be driving him away for good (again, a tiny voice whispers viciously), he’s hanging on every syllable.

“I was approached by a member of the royal intelligence service, and told that the king had ordered that I be recruited as a spy. Technically I am still nobility, and as such I’m obligated to obey the crown. And while I would gladly give up all the trappings of my title and never be anyone but Jaskier the bard ever again, at the time there would have been serious consequences for refusing, and not the kind that would fall on me. I’m technically a Lord, and I do have people I’m responsible for. I left people in charge that I trust to take care of them in my stead, but it’s my name they’re working under. And if I refused a direct order from Vizimir, I wouldn’t be the one to suffer for it. It wasn’t an option.”

He doesn’t look up from the fire. He doesn’t want to see the expressions on their faces, so he presses on, heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“I did my best to keep my reports…not vague, exactly, but mostly useless, I guess? Obviously I have no interest in being a part of whatever bullshit Vizimir or any other king feels like stirring up, but I had to send them something. Little stuff, mostly, frivolous gossip from the taverns I played in, details of drama and rivalries I picked up in various courts or nobles’ beds. Sometimes accounts of monster populations or incidents if there was anything especially notable, since they knew that’s a lot of what I was doing with my time. Nothing actionable, but useful enough that I couldn’t be accused of shirking my duties.” He’s suddenly struck with an awful fear, and he looks up desperately into slitted golden eyes. “I never said a word about Ciri, Geralt, you have to believe me. I told them about that night, and I had to mention that Pavetta had magic because there’s no way that wouldn’t get out some other way, but I never said a word about a Witcher claiming a Child Surprise. I would never risk her like that, or you, you have to believe me. Please say you believe me Geralt, whatever you think of me, that I would never betray you like that. Please.”

He knows he sounds frantic, that he must look insane, that he can’t stop his begging mouth like a runaway cart, but the thought of Geralt thinking even for a second that Jaskier would ever put orders from a king he cared nothing for over Geralt’s own life, over the life of a child, is a knife in his gut, twisting and pulling until Jaskier thinks he might vomit if Geralt doesn’t say something.

The blank expression is gone, and Geralt looks somewhat taken aback. His brow furrows a little in what looks like confusion, before settling into resignation, or maybe chagrin. Jaskier thinks for a moment that he sees a brief flash of what almost looks like…grief? That can’t be right…in his eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it appeared, and Jaskier thinks he must have imagined it.

Geralt takes a swig from his waterskin and draws in a deep breath before speaking.

“I wasn’t worried that you betrayed Ciri, Jaskier. I know you would cut off your own arm before you did something like that. I don’t love where it sounds like this story is going, but I promise, I’ll never be concerned about that.”

That’s…well, those are more words than he was expecting, surely. And different words than he was expecting, too. He would assume that Geralt is placating him, to calm him down and get him to finish talking, but he can hear the sincerity in his voice. Geralt’s eyes are almost imploring, as if he’s as anxious for Jaskier to believe him as Jaskier had been to be believed. He…isn’t sure what to do with that, actually.

He knows Geralt came back for him, knows he was at least not lying when he said he missed him (though how much is anyone’s guess), knows he trusts him to travel with his…his little family, to help keep them safe or at least not make things worse, but he never assumed it went beyond that.

Geralt was clear, on that mountain. Even if he’s sorry now, even if he missed having him around, he meant those words at the time, and Jaskier has no illusions that he won’t get to that point again. Geralt may have spat those words in helpless anger, may have turned his ire on someone who had nothing to do with the state he was in at that moment, but Geralt doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. He says plenty of things he regrets, but he always means them at the time. He did, at one point, believe Jaskier to be a curse and a burden, and Jaskier is fully aware that he will come to that belief again, eventually.

He knows what that particular heartbreak feels like, now. He knows he can survive it, even if he wishes he wouldn’t, sometimes. Mostly, he knows that it will always, always be worth it. Geralt will always be worth it.

Gods but he’s a lovesick fool.

But now, instead of cold distain, or fiery wrath, or, worst of all, blank indifference, Geralt is looking at him like…like he’s sorry. Like he’s desperate for Jaskier’s forgiveness. Forgiveness for what? Jaskier is the one who hid the fact that he was a spy for most of their relatio- friendship. Acquaintanceship. Association. Whichever one wouldn’t piss Geralt off. Geralt hasn’t fucked up here, this time at least.

But he could never resist when Geralt asked him like this for anything, with genuine emotion instead grunted contempt, with even the vaguest hint of affection, like maybe Geralt enjoyed spending time with Jaskier, too. Like maybe Jaskier mattered to Geralt, at least a fraction of how much Geralt mattered to Jaskier. Gods above, he’s so weak for this man.

“Ok. Alright, good. That’s good. I’m glad. Thank you. I know I- anyway. Thank you. Right, where was I? Yes, ok, reports. So I kept myself mostly useless for pretty much the whole time we were together. I mean- not. Not together, obviously, but traveling together. As friends. Or not friends. Whatever. What was I saying?” He’s spiraling, fuck, he’s spiraling, he needs to get out of this, how does he get out of this?

Geralt is looking even more confused than before, but Yennefer is definitely laughing at him in her head. Witch. Like she isn’t just as much of a mess for him. She should be on his side! They bonded over this already and everything!

At least the indignation is enough for him to pull out of the whirlpool of awkward babble and self-sabotage he was trapped in, and he manages to right himself.

“Anyway! Ok! So! Right, well, things changed not quite a year ago, now, after the raid on Bleobheris.” He sobers at the memories, the scent of blood and the sound of screams suddenly heavy in the dry air of the cave. “It was…brutal. I’ve never seen anything like that, not in all my years Witchering with you. I wanted to help. I needed to do something, to…fix something. Anything, no matter how small. That’s when I was contacted by an anonymous benefactor, who offered to fund an effort to smuggle refugees to Xin’Trea. Word had spread about Nilfgaard’s alliance with the elves, that they could be safe there.”

“So the Sandpiper was born,” Yennefer says.

“Right. But I don’t like not knowing where my help is coming from and why. I may not have been a very useful spy in Redania’s eyes for the last 20 years, but it actually takes quite a bit of effort to be ineffective without being useless enough to fire or kill, and as it turns out, I’m actually quite good at it. Call it the performer’s heart in me, or something. So I was able to ferret out that the man behind the money was Sigismund Dijkstra, who had managed to get himself appointed spymaster to Vizimir, which, interestingly, made him my employer, as well as my benefactor.”

Yen looks up sharply again at Dijkstra’s name. Jaskier turns to her, curious.

“You’re familiar, I assume?”

“He’s been causing rifts at Aretuza, riling up the Brotherhood,” she says, brow furrowed. “Pretending to bring counsel and information but really just sowing discord. I’m not clear on the details, but I know elves were mentioned. There are those on the council who take issue with my heritage, so I try to keep on top of the rumors. I wasn’t at Aretuza for long, though, and I…didn’t exactly leave on good terms. I haven’t got many friends left there.” Geralt glances at her sympathetically.

Jaskier nods. “That sounds like him. I wouldn’t trust that man to clean my privy, much less provide thousands of crowns, probably from Vizimir’s coffers, for a worthy cause with no expectations of repayment.” He shakes his head. “I kept my suspicions to myself, though, the network needed the coin and regardless of his motivations, we really were helping people. I wasn’t going to let that go to waste.

“I guess, with me finally settling in one place for so long, and probably Dijkstra feeling like I owed him for the funding, even though I wasn’t meant to know it was him, they started expecting more from me, in terms of intelligence. I didn’t really have a choice, since now they always knew where to find me if they wanted to cause me problems, and besides, Dijkstra was already privy to the network’s efforts anyway as the main benefactor, so I figured it was mostly alright that I’ve had to give more…comprehensive reports to Vizimir the last several months.

“Since Cintra fell, most people know about Ciri, or at least that she’s on the game-board somehow. There are rumors of Nilfgaard searching for a Witcher, so I’m sure some people have put together that you’re involved somehow, but I don’t think too many of the courts, at least, have details. Just that Nilfgaard wants her and maybe there’s a Witcher involved. I made sure not to include too much information that they didn’t already have, but I can’t say for sure what every Northern king knows, or what the Brotherhood knows.” He glances at Yen, who shakes her head and shrugs.

“Anyway, so that’s the meat of it. The concern is that since I became an actual useful asset for them, they’ve been keeping a much closer eye on me. That’s why I was worried about the wards.”

“Alright, I can understand all of that,” Geralt cuts in. “I don’t like that you kept it from me, but I can’t fault your choices. You’re right that we can’t have them sniffing around you, not with Ciri in your orbit.” He frowns. “Would it be possible for you just…fall off the map? Disappear? Redania can’t demand anything from a missing viscount.”

Jaskier winces a little. “I would love to do that, the problem being that Dijkstra works closely with Tretogor’s court mage, who has the charming little talent of transforming into a bird whenever she wants.”

Yen’s eyebrows both go up this time. “Phillipa? She’s quite impressive. A little too entrenched in political intrigue for my taste, but I can’t deny she’s talented. Tissaia speaks very highly of her, certainly.”

She looks thoughtful as she gazes at him over the fire. “You’re worried she’s following you, then? For information on Geralt, since everyone knows Jaskier the Bard is the man to talk to if you want to know about Witchers.”

Her tone is…teasing? Is she teasing him? First hugging, and now teasing? Yeah, he’s not dealing with that right now. He sticks out his tongue at her (he does still have a bantering streak to uphold, after all) before nodding.

“I don’t know for sure if she was in Oxenfurt when Geralt broke me out. I don’t think so, but I certainly wasn’t combing every tree for owls, and there’s no chance of me noticing her out here in the woods. I’m just hoping that if she were around now, you’d sense her, Yen, and that she wasn’t able to bring back anything about Ciri or Geralt or Kaer Morhen to Dijkstra. Or you, either, since the Brotherhood are so unhappy with you.”

Yen looks surprised and very slightly pleased to be included in Jaskier’s concern. Or at least Jaskier thinks that’s the expression he can parse under her normal very scary murder face, which he finds is almost a relief to see. The soft regret and concern of recent weeks has been…unsettling. The sun rises, the rain falls, Yennefer of Vengerberg is gorgeous, aloof, and terrifying. This is the natural order.

Geralt is wearing a pensive expression, frowning slightly at where Ciri lies, sleeping peacefully. Dear girl, Jaskier hopes she isn’t having any nightmares. She’s been through hell lately, and she’s always had trouble sleeping anyway. Jaskier wonders if he can find the name of that tea Mousesack used to give her to help her sleep. Jaskier even tried it once or twice, when winter nights in Cintra without his Witcher’s soft, even breaths became too much; the stuff worked wonders.

“Alright,” he says eventually, nodding. “I’ll see if I can go to Redania myself, and leave you two with Ciri until I can get back. We’ll keep our campsites warded if we can, Yen, I don’t want you to wear yourself out, but some protection would probably be best. Are you able to see if you can sense anyone from here, or do you need to go outside the wards?”

“I’ll do a lap around the area, but there’s a chance anyone who is out there will sense me as soon as I start casting about. It would be best if you all stayed here, to protect Ciri in case someone actually has come for her.”

“I don’t like any of us going out alone, Yen, especially with the express intention of seeking out danger. I should go with you.” Geralt makes to stand and grab his swords from beside his seat, but Yennefer waves him back down.

“You’d only distract me, and besides, do you want to leave the totally untrained sorceress and the normal human alone here?” Jaskier makes an affronted squawking noise.

“Hey! I’m plenty competent, thank you!” He prudently ignores the minor inaccuracy of his humanity, and instead huffs at the matching incredulous looks he receives. “Rude. Honestly, I get no respect around here. I survived just fine on my own for years, you know! Besides, I traveled with a reckless idiot Witcher for 20 years, you pick up more than you’d think.” He glares at them both until Yen smirks and Geralt looks baffled and vaguely offended, but at least they both look away, which is an improvement.

Until the two of them end up in a stare off, clearly having some sort of emphatic conversation with their eyes alone, and Jaskier has to turn away to start putting away the cooking supplies they won’t need for breakfast tomorrow. He’s warming up to Yennefer, much to his chagrin, but he’s had quite enough of watching the man he loves eyefuck someone else, for this lifetime and the next, thanks ever so.

He hears Geralt huff, a sound he recognizes as him realizing whoever he’s arguing with is just going to do as they please anyway, and he might as well make the best of it.

He made that sound at Jaskier a lot. Usually when he talked his way into coming along on hunts, but really any time Jaskier wanted something from him beyond some seared rabbit, a fire to sleep beside, and monosyllabic grunts in response to questions (if he was lucky)- a night at an inn, a stop at a local festival, an actual hot bath with herbs and flowers and scented oils. Arms to hold him on especially cold nights, when blankets weren’t enough to warm (mostly) human skin.

Jaskier used to think it was cute. A game, just for the two of them, Jaskier pushing, Geralt pulling, or the other way around, always meeting in the middle (or, more often, closer to Jaskier’s side) with what Jaskier had always assumed was mutual amusement and affection. He knows better now.

There’s the telltale swish of Yennefer’s skirts, a strange popping sensation in his ears, and then the feeling of the wards coming back up behind her.

The silencing spell around Ciri is still up, as far as he knows, and she’s dead to the world besides, so it’s just him and Geralt now.

It isn’t the first time they’ve been alone since Oxenfurt, but it is the first time since Jaskier was invited (by Ciri, it should be noted, not Geralt) to travel with them as a companion, not as backup.

That one still stings, if he’s honest. He held out hope for months that Geralt would come back for him, would seek him out with a stuttered apology (or more likely a silently offered ale and an invitation to come with him to his next hunt). Maybe at a tavern, or the Seat of Friendship, or even a ball or musical competition where Jaskier was playing. He knows how much Geralt hates getting dressed up, how much it would have meant for him to go to that effort just to see Jaskier.

He imagined seeing him sitting silently in the back of one of his lectures one day, watching the lesson with quiet affection and waiting for him to be finished so they could talk. Imagined hearing the sound of Roach’s hooves coming up behind him on some backroad to nowhere while he strummed his lute in the sunshine.

He imagined a thousand different reunions, a thousand apologies, a thousand ways for them to turn back the clock. (During some of the longer nights, when he was alone in his rooms staring out at the moon through the window, wondering if Geralt was lying on his bedroll in a forest clearing somewhere staring up at the same moon, he imagined a thousand different love confessions. But he has no intention of admitting that to anyone but his own foolish heart. He may be a bard, and a hopeless romantic, but there’s no need to bare all of his weeping wounds, especially when there’s no hope of healing them.)

For all his daydreaming, he never imagined that Geralt would seek him out only when he needed an extra set of hands and all his other options were exhausted. Never imagined he would be not just a tool to be used, but the last resort as well.

He shouldn’t be surprised, after everything, but the knowledge that he was never really anything else to Geralt still aches like a broken rib, flashes of pain shooting through his chest with every inhale.

This is the first time they’ve been alone together without an immediate crisis, without a clearly defined mission beyond the open road, just like it used to be.

Except nothing like it used to be, because how it used to be is gone. It will never be that way again. Geralt burned those memories down, with words as sharp as swords and as destructive as dragon fire.

Jaskier has no fucking idea how to deal with this.

“Jas-“ Geralt cuts off and clears his throat. Jaskier can hear him gulping from his waterskin before trying again. “Jaskier.”

“Yes?” He tries to keep his voice light, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Jaskier, can we. Can we talk? Please?”

It’s the ‘please’ that does it. Geralt so rarely says please. Jaskier may need more than his fingers to count the times he’s heard it directed at him, but he can still remember each one in perfect clarity. Besides, they had more than 20 years together, “more than 10” is still not exactly a stellar ratio.

Jaskier’s resolve breaks (did he ever really have any? Has he ever had any when it comes to this man?) and he turns, schooling his face into something meant to look bright and open. He’s not sure how well it works. “Of course, Geralt. What’s on your mind?”

“I-“ Geralt looks…lost. He looks like he has absolutely no idea how to get where he’s going, and it’s killing him. Jaskier crumbles.

“You’ve already apologized, Geralt, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve forgiven you. You were angry, you needed a target, I was there. It’s behind us.” He looks at the fire, for lack of anything else that isn’t Geralt’s stupid awful gorgeous face, wishing desperately he had his lute. He never felt awkward with his lute. Never rubbed anxious circles around his calluses for lack of anything to do with his hands. Never sat in a silence so painful he wondered if his ears would bleed.

Geralt lets out a breath like he’s trying to remember how. “That’s not. I mean it is. But. I. Fuck.” Jaskier looks up from the fire to see him scrubbing a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. The adorable fool manages to get his hand tangled in the locks when he forgets about the band holding half of it back from his face.

“Oh for Melitele’s sake- stop moving, you lug, I’ll fix it. You’re going to tear it out in chunks if you keep pulling like that, just hold still, or I’ll have to rewrite all the songs to be about The Bald Wolf instead. Ye gods, Geralt, how did you survive without me? Honestly.” He’s across the cave and kneeling behind Geralt on the other side of the fire before he consciously registers the decision to move. Fucking hells, even his own body is against him.

He has his hands in Geralt’s (soft, silky, gorgeous) hair, untangling it gently from where it’s wound itself tightly around his (scarred, strong, beautiful) fingers. He thinks he hears Geralt’s breath catch, but he’s too distracted trying to keep his own lungs working at all to focus on it.

Once Geralt’s hand is free (and does Geralt seem as reluctant to let go and put his hand back in his lap as Jaskier is to let him?) Jaskier sets to work on the much more finicky task of removing the band without pulling half of Geralt’s hair out with it, which would honestly be a crime against…well, anyone with eyes really. Jaskier may be in love with him, but he’s also seen a truly exorbitant number of beautiful people across the continent, many of them naked, so he thinks he’s fairly qualified when he says that Geralt is one of the most singularly stunning people on the face of the earth, bias or not. Especially now that he seems to be taking better care of his hair than he used to when Jaskier wasn’t around.

Jaskier is actually rather shocked at how well-kept Geralt is. His hair is smooth and soft and clean, and smells like…is that apple blossom? That’s one of Jaskier’s favorite scents. It never fails to make him feel light and warm, like spring sunshine. He uses it in his own hair more often than the other oils he carries.

Back when washing Geralt’s hair for him was an occasional but deeply treasured privilege of his, Jaskier used to use it for him, as well. That Geralt has somehow, for some reason, gotten some of his own to use during their separation…it makes something warm and fragile stir in Jaskier’s chest. Warm and fragile and dangerous. Hope is easily crushed, and when it is, it takes everything else down with it. Jaskier isn’t doing that again. Not so soon.

He finishes detaching the tie as efficiently as he can, and hands it over Geralt’s shoulder before sitting back on his heels and exhaling violently.

“There you are darling, all fixed. Now,-“

“I didn’t.” Geralt interrupts him, whisper quiet but still somehow deafening over the crackling fire.

“What?”

“Survive without you. I didn’t. Or, I guess I should say I did, but that’s all I did.”

Jaskier has, for once, absolutely no idea what to say, so he tries something new, and says nothing. He’s barely even sure he’s breathing, staring at the back of Geralt’s head and all his moonlit hair like he’s staring into the jaws of a barghest as he waits to see if he will continue.

He does, words falling out of him in a rush like a river pouring through a broken dam, desperate in a way Jaskier has never heard him before.

“I knew I’d fucked up, on the mountain. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew it. It’s like. It’s like I was a bottle of juice, gone off, going ranker and ranker until the cork flies right out and takes someone’s eye out. I thought I was angry at Borch, at Yen, at Calanthe, at fucking Destiny, at everything. Even you, who hadn’t done one thing wrong. But really it was just me. I was just angry at myself, and there’s. There’s not. There isn’t anywhere for that kind of anger to go. It just builds up and up and up until it explodes, and you with it, and I knew I was going to let it out at someone. And then you were there, and you were trying to help. Like always. You always help. You make everything better, like you were just trying to make me feel better. But I was so angry, and it was all my fault, it was all my stupid selfish choices, the djinn, the wish, Ciri, all of it my fault, and I didn’t deserve to feel better. I didn’t deserve it and I had to make you stop and so. I did. I did it on purpose. I did it because I knew that was the thing to say that would hurt you the most. That would make me a monster like I know I am. Monsters are easy. Easier than mistakes and bad choices. So I made another bad choice and hurt someone else and decided to be a monster.”

There might be tears streaming down Jaskier’s face, but he can’t tell because he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t hear anything but the rushing in his ears and Geralt’s voice ripping into him with savage, gentle claws.

“Once Yen was gone- It’s hard to think with her around, sometimes. It’s the wish, I think. Everything else gets duller, quieter, a little out of focus. Like in a dream when the only thing you can see clearly is the person you know the dream is about, the person you’re supposed to talk to.” Oh this…this is actually torture. Geralt might actually be killing him because he still can’t fucking breathe and he just keeps talking.

“It’s better now. Maybe it’s Ciri, my Destiny is split between them now so it’s not so overwhelming. Or maybe Ciri is her Destiny too, and now that we’ll always have her, the both of us, the wish doesn’t need to force us to be in love for us to stay nearby. I don’t know. It’s easier now, though. And even easier when you’re here.”

Wait, what? Now Jaskier knows he’s dead, or dying, or hallucinating, or something, because there’s no way that means what he wants it to mean.

“After Yen left, my head started to clear. Things came back into focus. I realized what I’d done, but suddenly I could also see that it wasn’t just what I yelled at you. It was so much more, so much deeper. I had been so awful to you, for so long, and you just. Took it. All of it. Everything I had, all my anger and my fear and my loneliness. You just let me. You always came back. You kept choosing me, even when I was cruel. I was ashamed, but I also thought…” He breaks off with a great shuddering breath, his head hanging.

Jaskier feels a little like he’s floating. Like he can see his body, kneeling there in the dirt behind Geralt, staring at his sculpted shoulderblades with a blind, devastated look on his tear-streaked face. How odd.

Geralt, somehow, impossibly, keeps going. This is more words than Jaskier has heard him say in the last two decades. This is more words than he knew Geralt was capable of saying. Where are all these words coming from?

It’s like all this time, he had been saving these. Stockpiling them, though for what Jaskier can’t begin to guess. A rainy day? An emergency? This? And now the doors of the granary have come loose and the winter stores are flooding the yard and Jaskier thinks he might end up buried alive.

“I thought you’d come back.” Geralt’s voice is thicker, somehow, and oh, gods, is he crying? “I thought you would come back, like before, like always, and it would be ok. And I would try to be better. I would try to be the man you thought I was. And it would be ok. But you-“ He cuts off with another great shuddering breath, and seems to center himself. “You didn’t come back. And that’s when I realized I had finally gone too far.”

Jaskier has been trying to process all of these many, many, many, mostly incomprehensible words, and he’s maybe fallen a little bit behind, because he hears himself cut in with an incredulous “Wait, are you saying that every time you were rude or dismissive to me, it wasn’t just because you don’t know how to conduct yourself in a normal friendship because you’ve never had one, but actually because you knew you were being cruel and you knew you could get away with it because I would always come back?”

Geralt’s head hangs even lower, and Jaskier has to strain to hear his gravelly whispered reply.

“Yes. Maybe not consciously, or in so many words, but yes.”

Jaskier flounders for a moment, wounds he spent the last year trying to close tearing back open even wider than before.

“All this time? You thought so little of me, all this time? I was just a- a- a practice dummy? Something that won’t fight back or feel pain, so you can hit it has hard or as many times as you want?” His voice began at a whisper, to match Geralt’s, but has gotten steadily louder and more tear-filled the more he speaks.

“No, that isn’t-“

“I can’t- I’m not- I need a moment. Please, Geralt I need- Please.” He can’t keep sitting this close to him, feeling his body heat just as warm as the fire he’s blocking Jaskier from, can’t keep listening to his low rumbling voice, like thunder and gravel and home, like a silver sword through the midsection. Not when the pain and the anger and the hope are all bleeding together and he doesn’t know how to feel them properly and he still can’t fucking breathe.

Geralt’s breath hitches, a tiny little wisp of sound, and Jaskier is going to fucking lose it.

“Please, Geralt.” It comes out in a broken whisper, which is more revealing than Jaskier was hoping, but it’s not like he’s managed to hide anything anyway, so it hardly matters.

Geralt nods, back still to Jaskier in front of the fire, and stands smoothly to walk over to a corner near the entrance, where he can see all four bedrolls and the cave mouth clearly. Ready to protect. Always ready to defend. He sinks to his knees and his breathing takes on the familiar cadence of meditation.

Jaskier takes a moment to look at him. At the way his hands are clutched a little tighter on his thighs than they normally would be while he mediates, like he hasn’t managed to purge all the fear from his body the way he has his mind. At the new scars he can see on his forearms and one snaking over his collarbone, scars that Jaskier wasn’t there to bandage and fuss over. At the way his hair spills over his shoulders, still tousled from Jaskier’s fingers. At the single tear track carving a path down one marble cheek.

Jaskier sucks in a breath and turns away before he breaks down and Yen comes back to find him catatonic on the ground.

He ends up standing at the mouth of the cave, stroking New Roach’s neck and petting his hands through her glossy mane gently. Her slow breathing and the familiar warm, earthy smell of horse help ground him, bring him back from that awful frantic-floating feeling, where he was nowhere and trapped all at once.

He chatters to her quietly, just like he did to her predecessor. She, at least, warms up to him much more quickly.

A warm, black nose thumps gently into his chest. “Yes, my love, I know I need to protect my heart. I’m trying! Can’t you see how hard I’m trying?” She nickers softly, more of a puff of breath than a proper sound.

“Well aren’t we feeling smug this evening, sweet thing.” Another thump. “It’s alright darling, I don’t blame you. I think I’m ridiculous, too. I just don’t know how to fix it.” He strokes a hand down her forehead, scritching lightly.

“No, me either. You know what the problem is, don’t you?” She lips at his hair, which he takes as an invitation to continue.

His voice is even quieter now, the barest thread of a whisper, quiet enough that even Geralt might not overhear if he comes out of meditation. “The problem is that I’ve spent all this time coming up with plans and strategies and contingencies for not giving my heart away again, when the truth is I don’t think I ever got it back in the first place.”

He rests his forehead against hers in defeat, tears falling silently again. He’s going to dehydrate at this point, but what does he care when he has a beautiful lady providing him such warm, solid comfort right here?

“I have to say, songbird, this is not what I expected to find when I came back tonight.”

Jaskier does not flail. He is a professional performer, he has immaculate control over his body at all times. And he definitely doesn’t squeak, no bard would ever be caught dead making such an undignified noise unintentionally.

So no, he neither flails nor squeaks, and if New Roach gets very slightly spooked and a lot disgruntled, it was from Yennefer sneaking up out of bloody nowhere like a wraith in the night, and certainly nothing Jaskier did. If either of them say different, they’re lying.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Is this your plan to kill me and make it look like an accident? I’ll tell Ciri, she’ll come after you with her dagger, see if she doesn’t. Ciri likes me. Ciri would avenge me.” He’s clutching his chest, heartbeat gradually beginning to slow.

New Roach is still giving him a dubious look. That’s rude, this is hardly his fault. It’s Yen she should be grumpy with.

“Well, I was rather hoping that by this point in the evening, you wouldn’t need a miniature Witcherling-sorceress to defend you, since you’d have your big strong Witcher back, but somehow things seem to have gotten worse in my absence. Did he not manage to tell you his real feelings? Bloody Witchers, trust him to be resistant to my recipe, it’s never bloody failed before, if he’s made this worse somehow I’m going to bloody dissect him to figure out where I went wrong-“ She continues muttering darkly while Jaskier stares at her in shock.

His mind is valiantly trying to shake off enough of the lingering fog of tears to pull some of those threads together and figure out what the fuck she’s talking about.

Recipe? Real feelings? Make what worse? Did she…did she dose him with something? Did she put a fucking spell on his Witcher? He might have to have Ciri stab her after all, since he has no illusions about his own abilities to take her in a fight.

“What the fuck are you talking about, witch? What did you give him? What the fuck did you do? I’ll kill you myself you vicious little shrew, see if I don’t!”

She waves a hand dismissively, scoffing at his threats. Admittedly he is not at his best, though in his defense it’s hard to adopt a proper fighting stance when you’ve just spent half an hour kneeling in the dirt while your still-beating heart was slowly diced into bite-sized pieces. Tough on the knees, you know.

“Please, you should be thanking me. It was fucking exhausting, these last few weeks, watching you two throw longing glances back and forth when you think no one’s looking. I’m just trying to help things along.”

“Help- what? What things? Help things along how?” He’s trying very hard to hold onto his righteous anger at her for (possibly?) drugging the man he loves, but she keeps saying things that dredge up that dangerous warm feeling from before, and he’s losing his resolve.

“Nothing sinister, songbird. I’m done with that, I’m on the side of the White Knights now, remember? Have a little faith in me, for Lilit’s sake.” She rolls her eyes, but either he’s getting better at reading her or she’s making an effort to be easier to read, because he can feel the sincerity in her words. “We both know all that nonsense about Witchers not feeling is horseshit, yes?” He nods. Obviously it is, Geralt feels more deeply than anyone he’s ever met. “But I know you also understand how much he struggles to make sense of what he’s feeling, or to make himself heard when he does.”

She’s right about that, too. Jaskier knows the emotions are there, has always known, since the moment he saw Geralt in that tavern in Posada. But he’s watched Geralt get lost in the tangle of feelings inside him so thoroughly that all the words get stuck and nothing comes out. He’s seen it happen hundreds of times. That’s part of why he’s always wanted to badly to sing about him, to tell the world what Geralt can’t, to be the words when he can’t find them.

Yen gestures to the corner where Geralt is still meditating peacefully. “I didn’t do anything to his feelings. Couldn’t if I tried, that’s not really how my magic works, anyway. But I knew there are things he’s been wanting to say, and he’s been suffering for not knowing how. And as antagonistic as we may be, I don’t actually hate you nearly so much these days, and I find myself discomfited by your very obvious pining, as well.” Well, that’s…actually quite sweet. And rather disquieting, if he’s honest.

“So I gave him something to help him articulate himself. It won’t make him say anything he doesn’t want to, won’t force him to reveal any truths against his will or create any feelings that weren’t already there. It just…smooths the way. Untangles all those knots in his head so something coherent can make it out of his mouth. But you two aren’t cuddled up by the fire making me want to vomit, which means it didn’t fucking work, and I have to figure out why!” She looks rather like she would huff and stomp her foot at this, if the great and powerful Yennefer of Vengerberg would ever stoop to something so childish.

Jaskier thinks very hard about the last hour or so of his life. He thinks about Geralt saying “please,” and he thinks about the way all those words fell out of him and just kept coming and coming and coming, like a pot boiling over, piling up in a heap at Jaskier’s feet. He thinks about Geralt crying.

“Well- uh. Hmm. You know, it occurs to me now- it’s funny really, I think you’ll laugh, definitely laugh, not look at me with that petrifying glare you’ve got on right now, no you’ll be laughing I’m quite sure- Alright, yes, ok! Yes! Right, well, um. I think, looking at recent events, fresh eyes and all that you know- I’m just saying, it would have been helpful to have some of this information going in, is all- Ow! Melitele’s tits, that hurt! Do those nails come standard at Aretuza, or were you just born lucky? Ouch! Ok, ok, stop pinching me, witch! Like I was saying, with the benefit of this new information, I think it’s possible your magical intervention whosit thingy may have worked exactly as expected?”

She narrows her eyes. “If it worked, why are you crying to a horse instead of snuggling with your man?” His man. That can’t be right. Can it? Geralt isn’t his. Except. Except for all the things he sounded like he might be gearing up to say when Jaskier cut him off. Fuck.

“I, uh. I maybe. I maybe stopped him partway through and told him I needed a break?” He winces back as her already truly impressive glare intensifies even further- yep, she’s still got it.

“I did not go to all the effort of brewing that fucking potion, tailoring it for Witcher metabolisms, and making it fucking tasteless and odorless so he would drink it, not to mention standing out here in the fucking woods in the middle of the night with nothing to fucking do, just so you could chicken out halfway through getting everything you ever fucking wanted.” Her eyes are glowing violet now, which is. Wow. Scary. She’s so scary. He remembers now why he always thought she was so so scary. She jabs her finger towards the kneeling figure by the wall. “Get the fuck back in there and finish the damn conversation, bard,” she hisses. “I will not deal with this bullshit all the way to the Redanian border.”

She turns to leave again, and Jaskier shoots out a hand to stop her. She looks at his hand on her elbow and he briefly worries he’s going to end the night as a slug of some kind, but she just looks up at him questioningly.

“I just. Fuck. I know- I know this probably wasn’t easy for you. You know I know better than most what you’re feeling right now. But you’re helping anyway, so. Thank you, Yennefer. Even if it doesn’t go like you think, like I hope, you were willing to try even though it hurts, so thank you.” He isn’t sure what his face is doing, but he hopes she can see how genuinely grateful he is.

She smiles a little sadly. “Come on, songbird, We both know he was never really mine. And besides, I’m not the settling down type. Now go, don’t make me curse you.” She shoots him what would be a very passable glare if it weren’t for the slight glimmer of tears in her eyes, then spins on her heel and stalks off into the night.

He turns back to the cave, hesitating for a single moment before there’s an irritated huff, a nip to the sleeve of his jacket, and a frankly unnecessarily forceful shove to his back. He glares back at Roach, who seems unperturbed. “I’ve got entirely too many black-haired gorgeous women trying to run my life right now, do you hear me? Too many!” Roach huffs again. “Fine. I’m going, are you happy?” He takes another step and looks over his shoulder. She looks smug. Of course she does. “I think you’re just the old Roach reincarnated. Never seen another horse look so damn satisfied with herself,” he mutters, but he’s already heading back into the cave, so he figures she’s won this round.

He feels slightly guilty about grabbing Geralt’s waterskin before going to him, but he isn’t sure how long Yen’s potion lasts, or if meditating will have burned more of it off. Maybe it’s disingenuous to give him more without telling him what’s in it, but, weirdly, he trusts Yen when she says it won’t force Geralt to do or say anything he doesn’t want to, and Jaskier isn’t sure he’ll ever get to hear the words otherwise. He’ll tell him afterwards. He won’t keep this secret forever.

He sits down quietly next to Geralt, leaning up against the wall of the cave. He takes one deep breath, then another, and another. He rests his fingers gently on Geralt’s hand where it sits on his thigh. Geralt’s breathing gradually picks up until he’s back to almost his normal, slow rhythm. His eyes open, landing on Jaskier’s hand on his and following the line of his arm back up to his face.

Jaskier hands him the waterskin, and Geralt takes it with a nod of gratitude before taking a long drink. “I’m alright now,” Jaskier says. “I’m sorry I stopped you.

Geralt searches his face, eyes searching Jaskier’s for signs of dishonesty. Apparently finding none, he nods slightly, golden eyes closing again for a moment. When they open, he’s not looking at Jaskier any longer.

Jaskier looks at his hand, fingertips still resting ever so lightly on Geralt’s palm, and considers taking it back. He thinks about what Geralt has told him so far tonight, about the conviction in Yen’s voice when she insisted Geralt had feelings for him. Fuck it, he decides, and lays his hand more firmly in Geralt’s, lacing their fingers together. Geralt draws in a sharp breath and looks up at him in shock, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he grips Jaskier’s hand tighter, like he’s worried Jaskier is going to try to run.

“I know you,” Jaskier says slowly. “I’ve known you for more than half my life, and I know that you aren’t cruel, or callous, or unkind. I know that there is always a reason behind the things you say, and the things you do, even if no one else can see it.” He swallows hard, closing his eyes briefly. Geralt squeezes his hand lightly, which…helps, actually. It helps a lot. “I’m sorry I accused you of hurting me on purpose, for the sake of causing me pain. I was overwhelmed and having trouble processing things, but I shouldn’t have jumped to a conclusion I know wasn’t true. If you still want to talk, I’m ready to listen now.”

“It wasn’t an illogical conclusion to draw. And it wasn’t even completely wrong.” His voice is calmer than before, measured and even. Not as frantic. The river is still flowing free, but it’s calmed, no longer the violent rush of a broken dam. He sighs, a great, world-weary thing. “It was because you’re safe.” Jaskier looks at him quizzically.

Geralt draws in another deep breath before continuing. “I can’t ever show emotion. Not to humans. Not anger, or fear, or sometimes even joy. The myths about Witchers not having feelings…they aren’t just vicious rumors made up by bigots. They’re there to protect us. From them.”

Jaskier frowns. “You mean Witchers put that rumor out yourselves? But why?” Surely demonstrating how human Witchers really are can only help matters, right?

“In a way.” Geralt tilts his head in the way Jaskier knows means he’s remembering something long past. “It’s part of how we’re trained. We’re taught to suppress emotion, to hide it from everyone, including ourselves. It’s how we’ve done things for 400 years.” His thumb sweeps little arcs across the back of Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier’s heart trips in his chest. He knows Geralt can probably hear it, but it must not worry him and he keeps talking.

“The first Witchers were experiments. Men twisted by mages hoping to combat the monsters that plagued the world. The process has been…refined, since then. At first, they really were- well. More monster than man.” Geralt tips his head back against the rock wall. “Humans were terrified of them. One and all, right down to their bones. The first Witchers didn’t take contracts, because no humans would even speak with them. They just wandered around until they found a monster to kill, and then moved on to the next. Eventually, people started to realize that Witchers were only killing monsters, and leaving humans be, so they slowly started reaching out for help.”

“Ungrateful sods, the lot of them,” Jaskier mutters, and hears Geralt’s quiet huff of laughter in response.

“You’re. You’re so special, do you know that?” Jaskier jerks his head up in surprise to see Geralt’s eyes on his face, liquid gold lit like sunrise by the light of the fire, a tiny smile playing around his lips. “You’ve never been afraid of me. Not once. Not even when the only things you knew about me were that I scowled a lot and I had two very scary swords.” Jaskier flushes at the reminder of the babble that spilled out of his mouth the moment he laid eyes on the single most attractive person he had ever seen in his 18 years of life.

He drops his eyes, knowing there’s no hiding the blush on his cheeks but ignoring it as hard as he can anyway. “What’s there to be scared of? You’re a puppy, not a wolf.” He expects a grumble, or a glare, or for Geralt to ignore him completely. Certainly not the bark of laughter that would have woken Ciri were it not for Yen’s charm. He stares at Geralt’s face, firelight flickering over pale skin, honest joy written in the curve of his mouth, and grins back helplessly.

“You’re the only one who’s ever thought that. Except maybe Eskel.” He laughs again, more quietly this time, then sobers slightly. “Humans are afraid of us. They always have been. Less now, since you,” he squeezes Jaskier’s hand again and Jaskier flushes even darker, “but the first Witchers were barely more than feral, and that impression…stuck. Humanity never got past it. Even when new generations of Witchers were made, when we became something closer to men than to monsters, their fear never went away. Any emotion, even the faintest irritation, was enough to make most humans think a Witcher was about to go berserk, to start tearing out the throats of anyone who got too close. So, we learned to shut them down.”

His eyes are downcast now, and Jaskier thinks of a tiny Geralt, just a boy, younger than Ciri, excited about the world, curious and clever and mischievous, thinks about him learning to hide his heart away until even he couldn’t find it anymore, and he wants to scream. He wants to cry, he wants to rage, he wants to find every human who ever judged a Witcher by his eyes and not his deeds and mount their heads on spikes. He wants to tear out their hearts and make them watch as he throws them on the pyre, burning them out like so many boys were made to burn out their own.

Geralt can smell his turmoil, he knows, and he clings to the comfort offered when he holds Jaskier’s hand as tightly as he can without hurting him, still tracing circles into his skin with his thumb.

“It isn’t safe, to have feelings. Humans may spit on a mutant with a heart of stone, but they’ll hunt and kill a monster with teeth they think will harm them. It’s safer to be cold, to be hard. To let all of it roll off of us like snow off a mountain. And after a while, you forget how to be anything else. You forget that it’s a lie, that it’s something you had to learn. You start to believe it too.” There are tears dripping off of Jaskier’s nose now, but he doesn’t dare interrupt again. “I had forgotten, until you.”

He looks at Jaskier with such naked feeling in his fiery eyes that Jaskier can’t fathom how anyone could believe this man has no heart. “You made me feel. You walked into my life and just-“ He huffs another low laugh, the faraway look on his face impossibly fond. “You just didn’t listen to a fucking thing I said. Ever! Not once! And it drove me up the godsdamned wall. I was going out of my mind, I was so fucking annoyed. You never stopped talking, or singing, or playing that damn lute, you never stayed out of the way on hunts like I told you to, you ignored me whenever I said I didn’t have feelings or I didn’t need anyone or we weren’t friends. And you wouldn’t leave! You just kept coming back, no matter how much of an arse I was, even when I acted in ways that would have made other humans shit themselves, or come after me with torches and pitchforks, or both. You just kept coming back, and you kept not believing me when I told you I was a monster, and you never smelled fucking afraid, and after a while I realized that irritated wasn’t the only thing you made me feel anymore.”

He seems to withdraw into himself a little, his shoulders hunching and his head hanging slightly. He tries to withdraw his hand, but Jaskier isn’t sure he can get through this conversation without it, so he hopes Geralt will forgive him for pushing yet more boundaries and simply holds onto him tighter.

Geralt sighs again, but stops pulling away. “But there’s still so much shit in the world. There are so many humans who hate me, or fear me, or try to cheat me, or who end up being monsters worse than the ones they want me to kill, and the problem with having it smacked over my head that I do actually have feelings, is that it makes it so much harder to ignore them. And there’s so much anger in me, Jaskier, and grief, and loneliness. And I can’t ever show it to anyone, or it will confirm everything they think they know about me. It will make me a monster. It will make me the Butcher all over again.” He looks up again, his expression anguished. “You’re the only one who’s safe. You’re the only one I can be angry around, or sad, or scared, or just annoyed, without thinking the worst of me. You’re the only one who ever comes back.”

Jaskier is back to feeling like his heart is being fed through a sieve, but he thinks he understands what Geralt is trying to say this time. He feels a renewed rush of guilt for assuming the worst of him before. Is he any better than the rest, jumping to the foulest possible conclusion while Geralt wrestles with his tongue to try and make him understand? He turns his head away, closing his eyes against the tears and trying to breathe through the shame.

Fingers grip his chin gently and coax his head back until he’s looking into Geralt’s slitted eyes again. The look on his face is so soft, so open, that Jaskier feels like his ribs are being pried apart at the sight of it. “You have no idea how much of a blessing you have actually been in my life, Jaskier,” and those words just crack his chest wide open and bare his heart to the whole room, don’t they? “I took advantage of you. I wanted so badly to have someone in my life I could show all the darkest parts of myself to, without them running away, that I forgot to show you the rest. And I forgot to help carry your darkness in return. I left you with such a burden, Jaskier, and you never once complained or asked me to help. You have done nothing but give, for as long as I’ve known you, and I wish I could show you how sorry I am that I was content for so long just to take.” Jaskier is pretty sure he’s openly sobbing now, but Geralt is sliding his hand up from his chin to cup his cheek, sweeping the tears away with his thumb, so it’s probably ok.

“Let me make it up to you, Jaskier. Let me be the one to give to you for once. Let me carry your burdens for a while. Let me give you a reason to forgive me. A reason to come back.” His eyes are pools of molten gold, wide and dark and shining with- emotion. An emotion. Jaskier isn’t going to hazard a guess at which emotion, because he isn’t sure he can handle the answer.

“I’ve already forgiven you, you great lummox. For all of it. A safe place is all I ever wanted to be for you. I only ever wanted to give you a home. Like you gave me. Just- just share it with me next time, please? The anger, or the fear? Share it with me first, instead of letting it fester and burn us both. That’s all I need from you.”

Geralt’s hand on his cheek guides him forward until their faces are inches from each other, foreheads resting together. Jaskier’s eyes want to close but he can’t bear to look away, too afraid this is all an impossible dream that will disappear as soon as he opens them again. He can see the way the firelight glimmers off his silver hair, the scars through his eyebrow, the tears clinging to his eyelashes as they sweep gently over his cheeks. He’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever deserved you, but I would do anything for the chance to try to be someone who does. I’m yours, Jaskier. You need only say you’ll have me.”

Jaskier is a man of words. He’s a bard, words are his trade, his weapons, the blood in his veins. No matter what else is happening around him, no matter what he has or what he’s lost or what needs to be done, there are always words ready to spring forth from him like water from a spigot. He has never, in all his life, been out of words.

Until now.

Fuck it.

Geralt’s lips are softer than he imagined, given that his skincare routine seems to consist primarily of monster innards. But they’re soft and they’re warm and they move so gently against Jaskier’s that he thinks he might simply melt into a puddle, to be absorbed into the earth and never seen again. The kiss is tender, and sweet, and longing, and not at all how he imagined his first kiss with Geralt would be. It’s perfect. Jaskier breaks it with a watery laugh, keeping his forehead pressed to Geralt’s.

Somehow his free hand has found its way back into Geralt’s silky hair, and he threads his fingers deeper into the moonlit locks and hopes he’ll never have to let go.

“You’re mine?” He knows he sounds a little pleading, disbelief coloring his tone, but he can’t help it. He’s had this dream so many times, he needs to be sure it’s real this time. “Really?”

“Really, little lark.” Geralt is smiling just as wide as Jaskier is, his cheeks just as damp. “I’ve always been yours, I was just too stupid to admit it. I won’t make that mistake again. I love you. I’ll never leave you behind again, not for the rest of your life, if you’ll let me.”

And, oh, there’s a conversation they should maybe have, because after all the revelations of tonight, Jaskier is fairly sure Geralt thinks he’s completely human, and is probably in pain over his supposed mortality. At some point before they go to sleep Jaskier will mention it, because apparently Geralt hasn’t noticed that his face hasn’t changed a lick in 25 years, the stubble he wears these days notwithstanding.

Because Geralt is a ridiculous, incredible, oblivious, stupid, wonderful fool, and Jaskier loves him so much he can hardly breathe. So he tells him so. The rest can wait.

#the witcher #twn #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla fiona elen riannon #the witcher fanfiction #my writing #i'll do the same with sleep now eventually i think but i want to finish it first

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onbeinganangel · 2 years ago

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least read fics ✨

i was tagged by @danpuff-ao3 and @sweet-s0rr0w (see their posts here, and here, respectively, and go read those unloved hidden gems pls and thanks) to share my 5 least read fics on ao3, by either hits or kudos. this game was going around for National Author's Day and, as per usual, i'm so late it's not even fashionable anymore. ooopsies. thank you for the tags, pals!

while i think both hits and kudos are very flawed statistics i decided to go with hits for this one. my least read five, from the very bottom up are:

2020 Microfics [1100 words, 22 drarry microfics, rated E, warnings vary]

A collection of microfics written for Drarry Microfic's 2020 prompts.

a little too good to be true [800 words, ginsy, rated T, no warnings]

For a date that had started with Pansy surreptitiously pulling her phone out and texting Draco, in all caps, “You told me it was someone I didn’t know, you actual ballbag” the blind date had gone surprisingly well. It helped that Pansy accidentally blurted out what Draco had told her as soon as she laid eyes on Ginny, and Ginny laughed and replied with a “Well, Harry said, and I quote ‘She’s really lovely, give her a chance,’ so here I am.”

do it again [750 words, drarry, rated T, no warnings]

Luna,

I’m sorry. I know it’s the second time we’ve had to reschedule this interview. Work has been mental today and Ron got punched in the face. (He’s fine, it was kind of funny.) Draco will be mardy so if you have any of those hibiscus biscuits of yours with the lemon icing that you could spare, send him home with a few. I’ll owe you.

Tell him I’m really sorry and I’ll see you both at the Gala tonight.

H x

overture [115 words, drarry, rated T, no warnings]

In which Harry tells Draco all about his life.

2021 Microfics [5050 words, 95 drarry microfics, rated E, warnings vary]

A collection of microfics written for Drarry Microfic's 2021 prompts.

i accidentally rambled on (who's suprised? not me) about stats and about quality and about hits vs. kudos and all that nonsense so i'm putting the rest of this post under a cut. before that though, i'm going to link you to what is my 6th fic with the least amount of hits, because i am honestly appalled that it ranks 6th, as it's one of my favourite things i have ever written.

the underdog, the honourable mention, the but-mari-that's-not-in-the-rules:

Liturgia Horarum [1500, drarry, rated M, no warnings]

From morning melodies to evening encores, a day in the life through the soundtrack of routine.

and now, for my thoughts:

except for that last minute mention, the actual bottom 5 doesn't really surprise me at all. we have both sets of microfics, 2020's and 2021's and I think we all agree short form (especially extremely short form like micros) does much better on tumblr, plus the fact that they're all under the same work on ao3 despite it not being a cohesive story isn't super helpful. they're mostly there for archival purposes, and mostly for me. i do love having them all in the same place, and it does help me personally when i lose perspective. sometimes i open it just so i can tell myself "look at that, you wrote all those 50 word wee fuckers in numerous genres and styles, and tropes and ideas, all of them about the same two guys" lmao as a reader, i would much prefer to come across microfics and drabbles on tumblr than crammed into one work on ao3, so that makes sense to me.

the other three are T rated, short, and on top of that one of them is femslash too! (truly the holy trifecta of nopes, let's be honest there). so, really. this is unsurprising all around.

it's interesting though, because i'm a curious cat, and i couldn't help compare this to my stats by kudos — do keep in mind i never open my statistics page so looking at it to make this post was really cool! i notice that while i understand why none of these have more hits, they're pieces i quite like, personally. they're nowhere near my favourite things i've ever written, but they're stuff i think it's decent. i think they're alright.

on the other side of that though, are my kudos. when i sort by kudos, both sets of microfics are still on that bottom 5, which again, makes sense. BUT very different fics join those at the bottom of the list. interestingly, the other three fics are quite possibly my least favourite things i've written, the ones i keep on ao3 for the sake of archival but secretly pray no one ever reads! they are a lot higher hit-wise than the ones on the list above (E rated, generally quite porny though the writing/tropes/pairings are rather questionable), but they're at the bottom kudos-wise, which is a fun revelation! maybe it means my own judgement isn't that clouded and that readers and i agree when stuff is a bit... you know, shit. LOL

i find it really fun to look at this kind of thing. i do think the whole point of the game was sharing our less-loved stuff in way of reccommending it/getting it more love, and i ended up just analysing the statistics page. i do enjoy all of these, and none of them are shit, but if you were gonna pick any, for the love of god, read Liturgia Horarum.

can't think of who to tag, but if you haven't done it and you have read all my stupid rambling, you should do it and tag me on it so i can look, thank you <3

#this is probably riddled with typos i do apologise #if you click on the read more i also apologise #it is just me talking to myself about stats #i never look at those so it was a bit of a WHAAAAAT kind of moment #also smaller fandoms are INSANE #was definitely convinced my aftg fic would be on this list #but no #despite being up for less than two weeks #both have surpassed many of my hp fics lmao #anyway i will shush now #tag game #m babbles

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nho-jungle · 3 years ago

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DO YOU WRITE MCYT FIC?

DO YOU HAVE TROUBLE PROMOTING YOUR OWN WRITING?

DO YOU HAVE ONE FIC YOU’VE READ THAT YOU THINK EVERYONE NEEDS TO READ?

WELL HAVE I GOT THE EVENT FOR YOU!

hi my name’s mikey, you may have seen me around but im here in your screen rn to tell you about MIKEY’S 1 YEAR FIC REC EXCHANGE 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO! (no i will not change the name).

as of january 24th 2022, it will have been an entire year since I posted my first mcyt fic! absolutely bonkers!! i did an exchange like this back in 2020 for a different fandom, and i thought “hey, that went well last time. lets do it again!”

This exchange is for anyone who writes any sort of mcyt fic, as I know fic on tumblr often gets buried. under the cut you can read the rules, but here’s the tl:dr-

send me 2 fics/series’: 1 that you have written and 1 that someone else has written. i will be creating a moodboard and a rec post for every. single. submission.

if you wish to take part, please reblog this post so that i know people are interested. even if you dont want to take part, it would be nice if you could reblog this post anyway, so more people can see it.

did that catch your interest? well here’s the full in-depth rules!!

HOW TO SUBMIT

send me the link/name + author of 1 fic/series that you have written that you are most proud of. this can be sent via an ask, a submission, or a dm. if you work via a sideblog or wish for me to tag a seperate blog, then give me that url too.

then, send me the link/name + author of 1 fic/series that you have read and you think everyone should read. if the author has a tumblr linked in an obvious place, then i will tag them in the post.

you have until the 10th of january 2022 to send in your submissions.

GUIDELINES

1) while i am mainly a hermitcraft/empires smp focused blog, you can submit a work for any fandom, as long as it is mcyt! (althought i request that rpf is avoided. i know ao3′s tagging is a mess, but i trust your judgement.)

2) any genre, warnings, or rating is allowed. on the posts i make for each submission, each fic will be fully labelled with everyone you’d see on ao3. for tumblr fics, i will make my own judgement.

3) no reader insert. i will allow oc’s, but reader insert is a huge personal squick for me. just a personal preference.

4) fics must be available to read on ao3 or tumblr! i don’t get along with wattpad at all.

5) if you are the co-writer of a fic, you can count that as one of your own, or agree to a shared submission with your co-writer(s).

6) please keep in mind that i have to read every. single. one. of these fics. that’s not to say i am putting a limit on word count, but understand that if the fic is very long then i may only skim read it to get the general vibes.

7) likewise, please try to choose fics that have fairly obvious themes. at the end of the day, moodboards are pictures, and its very difficult to find 9 images to represent 500 words of domestic fluff.

8) unfinished fics are allowed!! just be aware that if the fic is still in progress then the vibes might change. i am only human. i cant see the future.

9) anonymous submissions are allowed! if you post anonymously on ao3 and wish to remain anonymous, then pls submit your works via an anonymous ask (with an identifying emoji/name if possible). alternatively, you can dm me and state that you wish to remain anonymous. i am just a stranger on the internet, but i promise i wont tell.

10) if a fic has any fanart with it that isn’t linked obviously in the notes somewhere then please send that too. if not, i will be using either just images of the minecraft skins for the moodboards, or any art that i myself have drawn that i feel fits.

PRIZE

(okay, it’s not a competition, but prize makes it sound more exciting)

each fic will get a rec post, featuring a moodboard made specifically for the fic. it’s obviously not mandatory, but if you take part in the exchange then it would be nice to not only rb your own moodboards, but some of the others as well. after all, this exchange is about promoting people’s hard work!

DEADLINE

moodboards will begin posting on the 24th of january. submissions will close on the 10th of january, as that gives me time to make sure everything is finished.

please remember that i am only one guy, and a college student at that. i have a life outside of the internet and am, ultimetely, doing this for fun!

EXTRA

final moodboards, as well as any additional information will be posted under the #fr echange 2022 tag. the last time i did this was for bandom fics, but if you want to check out some examples then you can find those in the #fr exchange 2020 tag

#mcyt #hermitcraft #dsmp #empires smp #3rd life #last life #evo smp #legacy smp #x life smp #fr exchange 2022

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rrandomtthings · 3 years ago

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Do you have any Bakudeku angsty fic recs ?

I have actually been reading a lot of fics recently, so be prepared 👀

Gonna give u the links with a shitty non-spoilery description (mainly just what kinds of AU it is xD)

I can’t emphasize this enough: PLS MIND THE RATINGS AND READ THE TAGS.

Fire Lily (E) - Demon!Bkg and Angel!Deku AU (this isn’t THAT angsty, but I felt the need to add it bc it’s really good <3)

Those Under The Same Stars (M) - After years of not seeing the other, Bkg saves Deku. Throughout this, he finds out that he has a kid that Deku never told him about (KEEP IN MIND THIS IS AN A/B/O FIC AND PLEASE READ THE TAGS)

DEADICATION (E) - Zombie Apocalypse AU (I believe this is dkbk, so if ur not into that then this might not be the fic for u xD)

So Much Worse Than A Phantom Limb (T&U) - Deku gets hurt and is in the hospital

Trusting (M) by: @midoriyasbones - Nomu!Deku AU ;D !!

Thank You For The Venom (T&U) - Deku gets poisoned (was gonna recommend The Way You Used To Do, but I’m gonna assume you’ve already read it since it’s the bkdk fic xD so now I’m gonna rec something else from the author bc they’re amazing :)) !! )

The Few Things Midoriya Izuku Knows (T&U) - Amensia Deku AU

Okay as I was coming up with these I kinda of realized that,,,, hhh I don’t save my fics after I read them 😭 so pls forgive me that this list is kinda short. BUT!! I highly recommend these fics bc they’re all so amazing!! Also, yes. Most of these are Izuku angst fics bc he’s my favorite character, so naturally I want everything to revolve around him <3

Anyone can feel free to add on!! :))

#bnha #bakudeku #answered #anonymous

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evercelle · 3 years ago

Note

Your lastest piece is inspired by a fic?? Pls give us link :'V if that's allowed by the writer tho. But thanks! That's a beautiful trope

badend!au is one my brainworms that i posted art for awhile back, and apparently the writer was (in part) inspired said draw to write their fic. i'm sure they won't mind me plugging it haha!! here's the link, enjoy! it’s super good but mind the rating/tags if corrupt AUs aren’t your jam

#ASK EVER #my last badend draw is a by product of the fact 75% of my xv draws are wing hugs #but it mutated halfway because i wanted to draw smth really dramatic LOL

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buckyismybicycle · 3 years ago

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I've got a secret, it's on the tip of my tongue, it's on the back of my lungs (Bucky x Steve)

title: I've got a secret, it's on the tip of my tongue, it's on the back of my lungs -> AO3 Link pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers rating: ❗explicit, no minors pls tags: Dark Character, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Alternate Universe/Crossover, Defending Jacob Crossover, Prosecutor Steve Rogers summary: Prosecutor Steve Rogers is at a crossroads when his best friend becomes a suspect in a murder investigation. But he knows Bucky is innocent. Right? author’s notes: For Roo's Dark!Crossover Challenge! The reason I wanted to sign up was that I don't write dark fics. So, it's soft dark, but it's a start OKAY. Anyway, I really enjoyed Defending Jacob so this was written in under a day.

@darkficsyouneveraskedfor I hope you enjoy it regardless!

Steve Rogers was the shining, prestigious golden boy, untouchable and loved. Bucky, on the other hand, had always struggled to hold down a job, his injury limiting him from physical work and the self-doubt slowly eating away at his mind to the point where even getting out of bed had been hard. Steve didn’t mind of course — Bucky had always taken care of him when they were young, he certainly didn’t mind returning the favor now.

“Bucky, are you home?” Steve hollers out as he drops his keys in the bowl on their sideboard. The lights were out, which wasn’t unusual, and the house was silent, save for his own footsteps. He jogs up the stairs, slowly unbuttoning his suit from the day. “Buck?”

Being inside was actually quite a relief as the day was hot and his suit was fitted tightly around him. He was looking forward to simply stripping it all off, along with his façade, and slipping into just Steve Rogers when he was at home. Bucky’s door is closed so he knocks lightly. “Buck, are you in there?”

“Yeah, come in,” a lazy drawl responds.

Steve opens the door to find Bucky lounging across his bed, his headphones slightly askew and the TV on at a low volume. It was typical for Bucky to be in nothing but a pair of sweats. He wasn't one for the warm weather, after all, but it still took Steve’s breath away.

“So, good win for Captain Justice, huh?”

Steve couldn’t help but smirk at Bucky’s silly nickname for him, ignoring how his heart bloomed at the pride in Bucky’s voice. “I did Buck, I'm turning enough heads that they want me on that new Rumlow case. Do you wanna get dinner with me to celebrate?”

“I can think of other ways to celebrate,” Bucky purrs as he gives Steve a dangerous grin.

It’s moments like this, when Steve’s shoulders are all bunched and knotted together, when Bucky is looking so inviting and warm with his soft shining eyes and outstretched arm that Steve can feel the world blur around him.

Steve goes to him easily, dropping his jacket on a nearby chair and unbuttoning his shirt along the way. Bucky straightens himself up to lean against the headboard, biting his bottom lip as he watches.

“C’mere Stevie,” he says huskily, before pulling Steve’s belt through the loops so fast it cracks through the air like a whip. They both tug at the slacks, down Steve’s legs and Bucky grins up at him while he shucks his socks off and climbs into Bucky‘s lap.

Steve’s shirt flaps open, all the buttons undone, letting Bucky's hands travel up Steve’s chest as they kiss hungrily. Bucky digs his fingers into the meat of Steve’s thighs while the blonde grinds down heavily.

“Congratulations, Mr. Prosecutor,” Bucky teases cheekily, before pulling himself out of his pants and Steve’s groan fills the room.

—-

The Rumlow case is the biggest news in town, to nobody’s surprise. Most of Steve’s cases are pretty open and shut, small crimes like breaking and entering, theft, aggravated battery or assault. The embezzlement case had been the most exciting thing to have happened in a while. But, in a smaller town like this, a murder is a rarity — something that happens maybe once a century. Unfortunately for Steve, the size of the town also means that everybody knows everybody and news can travel faster than the speed of light. The moment he steps out of his car to approach the district attorney’s office, he’s stopped by Carol from a few doors down.

“I heard you took over the Rumlow case, that’s a big deal,” she greets.

“Just got assigned,” he replies, trying to keep it brief.

“Who would do such a thing!” She carries on, shaking her head in disbelief. “Well I wish you the best of luck. I know you’re the best of the best, go get ‘em, tiger.” She gives him a brilliant smile and continues to walk down the street.

Steve greets the receptionist, then walks through the metal detectors and before he even gets to the second floor, two more people have congratulated him on being assigned to what they are calling “the biggest case Westview has ever seen”.

Rumlow had been a bit of a recluse, but nonetheless, an average hard-working man. He had no children of his own, but left behind an elderly father who had once been mayor of the town. That garnered a lot of sympathy within the community. Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins had owned an auto body shop in town, so most of the residents knew him and spoke with him quite frequently. Bucky worked there on and off, when they had an overflow of work and needed an extra hand.

Unfortunately for Steve, Brock's usual route from his home on the edge of town to the shop was not even remotely close to the busier areas. It meant that there were no witnesses the day he was brutally murdered.

It also meant that Brock’s body had not been found until much later on, and by then, the scene had been disturbed by wildlife. At his desk, the case files sat. Among the photographs, there were reports on any and all evidence found at the scene which was not a lot. They had a partial fingerprint on a tag at the back of Brock’s shirt and various opinions on what the murder weapon was even though one was not found at the scene. A switchblade, they seemed to think, with a serrated edge. Something any hunter might have.

The photos don’t tell him much, nothing he didn’t already know simply from the office whispers. Rumlow had been found face down in his usual black T-shirt as a pile of blood had seeped into the earth around him. It was almost impossible to see unless you were close.

For the first time in Steve’s career, it seemed that answers were simply evading him, and the questions kept piling up. He had already interviewed everyone down at the auto shop, had spoken to Romano‘s dad, Alexander, and checked through the evidence at least three times by now. The case just simply wasn’t going anywhere.

Another downfall of living in such a small town was that your successes and failures were no longer just your own. Each passing day, more people questioned if there was any progress at all, if he was doing anything else to try and crack the case.

It was in the unspoken looks and furtive glances he received that told him he was losing the faith of his hometown. What they would never understand was how much faith he had already lost in himself. Doubt had crept in — what if he couldn’t solve the case after all? But it was soon replaced by anger when he heard the latest churn of the gossip mill.

I bet it was that friend of his - he’s an ex-convict you know. How a prosecutor could be friends with such a lowlife is beyond me!

He has always seemed a little strange hasn’t he? All that black and messy hair. He certainly looks the part.

Oh, don’t you know? He was in the army for a short while, I’m sure he knows how to handle a knife effectively.

“Come on Stevie, stop thinking so hard.” Bucky’s voice is low and sinful, soothing in a way that Steve’s days never are anymore and he melts into Bucky's arms. “That’s good, baby, just like that.��

Steve can’t help but sigh once Bucky's fully seated in him and they build up a languid comforting pace, where Bucky is just shy of grazing over his prostate and Steve is just reveling in feeling full and grounded.

“Just so hard to breathe sometimes,” Steve complains softly, not wanting Bucky to know what was being said about him.

“I’ll make it hard to breathe,” Bucky chuckles before he sits back on his haunches and grips the underside of Steve's thighs, folding them toward Steve’s chest. Steve doesn’t get another word in as Bucky makes good on his promise and fucks into Steve so hard that the air is literally pushed out of his lungs. Steve can hardly manage to tell Bucky that he’s coming, until he already is, untouched and with a sob of relief. Steve feels the hot ropes of cum splatter across his chest and whines in protest as he gets stretched further when Bucky leans down. Bucky grins as he licks some off of Steve’s pec, his tongue swirling around Steve’s nipple as he does so.

“You’re so beautiful like this Stevie, when you come apart like this and I’m the only one who gets to see it. I love watching you come for me.”

“You’re the - only one,” Steve manages to huff out as he regains his breath. Bucky is the only one that makes him feel loose like this, floating in the clouds.

“You’ll catch them, baby. I know you will.” Bucky drops a gentle kiss on his nose.

Bucky is also the only one that never loses faith in him.

—-

It's one of those evenings where Bucky disappears. Steve is less worried about it now than he used to be, of course. He remembers the panic the first time Bucky had vanished, his phone going straight to voicemail. But it became a regular thing, and he eventually began to understand the need for Bucky to clear his head, away from their shared home.

If the war that took his arm wasn’t enough, the incident that had taken his whole family in one fell swoop, would have been. Even years of therapy hadn’t been able to straighten all the twists and turns in his mind. The war, the therapy, the house fire, the aftermath - Steve had been there to see it all. He watched Bucky fall apart and never quite piece himself whole again. If Bucky’s late-night strolls for fresh air are any consolation, Steve is happy to encourage it.

So, Steve makes dinner, confident that Bucky is safe, staying out of trouble and will be walking in the door at any moment.

Then he gets one phone call that changes all that.

“Rogers.”

“Hey, Steve.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah. Look, you should get to the station as soon as you can.”

“What, why? Is it the Rumlow case?”

“Somethin’ like that. Look - just get down here. Bucky’s in custody.”

Steve drops his phone in the salad bowl with a clang, his whole world spinning.

---

The interrogation room is the same as it’s always been, just a plain, grey, cold box with a table and two chairs. Steve’s always found it calm, a place where there’s nothing to distract you from your job. But now, with Bucky cuffed to the table, leg bouncing nervously, Steve is acutely aware of the two-way glass, imagining just how many people were on the other side.

“What the hell, Buck?” He keeps his voice as low as possible, hoping the surveillance doesn’t pick up on his whispers.

“I was jus’ walkin’, Stevie,” Bucky replies, his eyes wide and innocent, a little glassy like he’d been drinking or crying - or both. Steve’s not blind to Bucky’s coping mechanisms.

“But why there,” he hisses. He wants to strangle his friend for being so careless, walking right into the jaws of the police with a gift.

“I didn’t know,” Bucky sighs lamely. “I mean, look, I know where but I wasn’t paying attention to where I was goin’. I don’t know how I ended up there, I was jus’ walkin’ around, I swear. Too in my head, and then the next thing I know, I’m here.”

Steve takes a deep breath. It’s not entirely far-fetched that Bucky really didn’t know where he was going. Bucky on a good day wasn’t entirely in his right mind, but adding alcohol to the mix was likely to guarantee that Bucky did space out at some point or another. He’d let that part go, except -

“Then why’d you take a swing at Sam, Buck?” Bucky looks away, his chiseled jaw clenched in shame and misery.

“I got spooked, that’s all. You know how I get, Stevie. I - I knew it was a bad idea to leave the house.”

With that, Steve’s heart breaks a little bit. For all the progress that Bucky might’ve had, he’s still afraid of being in the world and afraid of an attack at any moment. They’d never caught the intruders that murdered most of the Barnes family, after all. The injustice was what had pushed Steve into the legal field to begin with.

“Look, I’ll go talk to the guys and see if we can go home. You didn’t technically hit anyone and you backed off when you saw it was Sam, that’s worth something. But it’s best you keep your little walks inside for now, okay? You’re gonna worry me.”

Bucky just nods sullenly. Thankfully, Steve has enough friends on the force and Sam is not a man to hold grudges.

“I know a spooked man when I see one, we all got demons,” was all he said to Steve when he was finally able to get Bucky’s cuffs undone to go home.

---

But Bucky doesn’t stay inside - he ends up at the trail again, except thankfully it was only Carol who saw and not the police. Then, he ends up at Rumlow’s garage, and Steve almost loses it.

“Are you even thinking straight? Stop putting yourself in the middle of this thing!”

“Why’s it matter, huh?” Bucky argues with a glare. “I work there for fuck’s sake, I figure Jack might want an extra set of hands considering…”

“I know,” Steve concedes. “I know, okay? But it’s not about whether or not you had a logical reason, it’s about how it looks. You know that, you’ve watched enough Criminal Minds, come on.”

“What, do people think I’m a fucking suspect or somethin’?” He scoffs. Steve waits a beat too long, and suddenly Bucky’s face morphs. “Seriously?”

“No, Buck. You’re not a suspect. Nobody is, that’s the problem. And everyone’s looking for someone to blame.”

“… Makes sense,” Bucky shrugs, though his eyes are downcast. Steve can’t stand it.

“No! If there’s anyone to blame, it’s me, because I can’t figure out - anything!” He throws his hands in the air in frustration.

“You will, baby,” Bucky’s voice softens as he reaches out to cup Steve’s face in his hands. The prosthetic is cold against Steve’s cheek, making him shiver. “You will.”

Steve always seems to forget what he was last thinking of, anytime he gets Bucky’s mouth on him.

---

Steve thinks it’s all good and done until one day, he wonders if he knows his best friend at all. He’s finished the laundry, on a beautiful, pleasant Sunday afternoon and goes to knock on Bucky’s door, unaware Bucky had slipped out that morning already.

“Buck, I think I got a bunch of your socks in here,” Steve announces as he turns the doorknob. Bucky’s bed is made pristinely, army habits not quite dying out. Books are stacked neatly, his guitar sits in the corner. Most surprisingly, Bucky’s prosthetic lies on his desk, and Steve rarely sees Bucky without it since the only time he takes it off is to do a thorough, deep clean. The flesh tone of the plastic was always a shade too pink to match Bucky’s skin, it used to make Steve think of Bucky after he’d sat in the sun a smidge too long. Now, looking at it, it’s hard to imagine Bucky without it. Before he can ponder too much, he opens Bucky’s sock drawer to dump the handful of pairs that had ended up in his basket.

That’s when he sees the switchblade. It makes Steve’s breath catch in his throat, a dizzy spell threatening to overtake him.

When Bucky comes home, Steve wants to ask, he really does. But Bucky holds up a grocery bag with a big smile and says “I got the ingredients to make that roast you were talking about!”

It’s a day where Bucky smiles without reservation and his eyes aren’t always flitting about like he wants to bolt. Steve cherishes them when they come, so he keeps his mouth shut. Steve reminds himself that this is Bucky. His childhood best friend, sweet and caring to the core, the one that would always defend the little guy.

It’s all perfect - the roast, the way they move together in the kitchen, more gracefully than any two men their size should, the cuddling after. It’s so euphoric that Steve hardly pays attention to the way Bucky digs his fingers in harder, pushes himself in deeper, bites down more than usual.

In the end, he’s marked up and bruised, sore to the point of unmoving, and yet it’s perfect because it’s Bucky.

---

He doesn’t mention the switchblade to Bucky. In fact, he does his best to avoid Bucky altogether, claiming he needs to work hard on the case, making up lies about new evidence coming forward just to see what Bucky would do.

His friend doesn’t react whatsoever. It’s supposed to calm Steve and reassure him, but it instead makes a shiver run down his spine. Still, it’s nothing compared to the chilling looks he receives from his colleagues when he gets to work that morning.

“Uh, what’s going on?” He asks, turning to the nearest person - an up and coming prosecutor, Joaquin Torres. The young man just shakes his head, because before he can say anything, a sharp rap on wood interrupts him.

“Rogers? My office.” Natasha’s brows are furrowed and Steve has a bad feeling about this.

“Nat, what the hell is going on?” He can see everyone on the other side of her glass office peeking with curiosity. The nerves burn under his skin, making it impossible for him to sit like she’s just asked him to do.

“There’s no easy way to say it, so I’m gonna say it straight. And I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

“Okay?” His mind already runs through any scenario that would warrant this reaction, and he has a sinking feeling he knows what - or who - it pertains to.

“I have to take you off the Rumlow case.” She speaks bluntly, making direct eye contact. “We have reason to believe that James Barnes is involved with the murder. The fingerprint on the back of Rumlow’s shirt came back a match for him. I’m sorry, Steve.”

She doesn’t mess around, it’s one of the things that Steve admires most about the district attorney, but he can’t accept what she’s saying.

“That’s - he works - worked with Rumlow, on and off, I mean - they’re not strangers, Nat. That print could’ve gotten there a hundred different ways.”

“I’m aware, Steve,” she replies coolly. “And we’ll go through all of them, but it just can’t be you.”

He knows. Rules. Regulations. Conflict of interest.

In the end, he leaves without a fight, saving his energy into proving Bucky’s innocence. When he gets home, Bucky is laid out across the couch, TV playing some old film that he’s not paying attention to as he scrolls along on this phone.

Steve can’t take it anymore - he has to know.

“Buck, I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, right?”

That gets the brunette’s attention. He sits upright and gives Steve a confused look.

“I love you too, Stevie.” Bucky’s voice is so soft - it’s so gentle, there’s just no way. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Steve says too quickly. Bucky just sighs, and signals for Steve to come over, tugging him onto his lap.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, you can tell me.” The sweetheart gets Steve every time.

“You - you didn’t have anything to do with… you know,” Steve swallows thickly as Bucky looks up at him with crystal blue eyes.

“What, Stevie?”

“With you know,” Steve huffs a frustrated breath. “With Rumlow. I know you two didn’t always see eye to eye.”

“Oh Jesus Christ, Steve. Of course I didn’t.” Bucky rolls his eyes, and pushes Steve off, hard enough he almost lands on the floor.

Yeah, he deserved it. He’s made an ass of himself, and Bucky doesn’t even look at Steve when they go to bed that night, locking the door to his bedroom. His therapist had said it would be good to keep a private space, even if he spent most nights in Steve’s bed. Well, he supposes she was right on this one. He apologizes through the door, not entirely sure Bucky can hear him over the guitar that’s coming from inside.

---

Bucky always knows how to play Steve like a fiddle, every noise craftily pulled at Bucky’s whim. He’s always been at Bucky’s mercy.

Like now, when Bucky’s tied his hands to the headboard and has him bent in half, plowing into him with no mercy. Steve’s screaming at the top of his lungs, yet doesn't flinch when a searing pain blooms in his belly - he’s had orgasms ripped from him more forcefully than anyone could ever imagine, after all.

When he finally opens his eyes at the seeping warmth across his abdomen, he startles. Lodged in his stomach is the switchblade from Bucky’s desks, blood leaking from the wound.

He goes to ask Bucky what he was doing, but his lover ignores him in favour of fucking him harder. Bucky’s hands roam, smearing bloody prints across Steve’s milky white thighs and the smile on his face is wider than it has been in years.

Steve should be in more pain - he should be yelling for help, or kicking Bucky off, or, hell, dying from blood loss. But he can’t make a move when he looks at Bucky’s face.

Those baby blue eyes are consumed by the black of his pupils as he licks his lips hungrily. His brutal pace is harsh until he suddenly stops as his body tenses and shudders, his eyes slipping close and mouth falling open. A pornographic moan falls from his lips as he looks down at Steve once more.

Abruptly, he yanks the knife out of Steve’s stomach and pulls his dick out at the same time. With a deranged smile, he tilts his head, watching the bright red blood run down Steve’s abs and onto the white sheets beneath him.

“You still feel it, don’t you? Even when I’m not inside of you.”

---

When Steve wakes that morning, it’s in a cold sweat and dry throat from his cry. He looks down, realizing it was just a nightmare, but patting a hand over this abdomen as if trying to convince himself. His hairs stand on end as he hurriedly rushes down the hall to Bucky’s room.

Without so much as a warning, he bursts into Bucky’s room. The man in question isn’t there, but Steve looks curiously at the papers strewn across Bucky’s desk. His journals are plentiful, logging his life, his dreams, goals he’s set and lyrics for songs he never finishes writing.

I've got a secret.

It's on the tip of my tongue.

It's on the back of my lungs.

And I'm gonna keep it.

I know something you don't know.

It sits in silence.

Eats away at me.

It feeds like cancer.

This guilt could fill a fucking sea.

Pulling teeth, wolves at my door.

Now falling and failing is all I know.

This disease is getting worse.

I counted my blessings, now I'll count this curse.

The only thing I really know

I can't sleep at night.

I am buried and breathing in regret

The only thing I really know

I can't sleep at night.

I am buried and breathing in regret.

The words rake under Steve’s skin, like the claws of a hundred demons wanting to tear him apart, same as the fear and guilt inside of him. He goes and opens Bucky’s drawer, every instinct telling him that this was wrong. But the switchblade is gone, just like Bucky is.