#so I can't help inserting that in every fic I write of them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wintrwinchestr · 4 months ago

Text

strangers | part 3

summary: when nothing comes of the frantic call for help you'd made just before joel had attempted to take your life, you realize that he had been telling you the truth—nobody cares about you, and nobody is coming for you. the fear of being forgotten becomes so overwhelming, you decide to go against your better judgement in a last-ditch effort to make sure that somebody knows you're still here. what you hadn't anticipated, is that you'd be putting more than just your own life in danger by doing so.

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, talk of death/murder and blood, mommy issues, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, introduction of female original character, reader's skintone shows bruises, reader has at least shoulder-length hair, reader's hair texture can be put into ponytails, reader has pubic hair, groping, fingering, kissing, fingersucking (both reader and joel), mild blood kink, domination and control that is essentially abuse, development of stockholm syndrome, pet names (baby, darlin', babydoll, sweetheart), story inspired by "preacher's daughter" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 12.9k

a/n: heyyy... how y'all doin... it's been a while. i am very excited to share the next part of this story, written by some miraculous feat of perseverance. if you're still here, thank you for sticking around. i love joel and babydoll so so much and they have never left my heart or my mind, even when i was taking a break from them. i thought that putting a hard stop to my hobbies while i was having a difficult time at work was a good coping mechanism, but i realized last month that i can't let them take my creativity away from me no matter how hard they try. thank you @chippedowlmug and @polaroidpascal for always yapping with me and keeping their story alive even when i didn't have it in me to write it all down. there is much more of them still to come, thank you for being here <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

part 4

You can’t sleep.

Each time the air conditioning kicks on, or the pipes let out a rattling groan, or the mattress springs creak underneath Joel’s weight, your eyes snap open again. Each time you hope to awaken to the sight of blue and red lights streaming in through the crooked blinds, and each time you’re disappointed. Your heart rate hasn’t been able to settle into any kind of steady rhythm all night, the muscle beating erratically every time you hear so much as a cricket chirp or a gust of wind outside. You could’ve sworn at one point you had heard distant footsteps crunching through the gravel parking lot, and you’d held your breath as you imagined they belonged to a police officer coming to your rescue, sent by the woman who had picked up your call for help. Any minute now the footsteps would reach your room, and you’d hear fists pounding on the door as they demanded entry.

That minute had turned into five, then ten, and then fifteen, before the sound had repeated itself, and you’d realized it was just some nocturnal critter rustling around in the trash can outside the door.

It’s been hours now since you’d made your futile little escape attempt, since you’d uttered all of about four words to the woman on the other end of the line before Joel had pounced on you like an animal, ripped the phone out of your hand, and dragged you back into his lair.

…Someone had picked up, hadn’t they? Your memory is failing you now. Maybe the line was dead, maybe you hadn’t inserted enough coins for the call to go through, maybe you had only wanted there to be somebody out there who cared, and you had just hallucinated the woman’s tinny voice in your terrified state.

What you can be sure you hadn’t hallucinated, however, is the contents of the box you wish you had never pulled out from underneath the bench seat. You can’t escape the graphic memories of the polaroids that project themselves onto the backs of your eyelids each time they dare to close, jolting you back into reality the second your consciousness begins to slip away. You can’t help but think about how Joel had made you lay perfectly still for him while he forced himself inside of you, and you taste bile in the back of your throat as you wonder if he had ever really violated any of the other girls that way, or if it was just some sick fantasy.

You’re almost certain of what the answer is, but you try to swallow it down along with the sourness in your mouth.

You think about how scared you were, how scared you are, and how scared they must have been in their final moments, knowing there was nothing they could do anymore except submit themselves to his violence and hope he would at least make it quick. Eighteen or so years’ worth of dreams and desires and ambitions dashed in a single night, snuffed out in an instant as he reduced their bodies to nothing more than something limp and pliant for him to play with. You think about Ruby, and try to blink away the sudden vision of sunken glassy eyes and blonde ringlets covered in dirt and blood, skin pale and body decaying in a forgotten patch of land off the side of the road somewhere. You hope if he had ever spared even one of them from his grotesque defilement, that it was her.

You’re crying, you realize, when you feel a hot tear pooling in the shell of your ear, and you try to suppress your shuddering sobs as the guilt begins to feel all-consuming. How come you’re still alive to feel Joel’s hot breath raise the hairs on the back of your neck, and yet there’s a fucking shoebox full of dozens and dozens of girls who’d been brutalized and violated and discarded like trash? What makes you so fucking special? Being lost and naive and stupid enough to play into his little game without knowing what the cost would be if you’d tried to back out, to say that you’d changed your mind because he was too rough and controlling and it wasn’t fun anymore, like the rest of them probably had? It isn’t fair that you get to escape their fates just because you were the only one fucked up enough to enjoy the game, at least while it had lasted.

You’re going to wake him up with all your sniffling and shivering if you don’t get yourself under control somehow. You need to breathe. You need to get some air. Feel the breeze on your face and look up at the stars and calm yourself down enough to try and get at least a couple hours of sleep tonight. Lord knows you’ll probably need them tomorrow.

Although Joel had fallen asleep with his arm locked tight around your chest, it rests across his own now, rising and falling slowly with his breathing. He seems to be in true, deep sleep, having laid perfectly still for the past couple of hours save for the bear-like snorts he lets out every once in a while. Must have really worn himself out last night, you think to yourself, the tone of the voice in your head dripping with venom.

You wait another couple of minutes for the AC unit to turn back on, and use its obnoxious metallic rattling to cover the sound of you peeling back the thin sheet and musty comforter. You do so carefully, in as slow and as delicate movements you can manage in your current state, practically placing your feet on the carpet one toe at a time before pushing yourself up to a standing position. Joel makes some kind of grumbling cough just as you finish straightening out your spine, and it startles a gasp from you. You cover your mouth quickly and turn back to face him with wide eyes, afraid that you’ll find his own darkened ones staring back at you.

They’re still closed, to your immense relief, but his mouth is hanging open now, his sharp canines catching the moonlight in a way that sends a shiver down your back. You still have another minute or so of cover from the air conditioning before the room is cloaked in sinister silence once again, so you use your last remaining seconds to sweep the floor with your bare feet, blindly feeling around in the dark for your shoes. Come on, where the fuck are they? you wonder, sure that you would’ve kicked them over by now, if they were still in the spot Joel had put them after he had stripped off your clothes and pulled you into the shower with him.

Fuck.

He locked them in the fucking truck, along with the rest of your clothes, along with all of his clothes and both of your bags full of your modest belongings. You’d been tucked into bed already, sniffling quietly into the pillow as he’d made one last trip outside in nothing but his briefs just to ensure that you wouldn’t be motivated to try something again during the night. You’d hardly be able to make it anywhere without a stitch of clothing on your back except for his threadbare t-shirt, after all, the length of it just barely enough to cover the tufts of curls that poke out from the apex of your thighs.

“Just a lil’ insurance policy. You understand, sweetheart,” Joel had whispered, slipping the key to the truck underneath his pillow before slithering into bed behind you, wrapping his arms around you and constricting you like a snake.

Fuck it. It’s been too long. You tiptoe across the few feet of space between your side of the bed and the door to the room, thankful that the AC rattles out one last dissonant groan loud enough to cover the squeak of the hinges and the click of the lock.

Free from the confines of that cage-like room at last, you shakily exhale the breath you’d been holding, and the desert air is cold enough for you to see the pale cloud of it against the onyx-colored sky. With your back pressed up against the door and your hands splayed out against the wood, you look up at the endless expanse of stars above the treeline and let out a shuddering sob, the sight both comforting and overwhelming all at once.

You feel small. You feel lost. You feel trapped. Scared. Sick. Confused. Everything. Nothing.

There’s a whole world out there, right in front of you, all around you, and it was waiting to welcome you with open arms, if you hadn’t fallen into the wrong ones first. You feel both grateful and damned to be alive, relieved that you’ve been fortunate enough to live to see another day, but knowing that each one that follows will be spent with him. In his captivity, doing his bidding, spending the rest of your life trying to decide which side of his polaroid camera is the worse one to be on.

The polaroids. You just can’t fucking get them out of your head. The only physical evidence of what happened to any of those girls, now sitting at the bottom of a gas station trash can, likely covered up with empty soda cans and fast food wrappers and grease-stained napkins by now. That black plastic bag was probably tossed into a dumpster sometime last night, ready to be loaded onto a trash truck and taken to a landfill, never to be seen again. Discarded. Forgotten.

If anything, you wish you could at least provide some kind of closure to their parents, to Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, who only gave up the search for their daughter because they had let the police convince them that their bright, beautiful, and promising child had just decided to run away that summer. You wish you could somehow make it back across the country, walk up to their home and knock on the door and be able to tell them “I know what happened to her. A man took her—a monster. He killed her. I’m sorry.”

But then, what condolence would that provide them, without a body to lay to rest? You wouldn’t even know where to begin to look for her. Joel probably doesn’t even fucking remember where she is anymore, where any of them are. He probably just picks the most unassuming, low-trafficked area he can find nearby to dump their bodies after he’s done with them, chosen as carelessly as he would the next cigarette out of his pack—a thatch of tall grass off the side of a back road, a pile of dry-rotted debris where a barn once stood, an algae-covered pond behind a long-abandoned farmhouse. Bleak, filthy, forgettable places, where nobody would ever be able to find them.

Another sob wracks your body, and you muffle the sound with your hand as you slide down the door, your knees giving out from underneath you as you collapse onto the sidewalk.

Nobody knows where you are, or what happened to you, and nobody fucking cares. Not the police, not your own mother. You’ll be forgotten just like the rest of them if you haven’t been already, whether you make it out of this alive or not.

You can’t bear the thought. You thought you could, when you had first left home and started following Ruby’s trail all that time ago. It had seemed inspiring at the time, the idea of leaving that suffocating little town in search of somewhere else to plant your roots and let yourself bloom. But now… you have to make sure that someone knows the truth. Whether they care about you enough to come to your rescue or not, you need at least one person out there to know that you didn’t just vanish into the wind. That you’re still alive. That you’re still out there. That you haven’t given up yet.

You close your eyes for a moment, taking a few steadying breaths as the cool night breeze dries your tears and the thin veil of sweat that your anxious spiral had produced. When you open them again, your gaze lands on the payphone across the parking lot, and you heave a despondent sigh as you study a moth fluttering dizzily around the bulb that illuminates the little booth. The phone is even more useless to you now than it was the first time, without access to the handful of quarters that are still locked inside Joel’s truck. With that option eliminated, you push yourself up to your feet, and feel the tiny muscles in your toes spasm with the desire to run. You try to rewind your memory several hours back, searching for even a glimpse of something that might tell you where the fuck you are, which direction to head in—had you passed any street signs, local schools, city halls, anything? You must’ve been too terrified to pay any attention to your surroundings as Joel drove from the gas station to the motel, devoting all of your focus to planning your failed getaway. Joel was probably counting on that, and had intentionally picked this drab little motel in the middle of fucking nowhere in order to imprison you here.

You finally tear your eyes away from that hopeless, trapped little moth, instead turning your head toward the motel office all the way down at the end of the row of rooms. There’s a dim light on inside, but no other sign of a person working there. Considering the isolated nature of this bygone stretch of highway, the motel might not even get enough business to justify paying a person to man the front desk all night. You chew on your lip, debating if it’s even worth a shot just to take a look around and see if you can find anything of use in there.

Your feet are stepping one in front of the other before you can stop them, leading you toward the door with “OFFICE” painted on the glass window in bold red letters. Goosebumps rise on the exposed skin of your legs as you walk, and you almost hope that there isn’t anybody in there after all, just to spare yourself the embarrassment of having to talk to some innocent bystander while you grasp desperately at the bottom hem of your shirt and your remaining shreds of dignity. You hate how well Joel’s little “insurance policy” is working exactly the way he wanted it to.

The doorknob is cold against your fingertips, and your breath hitches in surprise when you’re able to turn it with no resistance. You slip inside the office and close the door behind you quietly, taking a beat to survey the wood-paneled room—there’s a corkboard of room keys with only one empty hook, a clock on the wall that makes you jump with each startling tick, and a coffee maker in the corner covered in a thin layer of dust, illuminated by the slices of white moonlight coming in through the blinds. It’s all too still, too untouched, everything about the room only emphasizing how absolutely alone you are here. And yet, you can’t shake the eerie feeling of a presence, of eyes on you, watching you and waiting to jump out from the shadows and drag you back to your keeper.

Just find what you came in here to look for and get the fuck out, you scold yourself, stepping behind the front desk and opening each drawer one by one as you search for the handful of items on your mental checklist—a pen, paper, an envelope, and a stamp.

It’s not your brightest idea, attempting to send a letter back home to your mother. But it’s better than doing nothing, just disappearing into the forest and letting the monster that lurks there kick dirt over your trail of breadcrumbs. Even if just one remains, it will be enough to prove that you were ever there at all.

The pen and paper were easiest to find, sitting right on top of the desk in plain sight. You’d torn off a sheet of the motel’s personalized notepad, the place’s name and address printed neatly across the top. If your mother does find it in her heart to come looking for you, at least she’ll know where to start.

The envelope and stamp are proving more difficult to locate, and each deafening tick of the clock above your head taunts you with its reminder of how much time you’ve been in here, out of bed, away from Joel. Your searching becomes a little more frantic, less gentle moving of objects out of the way and more haphazardly swiping them around the drawers in your fruitless scavenging.

“Um… hi there—” comes a voice from behind you, nearly startling a scream from your throat as you whirl around. You hit your hip on the open drawer and wince, and the owner of the voice puts her hands out in front of her, as if she had just spooked a small dog. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…” She flits her eyes up and down your minimally clad form as she apologizes, and you self consciously yank your shirt down over your thighs. “Are you okay? Can I help you with something?”

She’s young, pretty, maybe a few years older than you, with doe-like green eyes and a pale face dappled with caramel-colored freckles.

“I-I was just, um… looking for an envelope? A-and a stamp, if you have any,” you confess shakily, your heart pounding and cheeks burning as you fidget nervously with the hem of your shirt. You glance over the girl’s shoulder and see a door you hadn’t noticed before, now open. There’s a drab-colored couch and a small flickering TV inside, playing at a volume low enough that you hadn’t heard it at all through the closed door. She must spend most of her night shift in there, watching reruns of old movies and munching on stovetop popcorn to stay alert just in case some poor soul comes stumbling into the office in need of her assistance. You feel a small pang of jealousy in your stomach as you imagine what a relaxed, carefree night she must have been having, while you were fighting for your life under the very same roof.

“Oh, sure! They’re just, um… Excuse me—” she says meekly as she steps in your direction. You scurry out of her way, swiping the pen and paper from the top of the desk as you do. She takes your place to crouch down and tug open the very bottom drawer in the stack you had been searching through, and rifles around for just a moment before she finds what she’s looking for. She hands the items off to you as she rises back to her full height, just a couple of inches above your own. “Here you are. Is that all you need?”

Yes. No. Not even fucking close.

You turn over the stationery in your hands, running your thumbs across the smooth surface of the envelope as you debate whether or not you should ask her for what you really need—help.

But the girl has so much life in her eyes, so much color in her cheeks that you can see even in the office’s low lighting, that you’d never be able to forgive yourself if you decide to involve her in this. Her face would be printed on the side of a milk carton the second you open your mouth.

“Mhm, just this stuff. Thank you.” You do your best to make it sound like the truth.

“...Are you sure?” She presses, gesturing to either side of her neck, her auburn eyebrows peaked with concern.

Shit.

In your effort to make sure your bottom half stayed covered, you had forgotten about the dark marks Joel had created around your throat just a handful of hours earlier. They must be pretty noticeable already, if this girl—Chrissy, her name tag reads—is able to spot them just by the light of one yellow bulb and a few slats of moonlight.

You nod, fighting the whimper that threatens to escape when you bring one hand up to press into your bruises, the other holding your letter-writing supplies in front of your lap.

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” you lie, though you can tell she doesn’t believe you. You wouldn’t believe you, either. But you’re thankful that she decides to let it go, anyway.

Chrissy nods, too. “So… you’re trying to mail a letter, then? We can’t really send it from here, but there’s a few mailboxes in town, if you’re gonna be sticking around for a little bit.”

“Oh, um… I’m not sure. Maybe,” you reply, offering a small smile as you shift your weight awkwardly. “Thank you.”

Chrissy presses her lips together, giving you another quiet nod along with one last sympathetic glance at your disheveled form. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else? I might have a pair of sweatpants with me if you—”

“No, no, it’s okay. I have to… he’s gonna, um…” You fumble, gesturing back to the room at the end of the row while you scramble for some kind of excuse that doesn’t give too much of your situation away. “I’m just going back to bed anyway, so… I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

A few beats of silence linger between you before you speak up again. “Could I write it in here, though? Just like… at the desk? I’ll be quick, I promise.”

She looks at you like you’re a kicked puppy as she replies, “Of course you can. I’ll be back there, if you decide you do want the change of clothes after all. If you could just close the door on your way out, and… be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” you half-whisper, and you can’t help the way your bottom lip trembles when Chrissy retreats back into that cozy little room, leaving the door cracked open just enough for the voices from her movie to keep you company while you write. You glance up at the clock once before you begin, promising to allow yourself no more than five minutes to say what you need to say, seal it away in the envelope, and sneak back into bed without Joel ever noticing you were gone.

You used to pride yourself on your neat handwriting, when you were still in school and a thing as trivial as that actually mattered. But you haven’t had to write anything by hand in so long now that you hardly recognize the disconnected capital “T”s and chaotically pointed “M”s as you scribble them down. The words are still mostly legible, though, even the ones that were accidentally blurred by stray tears you couldn’t wipe away in time before they hit the page.

You read over the letter once as the clock counts out your last remaining seconds, and decide it’s good enough to be slipped inside the envelope and secured with a swipe of your saliva. Your stomach flips when you go to write your home address on the front, fearing that you’ve forgotten it in all the time that Joel has spent scrubbing you clean of who you were before you met him. But when you close your eyes, you hear the song your father used to sing to you to help you remember it when you were little, in case you ever got lost and needed to tell someone where you came from. It had never really come in handy, until now.

With your sufficiently addressed and stamped envelope in hand, you quietly exit the office and pad your way back down the sidewalk to the room where your captor lies waiting. You press your ear to the door before entering, and wait until you hear the telltale groan of the air conditioning kicking back on. When the mechanical sound reaches its full volume, you slip back through the door and shut it behind you all in one swift, delicate movement. You slink over to your side of the bed like a cat, and tuck the envelope underneath the mattress as you gently crawl back underneath the covers, next to Joel’s still-sleeping form, in the exact same position you had left him in. The slight disruption of your weight depressing the mattress prompts him to roll over in his unconscious state, and his skin is scorching against your own as he wraps you up in his arms again, pulling you tight against his chest. He gives a slow buck of his hips against your backside and releases a quiet growl into your hair that makes you shiver despite the heat he radiates.

You can’t fight the pull of your heavy eyelids for much longer, the wave of adrenaline you had been riding all night finally coming to a crest and crashing against you all at once. Telling your story, getting the words down on paper, having some kind of half-assed plan to make sure you don’t just disappear into the ether, seems to have given you more peace of mind than expected, at least in your delirious, traumatized, and sleep-deprived condition. For now, you’re still treading water, still holding your head above the surface of the deep dark unknown that awaits, and it’s enough for your exhausted mind to finally show you a few hours worth of mercy.

You will survive this, you won’t disappear, even if you have to take it one excruciating day at a time.

—

The first day of the rest of your life begins that hazy morning after, when Joel finally rouses around ten o’clock from what seems to have been a relatively deep slumber. He tightens his grip around your upper body as he purrs out a sleepy groan, wetly kissing under your ear before mumbling, “Mornin’ babydoll.” Your body seems to have not caught up with reality just yet, evident in the way your cunt still flutters involuntarily at the sound of his gravelly morning voice and the warm slide of his tongue. You curse yourself for the instinctual reaction, wishing you could just reset all of the ways that your nerves have been trained to react to his touch over the past few months.

“Morning, Joel,” you whisper, and you can feel his half-hard length pressing into your back.

“You sleep okay, sweetheart?”

Your eyes go a little wide at his question, and you’re grateful that you’re still facing away from him. Is this a test? You can’t be sure anymore. But if he had ever realized you were gone during the night, surely he wouldn’t wait until the next morning to do something about it… right?

You nod. “Mhm, fine.” Your voice cracks a little, but Joel doesn’t seem to notice.

“Good, tha’s good…” he snakes a hand between your legs, finding its way underneath your—his—oversized shirt to lightly prod at your bare little hole. “And how’s she doin’, hm? Was dreamin’ about her all night, how fuckin’ good ‘n tight she was for me… She feelin’ sore at all this mornin’, babydoll?”

“A little, yeah.” His touch makes you shudder, but you know better than to try and reject it.

Joel tuts, circling the roughened pad of his finger over your clit. “Poor thing… ‘M sorry about that, baby. Jus’ got a lil’ carried away last night, tha’s all. You forgive me, don’t you, sweetheart? You understand?”

You hesitate, swallowing down the bitter taste of the lie you’re about to tell. “Yes, it’s… it’s okay, Joel.”

“Mmm, just the sweetest lil’ girl, ain’t you?” Joel says, swiping two of his fingers through your folds to collect some of your involuntary slick. He pulls his hand out from under the covers and sucks one of the damp digits into his mouth, releasing a pleasured groan. Joel gives another slow grind into your ass before bringing his hand in front of your face, pushing the other still-wet finger between your lips and forcing you to taste yourself. “See how sweet she is for me, baby? Think she forgives me too, don’t she?”

You nod around his finger, humming in pretend agreement.

“Perfect… so perfect for me, my lil’ doll,” Joel muses, sliding his finger back and forth across your tongue and teasing the back of your throat with each intrusive thrust. You fight to suppress your gag reflex until he eventually removes his finger from your mouth, wiping the dampness off on your shirt. “C’mere, pretty girl. Gimme a kiss,” he grumbles, gripping a paw onto your shoulder and pulling backwards, using the leverage to get you to roll onto your other side to face him.

The warm morning light coming in from the window illuminates the back of his head, highlighting the way his mussed salt and pepper locks stick up every which way. This is the first time you’re getting a good look at him since you had first spotted his disturbing keepsake box peeking out from underneath the bench seat, since he had snapped at you for trying to grab it, since you had still thought that would be the worst thing he’d ever do to you. It’s almost comical, in a sinister sort of way, how harmless Joel looks like this, with his scarred nose and stubbled cheeks still rosy from sleep.

You hadn’t anticipated how complicated it would be to still have to feign intimacy with him, how dizzying it already feels to stand on the sidelines in your own mind and watch your desire wrestle with your disgust. Joel presses his lips against your own, and you do your best not to grimace as you kiss him back. He still feels the same, still tastes the same, like black coffee and cigarettes and spearmint. But he isn’t the same.

Joel parts your teeth with his tongue as he deepens the kiss, hungrily lapping into your mouth as you let him take what he wants, only pulling away from him once he breaks the connection first. He brushes some of your hair away from your face when he does, admiring your slightly swollen lips as he rubs his calloused thumbs across your cheeks.

“Whaddya say we just have ourselves a nice afternoon together, hm? Think there might be a lil’ town nearby, could get us somethin’ to eat, maybe even do some shoppin’, dependin’ on what’s there.”

There’s a few mailboxes in town, if you’re gonna be sticking around for a little bit, you hear Chrissy’s voice repeat what she had told you last night, and feel an exhilarated pang in your chest when you remember the envelope you have hidden beneath you.

You try not to answer too eagerly, taking a beat before you respond with a quiet “Really?” “Yeah, babydoll. Why, you don’t wanna?”

“No! No, I—that sounds good. I just didn’t think… I thought you’d wanna get going again, or something. After… you know.” You bring your hand up to touch the sore sides of your neck instinctually, unable to bring yourself to say it, to think about it for longer than a couple of seconds.

“Like I said, sweetheart. We’ll just leave your hair down today, nobody’ll see ‘em,” Joel says casually.

It’s unsettling, the evenness in Joel’s tone as he suggests having a normal day together, attempting to just move on as if the contusions you’re discussing aren’t a direct result of his abuse. You’ve only just woken up, and you’re already feeling the whiplash from the softness of his words in comparison to the degradation he was spitting at you last night. You wonder how much of it he even remembers, if he had really just let some entirely separate entity inside of him get “carried away”, or if it was all Joel. He couldn’t have been that good at hiding his true self from you the entire time you’ve known him, could he? What does it say about you if the signs had been there all along, and you’d either chosen to ignore them, or missed them completely? How can you ever be sure now which Joel you’re in the company of at any given time?

“Okay,” you agree, putting on a small smile that he’s quick to return.

“Alright, we’ll get to it, then. Jus’ stay put, sweetheart, lemme bring our stuff back inside, find you somethin’ to wear.” Joel plants a whiskery kiss on your hairline before tossing the sheets aside and rising to his towering height, retrieving the key to the truck from underneath his pillow in the process. You can’t help the way your stomach flips as you watch him lumber towards the door, squeezing your thighs together under the covers at the sight of his visible morning wood bobbing in his briefs with each heavy step. You roll back onto your other side as soon as he steps over the threshold, letting the corners of your mouth drop as you curse yourself again. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? A constant battle between wanting to forget and feeling disgusted with yourself for even trying to? There has to be some way to navigate this without completely fucking loathing yourself for just trying to stay alive.

Joel returns to the room a few minutes later with his arms and hands full of the clothing he’s chosen for both of you. He drops his boots onto the carpet with a heavy thud, but sets your own shoes down next to them with more care. He tosses a few articles of his own things onto his side of the bed before coming around to yours, holding out his free hand for you to take. “Up you go, babydoll, c’mon,” he commands. You grab hold of his steady hand, using it for support as you slide out from underneath the covers and push yourself off the mattress, the springs creaking in protest.

Joel entwines his thick fingers in yours as he leads you toward the small bathroom. You loosen your grip to shut the door behind you, expecting him to drop his handhold to allow you some privacy, but his grasp only tightens. You inhale sharply at the dull pain caused by his fingertips digging into the back of your hand, and turn to face him with panicked eyes. The stern expression you’re met with makes your heart rate quicken, terrified that you’ve already somehow found a way to upset him again.

“I just need to use the bathroom first, I’ll try to be quick,” you insist, still attempting to untangle your fingers from his.

“Not with the door closed you don’t.”

“...W-why?” You question timidly.

Joel jerks his head toward the shower, his gaze still trained on you. “That lil’ window up there. Just gotta make sure you ain’t gonna try anythin’, tha‘s all.”

You glance over to the tiny window he’s referring to, the kind that doesn’t even open all the way, just cracks open enough to let the steam out.

“But… I couldn’t even fit through there. And I… I learned my lesson, Joel, I promise—”

“Shh, don’t gotta get all worked up, ‘s alright, sweetheart. Jus’ do what I ask, okay?” Joel finally drops your hand in favor of cradling the side of your neck, brushing his thumb across the tender cartilage at the front of it. “You understand, don’t you, baby? ‘S just a precaution.”

Joel speaks to you so gently, with such adoration in his tone and in his expression, even with the threatening placement of his hand on your throat. The blatant display of manipulation makes you dizzy. You drop your gaze from his face to the bathroom floor, and try to use the cool sensation of the tile against your bare feet to ground yourself.

“Are you gonna watch me while I… go?” You ask meekly, your cheeks warming with embarrassment.

“No, no, sweet girl,” Joel placates, using a hooked finger to lift your head back up. “I’ll wait outside for you. Jus’ leave the door ‘bout halfway open, ‘s all I’m askin’. Besides, ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before, hm?” He pinches at your chin with a teasing smile, continuing to act as if everything he’s asking of you is completely ordinary.

“Yeah, but…” You start, but Joel huffs in warning.

You concede with a sighed “Okay,” and he finally leaves you to conduct your business. You’re thankful that he at least isn’t watching you, instead just leaning his broad back against the doorframe outside the bathroom with his arms crossed. Although, you think he might’ve taken a peek when you had first sat down, in the brief moment when your oversized t-shirt was rucked up to your tummy. You go through the motions as quickly as possible so as not to prolong your mortification, practically flushing and stepping over to the sink all in one hurried movement. Joel slides himself behind you as you’re washing your hands, setting your clothing down on the back of the toilet before placing his hands on your hips. His hard length is slotted against your backside, and you do your best to ignore him as you dry your hands with the bleach-stained motel towel. He only continues to use his weight to press you harder against the edge of the sink, undeterred by your efforts, and you wince a little at the pain that begins to pulse under your ribcage.

“Lemme tell you how this is gonna be from now on, okay babydoll? Look at me,” Joel orders, and you meet his darkened eyes in the mirror where he towers above you as he continues, “You ain’t gonna do nothin’ for yourself or by yourself ever again, ‘s that clear? Nothin’. Know we had some of that before our lil’... incident… and you liked that, didn’t you, baby? Liked me takin’ care of you like that?”

You nod, because it’s true.

“You’re nothin’ but a lil’ doll to me from now on. Gonna let me dress you this mornin’, do your hair up, brush your teeth, everythin’... And when we go out today, you ain’t gonna talk to anybody, ain’t even gonna look at anybody, you understand? Nobody except for me. I’m all you got for the rest of your life. And that’s what we always wanted, ain’t it? Just each other…” He says the last part almost wistfully, letting go of your waist with one hand in favor of twisting a lock of your hair around one of his roughened fingers. “You’ll come to like livin’ like this, babydoll. Got no other choice, do you?”

You swallow, biting your lip to stave off burning tears that you know will only upset him if you let them spill.

“Do you?” Joel repeats.

“N-no, I don’t,” you reply, and he hums in satisfaction before rewarding you with a wet kiss to your temple that makes your skin crawl.

“Yeah, tha‘s right… Turn around now, arms up for me, sweetheart.” Joel steps back from the sink to allow you room to obey his command, and you don’t hesitate to do so. He carefully lifts his t-shirt over your head before tossing it to the floor, and you shiver as the breeze blowing in from that one cracked window wraps itself around your naked form. Joel tuts when you wrap your arms over your pebbled nipples on instinct, gently scolding, “Nuh uh, don’t cover up what’s mine. Lemme look at ya.” He uses a light touch to guide your limbs down to your sides, whistling low as his predatory eyes roam around your trembling body, spending a few extra moments on your exposed chest. “Most gorgeous lil’ thing in the whole world… Would jus’ parade you around with me all bare like this if I could, show y’ off to everybody. Bet you’d like that, huh babydoll?” He taunts, pinching at one of your hardened buds.

“Y-yeah, I would,” you appease quietly, but he doesn’t seem to pay your unenthusiastic response any mind, too preoccupied with shimmying a new pair of panties up your legs. He takes a little too much extra care in settling them around the creases of your thighs, and huffs to himself when he notices the way your little hole squeezes around nothing at the sensation of his fingertips sliding underneath the elastic, just barely teasing your folds. Joel has you turn around to face the mirror again so he can clip your bra behind your back, and a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite yourself when he zips on the pretty blue dress he picked out for you. You like how it compliments your eyes, even with how tired they look.

Just like Joel had told you he would, he doesn’t allow you to do a single thing for yourself as he completes the rest of your morning routine, holding your chin securely in the dip between his thumb and forefinger as he brushes your teeth and tips a glass of water into your mouth for you to rinse out the minty paste with. He cradles the base of your skull with one hand, using the other to scrub the sleep from your eyes and the oils from your cheeks with a damp washcloth. Joel gets to work on your hair next, pulling the top half of it into two small ponytails and tying each of them off neatly with ivory-colored ribbons. You’re surprised at the delicate movements his hands are capable of despite their size, despite the damage they’ve caused. He’s clearly had some practice with this, but you try not to think about it too hard.

Once Joel deems his doll pretty and presentable, he leads you out of the bathroom and has you sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling before you with some protest from his aching joints. He slips a pair of lace-trimmed socks over your feet, one at a time, followed by the same canvas sneakers you were wearing when you had first met him. The sight of them brings you a little comfort, somehow, the discolored laces and smudged rubber soles making up just about the only familiar things you have in your possession anymore. Nearly everything you own, everything about you, has been tainted by Joel in some way now. You should’ve just taken off in the other direction when he’d pulled over his truck, left nothing but a cloud of dust in your wake and never even have given him the chance to ask you in that stupid disarming Southern twang of his if you needed a ride, if you were lost, if you had family or a boyfriend who cared about you enough to come looking for you. You’d advertised yourself in big bold lettering that you were the perfect fucking victim, practically wrapping the rope around your white woolen neck yourself so he could lead you to slaughter. This is what you deserve, stupid lamb that you are. Look at you now.

Joel instructs you to stay perched on the bed while he completes his own morning regimen, and you hang your head low as you rest your hands in your lap, picking at the skin around your fingernails. They’re practically raw now, but you can’t stop even though you should, even though it hurts, even though you’ve made yourself bleed. It had always been a nervous habit of yours, and you hadn’t noticed until you started up again last night that this was probably the nicest your nail beds had looked in years. You’d felt so comforted, so safe with Joel that you hadn’t had a reason to continue the self-destructive behavior, until all those fluttery feelings were ripped out from under you in a second. You’d been biting and tearing at your skin all night in addition to the many other things you’d been doing instead of sleeping, the habit having returned with a force as you’d used the pain to… what? To make up for the lack of blood you’d shed, to apologize to the ghosts of Anna and Elizabeth and Ruby and ask them please not to haunt you, you’re sorry, you’re sorry, you’re sorry. See? He’d made you bleed, too.

You’ve been attempting to balance your attention between your hands and the bathroom, waiting for an opportunity to arise where Joel is distracted enough for you to retrieve the envelope from its hiding place without him seeing. You keep your chin close to your chest as you observe his movements, trying not to make it too obvious that you’re watching him. After a few minutes, he finally bows his head into the sink to splash some water onto his skin, and you quickly reach behind you to swipe the letter and shove it underneath the waistband of your panties. Joel still hasn’t lifted his head back up by the time you’ve got it situated, and the corner of your mouth twitches in satisfaction. For a plan that you’re basically just making up as you go along, it’s going better than you expected.

You return to your preoccupation with your hands as you wait for Joel to finish up, and you remain hunched over yourself even as he flicks off the bathroom light and stalks over to where you’re now sucking the taste of bitter iron from one of your fingers. He startles you out of your focused state when he asks, “What’re you doin’, babydoll?”

You lift your head up, releasing the smarted skin from your mouth as you hold out your hand to examine the injury. Both of you watch a little crimson pearl begin to swell in the groove where your nail disappears into the skin. “Oh…” Joel sighs, grabbing your hand gently and raising it closer to his face, turning it this way and that to admire how your blood catches the light. You swear you can see his pupils dilate before he sucks your finger into his own mouth, swirling his tongue around your skin as he savors the metallic tang mixed with the remnants of your saliva. You feel the sharp edge of his teeth graze the pad of your finger, and your breath catches as you fear he might just bite the thing clean off from the last knuckle down. He doesn’t, of course, just lets his eyelids quiver and his cock twitch before releasing the digit from his mouth and rumbling out a quiet growl. You can’t help the somewhat sickened expression that overtakes your features as you watch Joel’s perverted little display, but work to fix it into something more neutral as he opens his eyes again.

“Pretty sure I got some bandaids in the truck, lemme get dressed ‘n then we’ll hit the road, hm?” he says, in a tone too casual to belong to someone who’d just had a near orgasmic reaction to tasting your blood. You suppose this is just another consequence of your survival—having to endure Joel’s unconcealed freakish tendencies now that he knows you’re not a flight risk anymore.

Joel tugs on his standard uniform—his thick canvas jacket layered overtop a simple undershirt and earth-toned flannel, paired with tattered jeans and his sturdy leather work boots. You allow him to help you to your feet as he leads you out to the truck, his thick fingers laced tightly through the ones of your non-bloodied hand. You have to squint at how bright the late morning sky is, your eyes aching as they adjust from the dim lighting of the motel room.

“Hey, morning!” Comes a cheery voice from down the row. You turn your head in the direction of the sound, and put your hand up to shield your eyes from the sun in an effort to get a better view of the person it came from. When your gaze finally focuses, you’re able to make out a feminine figure with auburn hair and alabaster skin, her slender arm waving at you in greeting—Chrissy.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You dip behind Joel, attempting to hide yourself from her view. He puts a protective hand across your body, and takes the lead in responding to her. “...Mornin’. Can we help you with somethin’?”

Her footsteps pause on the pavement, and there’s a beat before she says anything else, likely not expecting Joel’s less-than-friendly response to her sunny demeanor. “...No. Well, I just wanted to say ‘hi’, check in on you—Both of you,” she corrects herself quickly. You’re staring straight down at the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact just like Joel had demanded of you. But you can still see her out of the corner of your vision, attempting to lean around Joel’s large form to get a better look at you. You feel like your heart is about to burst out of your fucking ribcage as Joel turns his head toward where you’re cowering behind his arm, then slowly back to Chrissy.

“We’re fine,” he says plainly.

The silence that follows feels like it lasts an eternity. You hate how weak you must look in front of her, practically shaking where you stand like a newborn fawn while you seek the protection of this much older man whose hands, Chrissy must notice, are large enough to have created the marks on your neck that she had pointed out last night. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, to figure out the reason—the person—behind your flighty, nervous, and fidgety behavior in the office. Chrissy takes a few steps backwards, away from this strange couple standing before her, one she realizes is in her best interest not to engage further with.

Her voice comes out noticeably more unsteady now than it did when she had first approached you. “W-well, I just like to say ‘hi’ to guests on my way out if I see them. So… ‘hi’, and, um… if you need anything, someone else will be here soon to cover the office.” She rushes through the latter part of her sentence, like she just wants to spit all the words out as quickly as possible so that the interaction can be over with. You can’t see his face, but you suspect Joel is giving her some kind of hooded-eyed look that’s making her stumble over her words. “Have a good day, you two. Be careful,” she adds before she departs, and you know that those last two words were meant for you.

Joel watches her as she disappears around the corner of the building, only lowering his arm once she’s completely out of sight. You don’t look up until the sounds of her footsteps dissipate, until Joel’s arm is on your lower back as he ushers you into the truck.

“Get in, baby,” he commands, opening the door for you and helping you up into the passenger side of the bench seat. He reaches across your body to buckle your seatbelt for you before you can even lift your hand to do it yourself.

Once you’re situated to his liking, Joel closes your door and makes his way over to the driver’s seat, climbing inside and igniting the rumbling engine. He roots around in the truck’s center console, tossing aside cigarette butts and gum wrappers and loose change, eventually coming up with a single bandaid. Its paper sleeve looks crumpled and neglected, and you suppose it’s because he’s never really had a use for it until now. There isn’t much of a point in trying to bandage the type of wounds he typically inflicts, anyway, the damage already having been done.

“Gimme your hand, darlin’, hold it still for me.” Joel tears open the wrapper with his calloused thumbs and flicks away the little paper tabs from the fabric’s sticky surface, wrapping the bandaid around your finger tenderly. It would be a sweet moment, if it weren’t for the way he adjusts himself upon seeing the deep red droplet bloom on the other side of the little cotton pad. You make a mental note to work on finding a different self-soothing mechanism, lest you want to wake up in the middle of the night with his knife at your neck and his cock in his hand, deciding that you weren’t worth keeping around after all, that he just had to know if you really are just as pretty on the inside as you are on the outside, to know if the rest of your volume tastes as sweet as the small sample he’d already taken.

You sit on your hands the entire ride into town.

—

The drive was mostly silent, but actually kind of pleasant, finally giving you a real opportunity to take in the vast surroundings of… wherever you are, New Mexico. Your hands had gotten uncomfortably warm where they were squished under the bare skin of your legs for the entire half-hour or so drive, but you didn’t dare remove them. You’d have had nowhere else to put them anyway, not with the way Joel’s large paw was clamped onto your upper thigh, his pinky finger slipping underneath the hem of your dress and tracing the edge of your panties. You were grateful you’d had enough forethought to slip the envelope into the right side of your underwear, predicting that he’d get handsy like this in the truck. You’d just kept your body perfectly rigid with your head turned away from him, and tried not to descend into madness thinking about what he had made of your interaction with Chrissy earlier, if he suspected anything, if he knew you were hiding something, if he suddenly developed x-ray vision overnight and knew exactly what you were concealing under your dress.

Relief washed over your nervous system as you’d observed jagged rockwork and ochre-colored scrub brush gradually turn into modest Pueblo-style homes and businesses, glad to have finally been granted an opportunity to escape the motel after your twelve hours of terror. The steadily approaching signs of civilization had served as a reminder that the world does actually have other people in it besides you and Joel, despite what he’s been attempting to convince you of.

The town had become more populated the further the truck had chugged along down the main street, with a few friendly-looking people walking their dogs and carrying paper grocery bags as they strolled along the storefronts. You had even found yourself staring at a group of girls around your age sipping their coffees together on a bench, giggling and gossiping and making you wish you had problems as superficial as theirs. They reminded you of the type of girl Ruby was, bright-eyed and carefree and beautiful, and you’d tried to swallow down the bitter resentment that had begun to simmer in the pit of your stomach. Joel hadn’t even seemed to notice the girls as the truck passed them by, and you weren’t sure if his disinterest should make you feel satisfied or hopeless. Yesterday, you would’ve told yourself that you’re the love of his life, of course he wouldn’t dare have eyes for anyone but you, he’ll never leave your side for the rest of his life. But the sentiment takes on a much different connotation today, feeling more like a life sentence than a daydream.

You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until the truck had finally rolled to a stop outside of a quaint little restaurant, its terracotta awning decorated in twinkling lights. The sign on the facade read The Coyote Café, and had a little silhouette of the namesake animal painted next to the words. You could see through the turquoise-trimmed windows that there were already a handful of other patrons inside enjoying their meals, and it made you feel a little safer, knowing that Joel would be more motivated to put his mask back on in front of so many pairs of eyes. In a town this small, the two of you probably stick out like a sore thumb enough as it is, the café seeming like the kind of place where the waitresses know the regulars by name. You were eager to finally be able to drop your defenses, at least for a little while.

Joel had chosen a table all the way in the back corner of the place, furthest from the door, and had insisted on the both of you sharing the same side of the booth. Although you could feel a few stares on you, you’d remained steadfast in your obedience of the rules he had laid out for you this morning, and kept your head down while he placed your orders with the waitress—a plate of enchiladas and a beer for him, and a cheese quesadilla with a glass of water for you. You probably would’ve been able to eat more, but you suspected that his choice of meal for you was deliberate, so as not to provide you with too much energy that you might use to make another break for it. It had reminded you of the way he had convinced you to take your coffee decaf at Moody’s that night, all of it seeming so fucking obvious now, in hindsight.

“You know somethin’, babydoll?” Joel suddenly asks through a mouthful of beans and rice. “Think I saw a lil’ consignment shop just down the way. Whaddya say we head on over there next, let you pick out somethin’ pretty for yourself since you been so good today, hm?”

You hadn’t exchanged many words as you’d been eating, other than the occasional semi-awkward comment about how nice the weather is or how good your meals are. Ordinarily, you’d be making up stories about the interesting-looking strangers sitting at the counter, or quizzing each other on the country songs playing over the radio, or debating whether the color of his flannel was really green or brown. You’d sometimes hang out at diners so late into the evening that the waitstaff would have to kick you out, and you’d be apologetic as you made your way back out to the truck, hardly able to believe how much time you’d lost track of while you were flicking wadded up straw wrappers at each other or taste testing each other’s desserts. You mourn the version of Joel in those memories as you push around the crumbs on your plate, quietly responding to him with, “Really? You’d let me?”

“‘Course I would, sweet girl.” He wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin before lowering his voice, leaning down closer to your ear. “Long as you let me take it off of ya later tonight.”

“Let me.” As if you have any other choice.

Joel chuckles at his own crude comment as he slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you flush to his side. He finishes the rest of his meal with one hand while he rakes the other along your upper arm, occasionally sliding a finger underneath your bra strap and snapping it against your skin. You’re only able to let your posture relax for just a moment when the waitress brings around the check, and he finally removes his scalding hand in order to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. He slaps a few crumpled bills onto the table, and then his thick fingers are forcing themselves in between your own smaller ones as he pulls you up from the booth and leads you out of the café. You spare a glance at the motherly-looking waitress on your way out, and you exchange sympathetic looks with each other behind Joel’s back. You wish she didn’t look so sorry for you, like you’re a wounded animal being dragged around by the hunter who shot an arrow through your heart. But isn’t that what you are?

Your feet stop dead in their tracks when you step down onto the sidewalk outside the cafe, your brain too enamored with the landscape of the surrounding valley to tell them to keep moving. The wide open sky and limestone hills dappled with towering evergreens almost look like a painting, the way the mountains turn paler shades of blue-green as they extend further into the distance. It’s so unlike the flat, beige midwestern states where you and Joel had begun your journey together, it almost takes your breath away.

“You just gonna stare up at the sky all day, or d’you wanna get to shoppin’, hm?” Joel says, startling you from your state of wonder.

“Oh, no, we can go. I’m sorry,” you submit, hurrying to Joel’s side. He makes an enamored little hum and kisses the top of your head before continuing to pull you along the storefronts. You keep your head down, counting the cracks in the pavement as you work to keep up with his long strides.

“See that buildin’ down there, the one with the pink siding? Tha’s the lil’ clothin’ store I was talkin’ about.” You flick your eyes upward to where Joel is pointing a lazy finger, immediately spying the technicolor little shop he’s referring to. The unusual choice in paint color is certainly eye catching, but what you’re really drawn to is the dark blue metal receptacle standing on the sidewalk just in front of it—a mailbox, just like Chrissy told you there would be.

This is it. This is your chance. When you get up to the mailbox, you’ll improvise a way to direct Joel’s attention elsewhere, and use the opportunity to slip the envelope from under your dress and deposit it into the box without him noticing. You’ll have to move quickly, precisely, quietly, or it’s all over.

You should start tugging it loose now, so that it’ll be halfway in your hand already by the time you reach the store. You pat your hand against your upper thigh, expecting to feel the paper crinkling against your skin.

Except, you don’t. You can’t feel it. It isn’t there anymore.

You feel panic start to bloom in your chest, but try your best to keep your cool. The mailbox is only a few paces away now, and you’ll have nothing to deposit into the slot, because your chance at preventing yourself from being completely forgotten by the one person in your life who might actually care, is gone. Vanished.

Where the fuck is it? Had it fallen out when you were exiting the truck? Is it laying on the floor of the cab for Joel to discover when he helps you back into your seat later? Where could it possibly have—

“Hey, excuse me! Mister?” A young-sounding voice—male, unfamiliar— shouts from behind you, followed by the sound of jogging footsteps. Joel turns around, your hand still held securely in his own. Your feet stay planted exactly where they are, your eyes unblinking and locked onto the mailbox, just barely out of reach. “Did one of you drop this? Found it on the floor by your table when I was cleaning up, didn’t want you to leave it behind.”

“Uh… don’t think so. Lemme take a look—” Your arm pulls in an uncomfortable direction as Joel reaches toward the boy to retrieve the mystery object. Well, it’s a mystery to him, you already know exactly what it is. All you can do is hold your breath while Joel undoubtedly reads your handwriting on the front of the envelope, hoping that if you stand perfectly still, you might really be able to disappear. Without the letter, that’s the ending you’re destined for now, anyway.

Joel laughs breathily. “Y’know what, son? Think we did drop this. Thank you kindly for bringin’ it back to us.” Joel squeezes your hand so hard you think all the fragile little bones might shatter, and you bite your lip to stifle a pained whimper. Your eyes start to water as the crippling fear you had felt last night begins to climb its way up the back of your throat, and you wonder if this bus boy in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, might just become the last person besides Joel to see you alive. Or at least, the back of your head. Without giving him a good look at your face, he wouldn’t even be able to recognize you when they show your picture on the news a day or two from now, or be able to go to the police and tell them that this lumberjack-looking older man he encountered was the one he saw you with last. You should’ve known better than to try tempting fate again.

“Of course! Have a good one,” says the bus boy, and a tear escapes your waterline as you wait for the sounds of his footsteps to fade. You can’t be sure if the wetness collecting on your lashes is from the pain of Joel’s iron grip on your hand, or from the sheer terror of being found out by him again. What you do know, is that he doesn’t seem like the type to let you go through all three strikes before he puts you out.

“We will,” Joel responds, but only loud enough for you to hear.

He turns back around after what feels like an eternity, sighing disappointedly. You don’t need to look at him to know that he's upset, angry, furious. It radiates off his skin, penetrates your soul, wraps itself tightly around your throat in replacement of his hands. Your palm is sweating, but he doesn’t let go, just digs his dull nails into the back of your hand as he snarls a one-worded command close to your ear—”Walk.”

Joel drags you the rest of the way to the mailbox, shoving you down onto the wooden bench just beside it. You’re surprised that whatever it is he’s about to do to you, he’s confident enough to do it in broad daylight, in front of a few dozen potential witnesses. You keep your eyes on the ground, waiting to hear the flick of his pocket knife or the cracking of his knuckles, but all that comes is a tired groan as he kneels before you, lifting your chin up to face him.

Joel wags the envelope in front of your face with his other hand, looking at you with a more pitied expression than an enraged one. “You wanna tell me what this is, babydoll?” He asks in a confusingly even tone. You search his eyes for the reddish hue they had become last night when he was spewing obscenities at you and threatening your life, but you don’t find it.

“It’s… it’s a letter,” you admit, blinking away tears. You avoid his gaze even with your chin raised, looking around at the townspeople to see if any of them are staring at the little scene the two of you are putting on.

“Don’t look at them, baby, look at me. They ain’t gonna help you.” Joel jostles your face in his grip, and you flick your eyes back to him immediately. “I can see that it’s a letter, sweetheart. Who were you plannin’ on sendin’ it to, hm? Whose name is this?” Joel prompts, using his thumb to tap the name and address you had scribbled onto the center of the paper.

You let out a sob, the patronizing tone of his questioning making you feel so fucking stupid with just a few words. How is he so fucking good at this? At breaking you down, spinning the effects of his own actions back onto you, making you feel like the one in the wrong.

“My mom, I… I wrote it to my mom,” you reply through little sniffles, and you can hardly stand the exaggeratedly sympathetic way that Joel’s eyebrows peak at your answer.

“Babydoll… What could you possibly have to say to her? You ‘n I both know she don’t care about you anymore, never did. She’d open this up and just throw it right in the trash… I mean—” Joel releases your chin from his hold in order to slide his thumb along the envelope’s seal, tearing open the flap and removing the page of motel stationery you had written your plea on in the dim lighting of the office. “Here, sweetheart. Why don’t you read it to me, lemme hear what you wanted to tell her so badly you decided to do it behind my back. You snuck outta bed last night to do this, I assume?”

You nod, taking the letter from his hand and unfolding it.

“Hm… Have to do somethin’ else about our sleepin’ arrangements from now on, then.” You don’t know what he means by that, and you aren’t looking forward to finding out. “Read it to me, darlin’, go ‘head.”

You take a deep breath, blinking hard as you try to get your watery eyes to focus on the page. “I s-said that, um… that I was sorry for leaving, that I don’t blame her for the way she treated me growing up.” You pause to swallow the moisture collecting in the back of your throat as you cry, and attempt to steady your wavering voice before you continue. “A-and… that I was with you, that we’ve been traveling together, but… But I got scared, and I w-wanted her to come get me. Um… ‘Please don’t forget about me. I love you. I’ll see you when you get here.’ That’s the last thing I said.” You set the letter down on your lap and collapse in on yourself, burying your wet face in your hands as your sobs become full force.

“Oh, babydoll…” Joel soothes, rubbing a hand up and down your arm as you cry. “Where did you get all these ridiculous ideas, hm? Sayin’ that you love her, that you forgive her? I mean, do you really believe she’d come lookin’ for you all the way out here, snatch you up and take you home ‘cause she cares so much about you?” “I… I don’t know, maybe. I just couldn’t sleep last night, I got so afraid of—” “That girl in the parkin’ lot this mornin’... it was her, wasn’t it? You moseyed on into the office lookin’ all pitiful last night and she talked you into doin’ this? She took advantage of you, baby?” Joel brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his face contorted in dramatic concern.

You’re so caught off guard by his accusations, your shuddering body finally stills. You lift your head up from your hands, wiping your eyes on the backs of them. “...What?”

“I mean, I know you know better than this, so it must’ve been her, puttin’ all these nonsense ideas into your head, convincin’ you to do somethin’ that’d only get you hurt… She don’t know what’s good for you like I do, baby. What was gonna happen when you sent off your lil’ letter, and you waited ‘n waited ‘n waited, and your mama never came for you? Who’d be there to take care of you, hm? Me. Always gonna be me.” Joel gently swipes his thumbs underneath your eyes, collecting the salty dampness still there. He sounds so sure of his own words, they’re almost convincing you that you’re misremembering your encounter with Chrissy last night. It was late, you were exhausted, and Joel is right, you do know better, you’ve told him yourself. Had she done more than just provide you with the envelope and stamp? Was the idea in your head before you walked into the office, or had she somehow persuaded you of it without you being any wiser? You’d remember if Joel’s version of the story is the one that really happened, wouldn’t you?

“No, Joel, she didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off swiftly.

“She did, baby, I think she did… Poor girl, must’ve been too out of it to even remember what really happened. D’you see now? This is why it’s gotta be just you ‘n me from now on, sweetheart. ‘Cause there’s all kinds of people out there like her who wanna get inside your head, convince you of things that ain’t true…”

As undeserving as Chrissy may or may not be of the blame for your childish endeavor, you feel relieved that your most recent act of defiance doesn’t seem to have the same effect on Joel as the one you attempted last night. He seems more… sorry for you, than anything else, and you aren’t quite sure why he seems to feel differently now than he did a mere twelve hours ago. Maybe he views it as proof of your loyalty, the fact that you had made it outside, gotten yourself a small taste of freedom, and still decided to crawl back into bed with him afterwards. You could’ve taken off running down the road if you’d really wanted to, his “insurance policies” be damned, but you didn’t. You stayed. And you hate what that says about you—that you’re fucking weak. But you’ll take “weak” over “dead”, at this point.

You decide to poke the bear a little bit, just to confirm if you’re in the clear the way you seem to be. “So… you’re not upset?”

“No, no, I ain’t upset with you, baby. But this is why you can’t do things without me no more, okay? Can’t trust nobody out there except for me, can you?”

You pause, then shake your head at him.

“Good, good girl… Y’know what, baby? Here—” Joel reaches into the pocket of his jacket, and pulls out a tarnished silver lighter. “Why don’t we just forget about all this, huh? Forget about your mama, that girl back at the motel… All those people who don’t care about you the way I do.” He places the cool metal object in your hand and closes your fingers around it.

“You… want me to burn it?”

Joel shrugs, quirking his mouth into a pout. “Don’t see why you’d wanna keep it… Ain’t goin’ anywhere, is it?”

“...No, guess not,” You mumble under your breath. You know what this means, what it symbolizes, why he wants you to do it yourself. So you can bear witness to your one last glimmer of hope dissolving into embers and ash on the sidewalk at your feet, so you can understand that there is no other outcome other than the one Joel had predetermined for you the second you had agreed to let him take you to Moody’s that night. There is no way out. There is submitting to him, and there is death. Take your pick.

You flick open the lighter, raise the flame to the paper, and watch it ignite. It only takes a few seconds before you feel the heat begin to lick at your fingers, and you drop the still-burning remainder of the letter onto the pavement below so as to spare your hands any further injury today. It curls in on itself and crumples as it chars, and the two of you stare at it until it’s nothing more than a smoldering pile of cinders. You swear you can see an amused smile tug at the corners of Joel’s lips in the edge of your vision.

“Don’t that feel better, baby? Finally lettin’ go of her?” he asks, taking the lighter from your hands and shoving it back into his pocket, along with the envelope.

You sniffle once, shrugging. “A little.”

“I know, sweet girl. It will, in time. You’ll understand sooner or later.” Joel groans as he pushes himself back up from his kneeling position, then extends a hand down for you to take. He helps you stand, then adjusts your hair to sit nicely over your bruises again, before placing his hands on your shoulders. “Now, that red-headed girl… Did you get her name, sweetheart?”

“...Chrissy. Her name was Chrissy,” you answer hesitantly, the intonation of your response sounding more like a question.

“Chrissy…” Joel repeats, letting her name settle on his tongue. “Whaddya say we just head on back, see about payin’ Chrissy a lil’ visit, hm?” He retakes your hand in his, then starts in the direction of the truck.

Your heart sinks into your stomach, realizing the hidden meaning of his words. “Jus’ gotta bring ‘em to me, tha’s all. Maybe go after ‘em if they try to run,” Joel had rasped into your ear last night, when he was describing the role you’d be forced to play in continuing his sick habit.

“W-what? Why? She won’t be there anymore, remember? She said she was leaving, that somebody else would be working in the office for the day,” you frantically remind him, hoping that she can be spared after all, hoping that you can be spared from your first time acting as bait.

Joel stops walking for a moment as he considers your words, then pulls you along with him again. “Pay a visit to whoever’s workin’ in there, then. See if they know where she might be.” He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, just stares straight ahead as he hones in on the truck like a missile. The overly concerned facade he had put on earlier seems to be faded now, replaced with something more akin to bloodthirsty determination.

You scrape the far corners of your mind for something, anything you could say to him that might talk him out of this. “But… I thought you said she took advantage of me? Why would you want to see her if you think she tried to hurt me?”

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks. His nostrils flare.

“You know why.”

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @alex-does-art-things @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @joelsdagger @natalieispunk @mermaidgirl30 @untamedheart81 @galway-girlatwork @pinkiec6-rubi @wand-erer5 @arminsbf @shivispunk @gigistorm @theoreticalfreak @vinceelser @always-andromeda @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @old-logan-and-old-joels-slut @zliteraturehoe @k1l4ni @hjzghi-blog @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @kay1805 (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

#my writing #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller smut #dark!joel miller #dark!joel x reader

255 notes · View notes

yumeiwei · 6 months ago

Text

DC X DP: One-Shot or Chapters?

So I had this idea, but I wasn’t sure if I should turn it into a long fic or a one-shot. Please help me decide in the comments!

The entire Batfam is on the Batplane with Constantine, who called them for help locating an area that spiked in Death Magic. He has been following these spikes for a while but he was always too slow so now, begrudgingly, he asked the Bat for help.

Batman agreed since Death Magic isn't something he wants just happening all over the world. His kids came along to help, arguing that this might be serious and they wanted to go with.

They reach the top of a mountain that had what seemed to be a ling dried up lake with a figure at the center, looking as if they were giving a prayer.

They set the plane to stealth mode and lowered themselves down. They cautiously walked to the lake edge, wanting to observe first before confronting the figure.

The figure looked androgynous and had a swimmer's build. They were dressed in what looked to be thin, flowy robes that were white with light green accents. They also had what looked to be a silk shall that seemed to be floating.

Suddenly, the figure got up and started dancing, as if in a waltz with someone they couldn't see. Slowly, dim balls of light appeared. Most were either green or blue, but every color imaginable was there.

There was a shift and the balls of light transformed into people-like forms. Ghosts if you will. Hundreds of them. Some taking the hand of the figure and dancing with them, only to let go and give the figure to a new partner.

If they never danced, or if they gave the figure to a new partner, they started floating upwards. That's when the Batfam and Constantine saw that the cloudy sky now had a single perfect circle that allowed the spirits to fly into a soft green glowing light.

Lazarus green. But softer.

As they watched, Batman felt a hand on his shoulders. He tried to grab the hand only to freeze. It was his father.

"We're proud of you, son." The ghost said with a smile as the ghost reached out and suddenly Martha was visible.

Martha smiled, gave a soft kiss onto Bruce's cheeks and danced with her husband into the sky.

---

I'll insert more scenes in the actual fic. Dick's parents, the guy Jason didn't kill but Bruce thought he killed, Tim gets those two assassins that died (can't remember names rn, I'm writing this instead of sleeping), Cass gets the person she killed, Damian gets some of the people he killed.

Jason will probably go up to Danny out of instinct or smt. Danny will ask if he wants to stay or move on and fix his core when Jason says he wants to stay.

So, thoughts?

(Will probably make this Dead on Main, but Brain Dead/Dead Tired has a special place in my heart so idk)

#dp x dc #dead on main #jason todd #danny phantom #danny is the ghost king #batfam #Constantine having a bad time #batman #red hood #danny fenton #idk how to tag this #i hope you like it #i hope these are enough tags cuz idk how to tag

258 notes · View notes

ekjohnston · 3 months ago

Text

The Book Club Conundrum

One thing really love about reading fanfic for videogames (Veilguard in particular), is seeing all the other in-game mini-story options that wouldn't have occurred to me in a million years. In Veilguard, for example, there is a large component of the fandom that writes Rook as isolated within the team, someone who is always helping but never gets helped in return. It's fascinating because you can do a lot with it, and also because it never would have crossed my mind otherwise.

I have started to call it The Book Club Conundrum, because you twice find book club notes in the Lighthouse where everyone gives their thoughts on a book they've read together. Rook does not give them, which I assumed meant we were supposed to fill that part in ourself (since Rook is the self-insert character, the game writers try to leave as many of their opinions open as possible), but it's very common in fic to read that Rook wasn't invited, and holds at least a bit of resentment for that, and for the way the team bonds around them in general.

As I said: a lot of mileage, which is great for fanfic, because conflict has to come from somewhere.

HOWEVER

Since I imagined Rook at the book club meetings and adding their thoughts, I did it with other examples of team bonding as well. This is particularly important to the "always helping, never helped" component of the argument, because: the team does try. They try so hard.

Most of them take you to a funeral/memorial at some point (Lucanis does it in a Blighted Treviso; if Minrathous is Bighted, you get it twice: once from Neve and once from The Viper. Davrin takes you out to play with a griffon, over and over, which is just as therapeutic). They take you through their grieving process, for new pains and old. They share their traditions. Their grief. Their anger. They wait for Rook to break.

And they never do.

Solas does a lot of heinous things, on all manner of scale, but something I find EXTREMELY fascinating is that he almost fucked up Rook's relationship with their entire team. Rook's seeming denial of their grief is the one thing that no one can break through. It makes them seem cold and a bit uncaring, like they're willing to push through almost everything to get the job done. And of course they are! Willing, I mean. It's a very Dread Wolf sort of lie: just enough truth to destroy everything.

(If you save "Words of Fire" as long as possible, Taash finally just yelling at you is SUPER affecting, lmty.)

In fanfic, I've seen everything from "it's weird that Rook is talking to an empty room again" to "Rook is grieving in their own way" to "Rook hears a weird humming noise every time they think too much about Varric, but can't do anything about it". Sometimes Rook yells at the team for not noticing (Neve notices IMMEDIATELY, fwiw, the same as Solas tells you immediately what he's done. You just keep going anyway), and sometimes the resolution is more quiet.

It's fascinating to me, both as a writer and a reader/player, that the same common start point (Solas being a manipulative jackass "for the greater good"), can have so many divergent paths. It's not just "Rook ignores the team and they all die" or "Rook moves heaven and earth for her team and they all live". There's a lot of space in that second one, and fanfic lets us wallow in what the game sets up.

Veilguard is a game of mirrors, obviously, but it's also a game where all of your companions could have been the protagonist, except all of the good guys are DESPERATELY trying not to be the main character. The villains are all like that too (especially Johanna, who is barely aware the risen gods are there), only they WANT to be the main characters. And that's usually what leads to their downfall.

Varric wrote pulp fiction. The kind reviews denigrate as trashy while millions of people have fun reading them. He wants a main character, a hero he can pin a tragedy on. He made one, and propped up another. Rook was going to be his third, and Solas (accidentally) almost made sure it happened. But Rook gets free of that, wins themself out by sheer friendship and the willingness to move forwards.

And no matter what kind of angst you want to put into your fanfic (and please, continue to do so; I am having fun!) that is pretty great.

#dragon age #veilguard #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age rook #dragon age solas #dragon age varric #dragon age meta #fanfiction

111 notes · View notes

sometimeslwish · 1 month ago

Text

Adore You

Would you look at that, @blessdunrest got me to write the fic. Who would've thunk?

Anyways, just like Sweet, this one is a bit of a self-insert written as a reader-insert. I was out, adulting like one does, when I made this post, then I got yelled at by Emmy (lov ya Em&ms) and decided to write it cause I was fucking bored of waiting.

I'm gonna admit it, I lost my way at some point after the snacks and I didn't know how to continue. If the ending feels a bit weird, it's because I changed it like 5 times before I found something that felt close to right.

Word count: 1,707 words

Tags: Sylus x gn!reader, foodie reader, could be mc or non-mc, established relationship, fluff, domestic bliss, grocery shopping with the one and only Mister Sylus, bit of an ADHD coded reader (I might have undiagnosed ADHD, but who knows) snacks, food, not for the ones with peanut allergies (sorry not sorry)

You hum softly as you walk beside him.

His hand doesn't take long to find yours, and you don't take long to balance them with the energy of a child. He finds this one habit of yours adorable, and he can't help the way he softness under your touch.

He mourns the loss of your warmth, when you let go to get a cart and waits for you by the entrance. He doesn't complain much, seeing the childlike glee in your face as you hop on the back of the cart and push it towards him with one foot warms his chest with adoration.

You swerve the cart to avoid running him over with it, imitating the screech of tires skidding on the road as you pass him by. It pulls a chuckle from him, and he follows along with a smile. He lets you man the cart for a little bit more, guiding you through aisles and picking the necessities.

You help with getting some produce, humming to the song playing in the background and shimmying to the beat. He takes over the cart after the third aisle, when you can no longer push it as far because of the added weight and that's when your energy starts to pick up. Since it can no longer be expended on following him with the cart, you start focusing on other things.

Acting like a little assistant– his little assistant– by organizing everything in the cart with each new thing he picks up.

Wandering a few feet away to read the content labels of random products that caught your attention while he was stuck comparing products. He can picture your confused frown as you put it back in place and then the little shrug you do before walking back to him and forgetting everything about what you just read.

The first question always comes after you’ve done that a few times:

“Can I have your phone? I want to see something.”

You always ask. No matter how many times he's said yes and reassured you that you could just grab it without explanation. You always ask and wait for his answer before grabbing it.

His phone is the most organized one out of the two of you, for better or for worse, so you know you can find every single thing you've mentioned to him in there. Recipes, tutorials, things you wanted to try, things you wanted to buy, all listed there and grouped.

He already knows what you're going to check and what you're going to do. He can already see you checking what's on the cart to tick it off on the list, can see the gears in your head turning as you look at what comes after. And he knows what you'll ask after organizing the new things he added while you were away.

“Do you think those will be enough? There's a recipe I want to try that has that.”

“It's alright, dear heart, we can just come back to buy some more.”

And then you'll put his phone back in his pocket and walk away, coming back with ingredients in your arms that weren't previously on the list. He never asks what you plan on doing, as much as he itches to. He could guess from the ingredients, but he's learnt that you like keeping it a surprise.

Then you'll pop in and out of his orbit, come back with something from the list– not because you're in a hurry, but because it was a specific thing that you wanted to get– or some random treat in your hands with a hopeful look in your eyes.

“Can we try it together? Please?”

When it's something new, or:

“I used to have these when I was younger, it's been a while.”

“I’ve never tried these,” he'll say, catching the nostalgic tint to your face and taking the item from your hands, looking at it with interest. It's never fake, never feigned, he's like a sponge when it comes to things about you, absorbing every piece of information, every detail, anything that could get him to know you more. “Let's get them.”

“Really?”

As if he would ever say no to creating more memories with you, to spoiling you rotten, to seeing that hopeful glint turn into excitement as you put it in the cart with the other things.

His favorite part, however, will always be catching up to you in the snack aisle.

When you disappear and don't pop back up when he moves on to the next one– or when he picks something else, or when he sneaks in something you picked up and clearly wanted but didn't ask for– that's when he knows. He always takes his time getting there, in no hurry to catch up when he knows your indecisive mind will keep you in place.

Sometimes you move around and he stands aside, watching you with a fond look on his face as you mutter to yourself about cravings and what you want.

This time, however, you're standing still, staring at the shelves with a frown on your face and a subtle pout on your lips.

He refrains from kissing it away when he approaches you, leaving the cart a few feet behind so it's not in the way. His arms wrap around you and his body sings when you lean into his hold, when you angle into him as he leans to kiss your temple.

“What's on that pretty head of yours?” His arms wrap around your shoulders.

“I don't know if I want the sugared donuts, cookies or chocolates,” you turn to wrap your arms around his waist “or gummies. And then, I don't know if I want choco-chip cookies, fudge stripes or nutter butter’s.”

“Why not buy them all?”

“All the cookies?”

“And the gummies and sugared donuts.”

“No, we already have chips on the cart, plus whatever else you might've sneaked in–” you tilt your head to try and catch any rogue snacks he might've slipped in– “and I'm also craving ice cream.–” leave his hold when you can't find anything in plain sight to shift through a few things.

You catch a box of your favorite pop tarts and a bag of the old assorted ice pops you used to eat as a kid. You try not to let it soften you as you continue, “Give me too many snacks and I'll eat them all within a week instead of making them last a few months."

"I don't see how that's a bad thing. Food is meant to be eaten.” There's some rustling coming from behind you. You turn to find him already grabbing all three of the cookies you mentioned.

“Do you not want me to eat an actual meal?”

The question makes him pause.

He's seen you eat a tub of ice cream with a whole pack of cookies in one sitting without breaking a sweat; finish an entire large bag of chips because you were too lost in what you were reading to realize how much you'd eaten, and witnessed the same thing happen all over again with different treats.

And on all of those times, you did not eat anything else for hours on end. He had to coax you into eating something by only ordering for himself (read: secretly ordering both your meals and pretending that all of it was only for him) and giving you his food (which was actually yours. Again, he was just pretending). All three times, the trick was successful.

“Point taken.” He drawls before sighing, like it physically pains him to not spoil you beyond measure, “Do you want some help, sweetheart?” He offers, catching the overwhelmed glint in your eyes.

“Please.”

And look at you, so well mannered for him.

He nods– in that infuriatingly hot and adorable way of his– and you spend the next 10 minutes choosing what to bring and what to leave behind.

The donuts come with you, along with the gummies. There's ingredients for you to make as many cookies at home as you'd like, so you can literally get home and bake whatever you want.

After that, you don't wander anymore, curiosity satiated and wandering quota fulfilled.

You stick beside him. Go back to being his little assistant, ticking things off the list and organizing everything so it doesn't fall off.

You don't keep as quiet as you did in the beginning, you talk his ear off. Joke, banter, tease, vent, make plans. Say almost everything that comes to mind and anything you forgot to say before, it always comes out then.

Your slowing energy redirects into him and he gets to enjoy the sound of your voice, the feel of your warmth next to his– or against his, when you start clinging without a care– and the sight of your beautiful face as you walk beside him.

He gets to hear you grumble and huff during check-out, as you pack things up in backs and organize them into the cart. Gets to hear more of your thoughts as you pack them up in the car together, and he gets to see the way you melt into the car seat once the day is all done.

Like all of the other things, he also knows what you'll do after that bone-deep sigh that signals you're tired of being out.

You'll ask what's next, hum in response and start the music once he starts driving, and you'll sing with him like it's a random karaoke night.

See, his favorite part of catching up to you was the changes that came after. Because food was the one thing you always confidently asked for without needing reassurance or gentle coaxing. Snacks, drinks, meals or appetizers, it didn't matter as long as it was food. Food was the one thing that got you to open up the fastest.

And he'd be damned if he looked at a gifted horse in the mouth and missed the opportunity to spoil you with the one thing you had grown to ask for.

If he kept being patient, there would come a day where food wouldn't be the only thing you spent his money on.

113 notes · View notes

ryder-the-kooikerhondje · 7 months ago

Text

Good Boy- Kirishima x male!reader

A/n: There's too much fem!reader smut, not enough male!reader smut. Especially with Kiri. This is for everyone who has clicked on a fic that doesn't say fem!reader only to be jumpscared by "baby girl" or "good girl" <3 CW: bottom!reader (listen I can write them the best bc I am one), praise kink, Kiri receives oral, fingering, mentions of aftercare WC: 1.5k MINORS DNI -

Your husband loves calling you a good boy.

You love when Eijiro calls you a good boy. Maybe it's the praise kink… Okay it's most definitely the praise kink. But it isn't your fault! If a big, strong man calls you a good boy you have a right to be flustered! And flustered you are.

"You're such a bottom, you know that?" He laughs. You slap his arm. You're straddled across his lap, thighs on either side of his legs. His hands are rubbing up and down your thighs in a calming pattern that causes you to melt against him.

"Maybe I am, but you like it."

"You're right, I do." He smirks. He leans forward, capturing your lips in a slow and gentle kiss. His lips guide yours; moving in tandem with one another. You didn't even have to think about it at this point. It was natural. Large hands continued to rub your legs, his fingers getting closer to the inside of your thighs with every motion. Your kiss turns more passionate with each passing second, your sweatpants starting to feel tighter. He groans into your mouth. Leaning away slightly for a moment, he mutters:

"Such a good boy." Before diving back in and kissing you harder. Your gasp of surprise is muffled by his soft (and slightly chapped) lips. His tongue runs across your bottom lip; his way of asking for permission. Opening your mouth you accept his request. His tongue explores your mouth with ease. He knows every inch of you like the back of his hand. Just like he knows you're starting to get desperate. And how you're softly grinding against him. "Hmm, is my boy desperate? Want me to help you, baby?" Your face warms. You didn't even realize you were doing it. You continue your ministrations however, nodding. "Can't help you here, let's get you to the bedroom." Eijiro lifts you off of his lap, causing you to whine at the loss of friction. Grunting, he hoists you up while standing and starts waking toward your shared bedroom.

Your husband places you on the bed, an oomf leaving your lips out of surprise. He casts you a guilty look before climbing on the bed and straddling you. Raising and eyebrow, you scan his hot body, noticing a growing bulge in his pants. His large hand reaches forward under your chin and lifts your head up to force eye contact. He keeps eye contact with you as he takes his shirt off, revealing his giant chest. You swallow. Oh how badly you need him. Reaching forward, he takes off your shirt for you. Tossing it somewhere on the floor. After removing the rest of your clothing, he begins to rub his hands along your stomach. His hand slowly gets lower and lower.

"So pretty" He mumbles. "Need'ya to get on your stomach, baby." He says. You oblige, turning around. His hands automatically go to your ass, rubbing the soft flesh. "I'm gonna have to stretch you out, okay?" You nod. "Good boy." He praises. Grabbing a bottle of lube, he squeezes some on his finger before gently kissing your lower back and inserting it into your hole. You squirm and bite your lip due to the burning sensation. Eijiro senses your movement and speaks up: "Such a good boy for me. Swallowing my finger so well. Don't worry, this will feel good soon. Just gotta stretch you out so I can fuck you like you deserve." He caresses your insides, curling his finger. You moan, the uncomfortable feeling finally drifting into one of pleasure.

After finally stretching you out enough, he removes his finger. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you shiver due to the cold air replacing his warmth. Not wanting you be cold, he quickly shoves off his boxers and leans above you. He gives his dick a few pumps, holding his breath as he spreads his precum as if it were lube. You were already stretched out, but he wanted to make sure it felt good.

"You ready, love?" He asks. All you can do is nod in anticipation. Eijiro lines himself up with your hole before slowly pushing in. A sigh of relief leaves your mouth at the warmth entering your body before it transforms into a slight burn. You whine, shutting your eyes. "I know, baby boy. It'll feel good soon, I promise." Eijiro coos. Even stretching you out wasn’t fully enough sometimes- his dick is just that big (like the size of a soda ca- *gets hit in the head with a frying pan*). After a few seconds of adjusting to his thickness, you turn toward Eijiro. "I'm ready, just move, please." You practically beg. He chuckles, beginning to slowly thrust in and out of your hole. Both of your eyes roll back in tandem as your grip tightens on the sheets.

"Mhmm…more."

"More what, baby? Use your words."

"Faster, please. Fuck me more."

"Oh, such a good boy. Thank you for using your words." He praises before jerking into you harshly. You moan and relinquish what little control you had left as Eijiro pounds into you. Weightless falling onto you as you sink deeper into the mattress.

"Hah- feel good, baby boy?" He asks. You violently nod. "Good, doing so well for me. Love to hear your noises sweetheart." He groans. Your nosies and the plap of his skin against yours are the only sounds in the room for a while.

"Ah- 'm close." You whine."Can I cum?I've been such a good boy please." Eijiro smiles.

"Of course you can cum, baby." His left hand leaves its spot by your head and starts to play with your tip, causing your head to fall back and your release to come crashing down. Cum spurts out of your dick and onto his hand, coating it in white. In the middle of your orgasm, Eijiro speeds up his thrusts before abruptly stopping and pulling out. The pleasure immediately dissipates and you whine in confusion. He immediately leans over and kisses your cheek, checking over your body to make sure you're okay.

"Wait, did you cum?"

"No, not yet."

You frown.

"Well that's not fair." You look up at him. "I could fix that if you want me to. I'll be a good boy." Eijiro moans at the use of his nickname for you and caresses the bottom of your face.

"You're so sweet for me. You just wanna make me feel good, huh?" You nod."Well then, I'm gonna lay on my back, and I think you know what to do." He smirks, turning to lay on his back and getting comfortable. He rests his hands behind his head and looks expectantly at you. Immediately jumping into action, you crawl over to him and position yourself. You wrap one of your hands around the base of his dick. Moving your hand, you lean down and give his tip a wet kiss. A small grunt leaves his lips in response. You wrap your lips around him and gently suck while still stroking him. His head falls to the side. You smirk before moving your lips further down his dick and sucking him in deeper and deeper.

"So warm…" He moans. You finally manage to take all of him, you realize, as you feel his black public hair tickle your nose. After taking a few seconds to adjust and catch your breath, you hollow out your cheeks and get to work. Eijiro reaches down and tangles his fingers in your hair. Gently moving you up and down his length. His grunts and moans get louder as you continue, as well as the pace at which he controls your head. Your head gets manhandled faster and faster as you choke around his dick. His hips start jerking uncontrollably as you get a devious idea. You take one of your hands off of his thighs and reach toward his balls. You gently stoke them (causing a hum to escape your husband) before squeezing them, causing Eijiro to jerk, sitting up quickly as he cums on the spot. His loud moans and praise fill your ears as you happily swallow his cum. You pull away, licking your lips. Eijiro pulls you towards him, forcing you into a wet and sloppy kiss. His tongue explores your mouth as he grunts upon tasting his cum that was previously in your mouth before you swallowed it.

"Such a good boy. You drank all of my cum, huh?" He smirks. You push your head into his chest out of embarrassment. He chuckles. "You don't have to be embarrassed, baby. I love feeling your lips wrapped around my dick." You slap his chest as he laughs. "Okay, okay. I'll stop. But I need'ya to get off me so I can run you a bath, m'kay?" You grumble before shuffling off of your warm and comfortable husband. He stands up and stretches before leaning over and kissing your head. He walks towards your bathroom to start the bath and get ready to pamper you.

My Masterlist :]

#mha x reader #kirishima x male reader #kirishima x reader #mha x male reader #kirishima ejirou #kirishima smut #eijiro kirishima #mha smut

133 notes · View notes

genericpuff · 1 month ago

Text

✨ UPDATED FAQ ✨

Making a new and improved FAQ as it seems the desktop version doesn't work consistently. I get a lot of repeat asks about similar topics in my inbox so please feel free to check this post for any current or future common questions in case you're wondering if a question's been asked before :> (otherwise, ask away!)

QUICK BIO

Eyo, I'm GenericPuff! I'm a Saulteaux-Mi'kmaq Two-Spirit dweeb from Atlantic Canada. My pronouns are she/he/they. I'm a tattoo artist by trade but I also occupy my time with freelancing and comics. I got a 100% perfect score on my combined ADHD test, the only test I've ever aced ;0

LINK MAP

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

LORE | REKINDLED

CURRENT UPDATING STATUS: HIATUS (we're hoping to return in the fall!)

Q: When does Lore Rekindled update?

When it's actively ongoing, typically I try to update it every 2 weeks, every other Saturday, around 8:45 PM EST. That said, if episodes are delayed or don't release when expected, I'll make sure to notify you all! In the meantime, all I ask for is your patience <3

Q: Where can I read?

Right here on my Tumblr! We now also mirror on NamiComi if you want an alternative platform to read it on that offers better reading options and much less image compression!

While we used to mirror on Dillyhub, we've since discontinued uploads there as the site became too unstable to use.

Q: Help, Lore Rekindled shows up blurry for me!

Unfortunately this is a limitation on Tumblr’s end. I combat it as best I can by cropping panels individually for uploading, but some panels are just too long to segment into parts or some episodes have too many panels which exceed Tumblr’s image limit which forces me to group some together. Reading on our mirror sites is the best alternative whenever we can't get the images to upload crystal-clear !

Q: Why are the episode numbers further behind on the mirror websites?

A: Back when Rekindled first started, the episodes were scripted out long but released in short segments until I got enough of a pace going that I could release longer episodes. Or sometimes I'd have an episode turn out longer than anticipated and I'd have to cut them up to ensure I could post them on time. When I updated them to our first mirror site (Dillyhub), I compiled them together again into full episodes the way they were originally intended to be read, and its these compiled episodes that I've continued to use for other mirror sites going forward. This makes it seem like the Dillyhub/NamiComi/etc. versions are "behind", but rest assured, it's perfectly up to date with the Tumblr version! (and are, in practice, the 'true' episode numbers!)

Q: Why create a ‘fix-it fic’ of Lore Olympus instead of creating your own original story? Isn’t that kinda weird / stupid / petty / [insert derogatory assumption here] ?

Short answer - for the same reason that people write fanfiction instead of writing original manuscripts.

Long answer - We write what we’re compelled to write, and for me, I wasn’t compelled to make a completely original Greek myth comic (though I did explore that option.) I wanted to create something with Lore Olympus in mind as I used to be a huge fan of the series and, like many others who used to be diehard fans of the series, was extremely disappointed and frustrated with how it turned out.

I’m often told in my criticisms “if you’re so smart, do it yourself!”... so I did! Sure, I could have done my own completely original take of the myths, but it just didn’t scratch the itch like doing it through the lens of LO did.

Obviously it’s not gonna be everyone’s cup of tea and people will make their own judgments of my reasoning behind making it, which is natural and fine :) I just wanna make fanfic for a comic that I used to love and have strong feelings about that I’m compelled to express through transformative fiction, it’s not much more complicated than that!

Though I will say, in spite of everything I have to throw at LO, I do owe it a lot, as in my attempts to recreate it, it's broken me out of my comfort zones and helped me advance my art further than I was previously ever capable of taking it. I could never hate LO at it's core, even if I hate what it eventually became and what it turned out to always be once the rose-colored glasses fell off. I can't hate the community it created in spite of itself, the community that welcomed me with open arms and has since uplifted me to the heights I'm at today. I can't hate how LO used to make me feel and how it inspired me even after those feelings started to wane.

And for that, I am forever grateful.

Q: Do you accept fanart / fanfic for LR?

Absolutely!! I adore every piece of LR-inspired art and prose that people send me or tag me in, it really does brighten my day. Skill level doesn't matter to me, if you wanna share it, I wanna see it! <3 (and if you don't want to share it with me directly, feel free to use the #lorerekindled tags ! )

Q: Will you write about [insert myth here]? / Please include [insert favorite god/myth here]!!!

I get these kinds of questions and requests a looot and unfortunately there's just no way to entertain all of them because to do so would be to write whole other expansive arcs (especially when it comes to myths like the Trojan War) which takes time and resources that I simply don't have.

For the most part, LR is aiming to do what LO failed at, and one of those failures was stuffing too many pointless side characters and story arcs into its plot for the sake of paying lip service to the myths and the fandom. LR is instead aiming to hone in on the myth of Persephone, Hades, and Demeter, so a lot had to be cut to allow that story to flourish without being weighed down.

That said, even if I'm planning on including a specific myth or god... I'm not gonna tell you outright anyways. I don't wanna give away all the fun stuff I have planned! ;3 Rest assured, if there's a myth you REALLY want to see tackled within the world of LR, feel free to write / draw whatever you want! Just because I might not cover a particular myth doesn't mean you can't! :'3 <3 (though I get why people ask me specifically to write these stories but unfortunately I am just one person and it would be a Sisyphean task to try and retell every single one of them within and even outside the scope of LR).

Q: Will Lore Rekindled have the Apollo SA plot?

No, I’m removing that plot arc entirely and re-focusing it back on what we've preserved of the Canvas version of LO, in which Apollo seemed to be more akin to a (not-so-great) suitor, not an outright assaulter.

Q: Is Persephone eternally 19 in Lore Rekindled?

She is not. All of the gods are relatively old, with many of them exceeding the human lifespan by a good few hundred years at minimum. Hades is very old, Persephone is very old, they’re aaalll very old compared to mortals due to being gods who are not tethered to the limitations of a human lifespan. That said, they all experience different milestones of life at different stages (as mortals do!) so Persephone is currently experiencing milestones that are often relegated to people in their early to mid 20’s (such as attending university) but much of her experiences as a fish out of water are simply due to being from the Mortal Realm, not a consequence of her being a barely-legal teenager.

Q: How are the gods related in LR? Did you keep or remove the incest?

The gods are 'related' in LR, but rather than through blood and DNA, they're instead created through the fusion of their respective elements. How the gods refer to one another is often a matter of language that isn't necessarily meant to be taken literally - while some deities who reside in / work in the Mortal Realm might be accustomed to terms like 'mother' and 'sister' (ex. Kore and Demeter), others simply refer to each other as 'creator' and 'creation'. If you want a detailed look at how that concept has been implemented into LR, check out the LR family tree!

Q: Are Hades and Persephone meant to be a romantic pairing like they were in LO?

The answer to that is kind of complicated and not one I can fully give without spoiling. Neither Hades or Persephone are perfect people, they both have a lot of baggage to unpack and much of it is going to be torn out and thrown about the room in the heat of conflict. All that's to say, it will certainly be a dramatic relationship, but that doesn't mean it won't be without its romance, and vice versa.

Ultimately though, my main goal is to retell The Hymn to Demeter more accurately than it was told in Lore Olympus. It obviously still takes a lot of creative liberties for the sake of retelling a centuries-old story (and has to balance those creative liberties with the liberties LO took in its art and story) but I hope that in the end, people will find closure in its attempts to express the original myth's messaging more so than they could find by the end of LO.

Q: How long is LORE | REKINDLED planned to be?

Right now it’s hard to say as plotting out a comic is a whole different thing from actually drawing it. Some episodes I write out and think it’ll only take me one episode to do but then it turns out to take 2-3 in comic form; some episodes flat out don't release on time if I'm dealing with IRL stuff. That said, right now I’m estimating the series will last around 150-200ish episodes, give or take. Could be less, could be more, I'm not great at guessing that sort of thing LOL

Q: How can I support LORE | REKINDLED?

Considering Rekindled is an AU rewrite project of Lore Olympus, I can't profit directly off it in any way as I don't want to cross over into potentially harmful legal territory with Rachel Smythe and/or Webtoons. This means no locked episodes, no merchandise, etc. Rekindled is and always will be free to read.

That said, I do offer both a Patreon and Ko-Fi where you can tip me and get access to bonus drawings, time lapses, and other goodies, some of which are related to LORE | REKINDLED, others which are more for my original projects. All of the proceeds help support me in these dubious times so I can keep doing what I do and so I can cover my assistant costs.

I'm also now on VGen where you can commission me! I have this commission info setup on my Ko-Fi as well, but VGen is designed specifically for commissioning and comes with a lot of other cool features like character archiving and tagging, workflow tools, etc. so it's generally the better option ;3 (I just like offering more than one lmao)

Otherwise, the best way to support Rekindled is to just tune-in and read it, comment, reblog, etc.! (remember that Tumblr doesn't have an algorithm, so reblogs are the best way to get more eyes on it!)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

ART QUESTIONS

Q: What do you use to draw?

I currently primarily use a Huion Inspiroy Giano with Clip Studio Paint EX. I also have a 4th Generation iPad Air but I mostly use that for conventions and on-the-go tattoo designing.

Q: What brushes do you use?

Thanks to help from the community (and some very mysterious anons), I’ve compiled a fully comprehensive brush pack consisting of brushes that have been researched, tested and confirmed to be brushes used in Lore Olympus as far back as the first season! Please use them to your liking for all your edits and redraws :)

Q: Do you have any resources or tips for creating comics?

Creating your own comic is a very fun, but very overwhelming learning process, with many things to cover that I can’t feasibly do in a single post. The best place to start is to just start! But if you’re struggling with knowing where to even begin or where to go from where you are, here are some helpful Youtube videos that I compiled into a playlist, covering stuff from Clip Studio basics to masking comic panels to storyboarding in animation. I’ll be adding new videos to this playlist as I find them!

I also regularly stream Rekindled progress on Twitch where you can watch me working on the comic live! I'm always happy to answer questions about the process during these streams, so don't be afraid to just hop in and ask!

Q: Do you have any advice for aspiring tattoo artists?

I'm not gonna tell you whether or not you should, just that if you do decide to pursue it, remember that it's still a job in the arts - it takes a lot of work, patience, and trial and error, and even when the times are good, those good times aren't guaranteed nor infinite. Don't go into it thinking it's a "get-rich-quick" kind of job. Tattooing has basically become the OnlyFans of the arts, a lot of people jump into it thinking it's as easy as posting your feet pics online but those who have been doing it legitimately for years know how much work it takes to succeed, how mentally and physically taxing it really is, and all the risks involved, which a lot of people rushing into it don't really tend to think about.

As much as it's 'easier' than ever now to simply Google things and buy all the tools online, the easy path doesn't always make it the best one and it demeans the craft to assume that it's easy, period (the pros just make it LOOK easy). Apprenticeships are still the most legitimate way to pursue the craft, as it ensures you get proper hands-on education without all the misinformation and bad habits that can be found online.

It's a trade that demands patience and perseverance. Don't rush into the first apprenticeship you're offered. Don't settle for the easy way out of learning. Know your community, know your artists, and know what you're willing to sacrifice and put up with. Be willing to get tattooed, get to know the artists around you, even if they can't offer you an apprenticeship you can still learn a lot just by getting yourself involved with your local body mod scene.

This industry has only become harder to navigate in an age of normalized instant gratification and oversaturated shops, so if you really wanna do it and make it your living, be prepared for the work and discipline that's necessary to succeed. Put your ego aside and be willing to learn and to treat the craft - and the clients who trust the trained professionals with their skin and health - with respect.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

MISCELLANEOUS

Q: How did you come up with your username?

(no that's literally it fr LOL it's only cosmic luck that it wound up becoming so appropriate for what I do here LMAO)

Q: Can I read your other projects?

A: You sure can, if you so dare! (and by that I mean they're incredibly outdated and probably not as fun to read or look at so tread with caution LOL) You can find my main hub with outgoing links here. I'm currently working on returning to my original projects and redrawing / rewriting a lot of stuff (fixing my OWN work instead of Rachel's!)

#faq #frequently asked questions #lore rekindled #genericpuff #generic puff #lore rekindled ama #ask me anything #ama #anon ama #anon ask me anything

76 notes · View notes

flusteredfools · 1 month ago

Text

*affectionately slaps paper in @cricky-butspicy 's face*

I am in deep obsession love with your slasher boys that I am (il)legally claiming joint custody. They are now mine every other weekend. I'm carefully putting collars on them and taking them home with me.

You may pick them back up after they have dinner or I can drop them off XD I really am obsessed, my brain is basically writing a whole fan fic of your fan fic. Like I spent most of last night imagining what could have been their first meeting and a bunch of other bits (and I will share it if you want XD though it doesn't work 100% with the real fic, my brain is saying it's an alt timeline to justify it to myself) like a full spin-off because I can't leave them alone.

So this features my reader/self insert for your Killing You With Kisses While They Get The Knife.

4'11 (I dream of 5 foot but it'll never come)

General Student - unsure what they want to go for

likes painting and sewing

helps paint stage sets/props and makes costumes

small prey type personality - quite mouse / timid rabbit

always has some sort of bear item

is practically blind without their glasses

there's more but it'll wait till I actually make a better ref XD

(there's also a really low effort doodle of a joke that might only be funny in my head below the cut XD - inspired by all the asks picking on Soleil lol)

#bearitt doodles #bearitt rambles #killing you with kisses while they get the knife #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #slasher au #human au #soleil #atlas #human sundrop #human moondrop #human sun and moon #slasher au reader #slasher x reader #slightly suggestive #others ocs #others au

54 notes · View notes

reallyromealone · 3 months ago

Note

PLZZZZ FINISH THE SPENCER REID ACCIDENTAL MATING ROME PLZZZZ I LOVE IT SMMM. Btw don't feel forced to finish it if you don't want I'm not trying to force you😥😥😥 BTW I LOVE YOUR WRITING IT'S SO GOOD 😋

Title: accidental mating

Chapter: 4?

Fandom: criminal minds

Characters: cast

Fic type: omegaverse

Pairings: Spencer x reader

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, omegaverse, mpreg, violence, fluff

Notes:

Summary:

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

It was decided that it would be safer for (name) and Spencer to share a room and subsequently a bed, hotch openly expressing his reluctance to let (name) be alone under any circumstances, Spencer and (name) though reluctant agreed to this though neither were particularly pleased.

Spencer looked at (name) who worked away on his laptop, having just finished his pizza while Spencer went over evidence quietly. The scent of content Omega and pleased alpha was heavy in the room, mixing together perfectly and (name) didn't even realize the purr that left his throat till he noticed Spencer staring wide eyed and a rumble left his chest, both startled and flustered. Both of them stared at each other, curious on what the other one would do and when Spencer noticed that (name) wasn't showing any signs of rejection.

"I... I uh... Fuck" Spencer was stumbling, flustered and frustrated with himself and (name) looked confused "it's ok, you got this" (name) encouraged the other who sighed "I know-- I know it's probably hormones but... Fuck how do I word this?" I have developed feelings for you? Whenever I look at you I want to hold you? I kind of wanna have sex with you but like romantically?

"I have feelings for you too Spencer" (name) whispered softly, feeling the others distress and confusion through scent "And it could be hormones or it could be the fact that we spend every day together, learned each other's habits and routines and have been actively trying to form interests in each others-- Spencer we have been practically courting for months" (name) said fondly and Spencer sighed with a smile "we have... Haven't we?"

"We have, think you can tolerate me enough to try and date me?"

"You won't let that go, will you?"

"Not for a while, I got four more uses in it"

"No tempy, I haven't had any changes yet but the twins are developing well" (name) said softly on the phone "thank you again for the gift by the way, I'm sure the twins will love it-- oh are we still meeting up after your book release?" (Name) Loved talking to his sister, listening to her work and what she's been up to and what her team was doing.

"Well I gotta go, give love to Angela and the rest" and with that (name) hung up, this call was longer than usual much to (name)s happiness especially with his sister's constant travels. (Name) Looked over the case files on the desk and sighed, he should visit her sometime...

Spencer and the rest were gone on the field while (name) was practically in the office but it wasn't it was a boring hotel room... God he hated this place.

He took a proper look at his cozy prison, the beige walls and neutral wallpaper and ordinary wall art.

It was all so boring.

Sifting through the files, he tried to look for something, Anything that could give him a clue.

He couldn't stop going back to a certain woman 'Delia Gapottec' her story just didn't add up, she was just... Off.

She was too perfect and her son, god her son made his skin crawl.

(Name) Didn't realize he fell asleep at the small kitchenette in the hotel room until he felt Spencer lift him and bring him to bed "sorry... Didn't mean to fall asleep" (name) slurred, pregnancy taking a toll on him "no one would be upset if you took a break, you're carrying twins" Spencer said softly, gently scenting (name) in a tender moment the Omega wasn't expecting but he should expect this from his mate.

"There's dead omegas out there and someone who needs to be taken down... I can't"

"I know you don't need help but please, let me help you"

"... I am a little exhausted "

"How about you continue your nap then?"

(Name) Was flustered when he asked this, wringing his fingers together "stay with me?"

Spencer felt his hear beat a mile a minute, nodding quietly before slipping into bed and pulling (name) close.

"THIS ONE IS A FUCK UP, LIKE THE REST OF THEM!" The man screamed and shattered a plate "I guess we have to find another one, pitty" the woman mumbled before putting a gun the the sobbing omegas head "you had one job, pathetic"

BANG

#x male reader #omega male reader #criminal minds a/b/o #criminal minds x male reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds omegaverse #alpha spencer reid #spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid x reader

106 notes · View notes

nellynee · 5 months ago

Text

Dear Hazbin Hotel Fandom (with special note for reader insert fic writers at bottom)

Been thinking about Hazbin and like, economy, and infrastructure, and fucking culture in hell. And I like to imagine that earth is like, modern age if not a bit further into the future, and Hell is just so far behind

And I see most writers attribute this to old powers that be more or less forcing people to adhere to their affections, but I feel like it's so much more complex than that.

Like if there's any kind of infrastructure in place, like say, oh IDK utilities, that infrastructure in modern times relies very heavily on established modern infrastructure built before it, and a certain degree of cultural niceties to leave it alone, as well as all the means in terms of sourcing labor, resources, and cold hard cash for its construction and continued upkeep.

Which is near impossible in a place like hell. A place where at least once a year, the ritual killing of the masses leads to huge turf wars set to destroy said infrastructure. In such a every man for himself society, who's making sure these roads aren't full of potholes and the lights stay on?

Which leads to a very easy answer, Overlords. This is why Overlords own millions of souls. It's the expected currency for stability. Overlords oversee a certain degree of infrastructure, normalization of life. Depending on your deal, Overlords might guarantee a base degree of normalcy in exchange for souls. Like you might get better rental opportunities in areas where the buildings aren't likely to be torn down regularly. You get running water and electricity, books and other entertainment, access to better food, security during large scale danger events (including the exterminations) ect. And refusing to sell your soul could severely limit opportunities. Imagine if everyone is born into poverty, and you are only allowed the chance to access middle class jobs, houses, ect if you cut off a finger. Everyone does it, you aren't using it anyways, and your life gets significantly easier if you do....

But yeah I think people who write for the fandom are seriously understating the actual affects the lack of a central government probably has on the different areas of the city, and what it actually means to be an Overlord, and why things work the way they do.

Like I am 1000% sure there's no mail in hell. Like mailmen and carriers and an organization system. Unless an Overlord was particularly invested in it... No I think for a very long time long distance communication took place through hired help. People specifically paid for or in one's employ to carry personal missives on an immediate basis as needed. Delivery men. This is why Vox's electronics are such a hit. It provides a degree of luxury unknown to the masses before this; or known of and since lost and have nostalgia for.

I also firmly believe that this is still how Overlords and influentials communicate. Vox's infrastructure is convenient, but it would require seceeding a degree of independence powerful people can't afford to give up. You can order one of your souls to take a message and others to protect them, but to use a phone is to put your communication network in the hands of someone else, and a potential enemy at that.

Lack of infrastructure aside, I also don't want to understate the effects of only a certain percentage of the populace being present has. 100% of the people dropping into hell can know what a blender is, but if not a single souls who drops down knows how one works, then hell just straight up doesn't have blenders. Which is another factor into a lot of the lingering old timey feel of Hell. Technology has to be invented on earth, then become popularized enough that the knowledge of its creation beats out the numbers dropping into hell and it can be made. Not to mention someone has to be interested enough to let it be made in the first place. This is why some Overlords center around such singular niches. They were passionate enough to teach themselves in life the knowledge needed to build that particular luxury from scratch. Even if it had been decades since development in earth, the knowledge just doesn't migrate well.

I also imagine this having a huge impact on the entertainment industry. Lots of writers go on about old songs but not one has the guts to claim an artists is in hell and still making their art in hell

Can you imagine the cutthroat industry developed around having to claw your way up through hundreds of years of new music and nostalgia when your own fan base is still mostly on earth and the other artists have had centuries or decades to establish themselves?

Which brings me to my last and most important point..... Shoes. Well, shoes and clothing, and mass production.

It just ain't fucking happening in Hell.

One, in sure the Pride ring is getting some of their commerce from other rings. I'm talking consumables. Textiles and food. This is also a city spanning millions of people, and what hydroponics isn't used to grow pot is probably being sponsored by Overlords to grow produce for their souls. Which means some production but not nearly enough to feed the city. Which means food probably looks like a large majority of people eating hell based produce from outside the ring, with dedicated smuggling rings (like what we see with IMP, travelers who bring earth commerce home, I'm guessing Lust ring Incu/Sucubi looking for side gigs) bringing back seeds, cuttings, and cultural touchstones like movies, books, and music to be mass copied and distributed. Those living in certain areas or with the right amount of cash can pay for produce grown from that smuggled earth produce.

Meat is predominantly hell born in nature, probably produced from Wrath, and Sloth's oceans, with an uncomfortably large supplemental of cannibalistic meat being corpses harvested by street folk and sold to butchers for cheap, cooked and sold Sweeney Todd style. I do think Cannibalism is far more widespread and normalized than most are comfortable thinking, for practical reasons. There are just so many dedicated cannibals in the colony alone...look, there is neither space for cows nor a means to get them down there.

In any case, clothing.

This is a huge pet peeve for me in fics because I don't think anyone really thinks this one through, the sheer volume of the fashion industry in its infrastructure and how much of that Hell is lacking

Not to even mention that everyone is hell is shaped weird. Head to toe. Weird bodies all the time. Everywhere.

I just don't think mass produced clothing is a thing. Or at least nearly a refined as earth. Off the rack shit is probably very plain, and very vaguely shaped. Lots of missing sleeves, wide arm holes, drawstrings and buttons. The bare minimum. The cloth equivalent of fig leaves. Pride based clothing outlets, if there is any mass production, probably base their shapes a lot of Imps and Hellhounds and mostly humanoid with four limb, just to have a consistent customer base and hope they get lucky with hellborn. You probably have to pay to have a pattern made for your body and then have basic shit seen up from there or learn to do it yourself. Lots of people earning side cash sewing garbage clothes for cheap. Dudes with a bunch of ink and a screen printing custom graphic tees from their apartment making bank.

And don't even get me started on shoes. Most people have hooves or paws, and if they don't have that, there's a sizable chance they won't even have feet. There just isn't mass produced shoes. There physically can't be. There is no consistency in size. It is literally not possible.

All to say, sewing is probably a pretty valuable skill to have. Tailors and cobblers are probably both valued jobs and incredibly necessary. It's also probably pretty damn expensive. Which is actually why we don't see a lot of shoes, and why some folks are strange about clothes. It's just not practical anymore. And it's wildly expensive. Why go through the bother of getting a tailor or cobbler to make time and then get charged through the nose for something that might get destroyed or stolen soon anyways?

Which brings me to my special comment

Dear Reader insert writers. Specifically the Reader/Alastor crew, but this is pretty blanket

Unless your OC, or the clothing, is a very specific shape, Angel is not loaning your OC nothing in terms of textiles. Think real hard about whether your OC's feet will fit into one of his custom made boots... Really think about it. The love is there, but it's Hell. Let your OC struggle with everything. They can't get housing because everywhere outside an Overlord's domain is full and they can't rent without trading their soul to an overlord. They have trouble finding non human meat or palatable produce or even coffee. Their clothes are coming apart at the seams and laundry mats don't exist. Its hell, it's hard, and it's not made for them. If Angel ends them anything, it's gonna fit like a nightmare or be secondhand from another hooker and look like it. And it's going to be expensive AF

This is especially for you Alastor shippers. Textiles work a lot closer to how it functioned in his time than ours. In fact it probably functions closer to Rosie's time than his. And something I need you to remember is courting etiquette. Because I often see this overlooked. The best example I have for this is the song "baby it's cold outside", which viewed through the modern lense sounds like a creepy preamble to that poor woman being accosted, but in the lense of the time period it was written, is seen a feminine strong song, a woman using the tools available of her time to openly flirt and accept an offer to stay overnight. And while most people remember that Al comes from a time where gifting is used to show affection, I don't think they remember why that is. Like yes, there can be, and probably should be, a certain degree of possessiveness involved, given where we are and who we are talking about. But we must remember that this was a time period before women could divorce their husbands in the US. These gifts had social meaning. Women couldn't own property, were discouraged from jobs after settling down, and just didn't have the means to care for themselves. Expensive clothing and jewels were a statement. It told the community that the husband could, and did, provide for his wife financially. It gave the woman tangible items that, if properly cared for, would provide her with capital enough that should her husband die before her, he could be her only husband, that she wouldn't be forced to remarry. It a statement of of societal expectation, but also of how much he cared for her well being. And this is an aspect I see missing from Alastor's commentary. Yes there is a magical aspect of protection often employed, but he doesn't lavish his beau with Fur coats and hand crafted hats with obnoxiously bejeweled pins and easily displayed but hard to care for items that are as much a declaration of love in value as they are in attention. The closest I've ever seen is the fics by corruptedteacups, in which the flapper set gifted to the MC is described just as much in its beauty as the sheer quality of the fabric and beading involved. It feels substantial and expensive.

Just a small fandom peeve of mine, but some desperately needed context and depth I hope people think on.

#hazbin hotel #alastor x reader

54 notes · View notes

seoafin · 13 days ago

Note

I recently finished my 184052th reread of the entire ripverse so I'm here to say thank you so much for creating such a wonderful universe 😭 r2my specifically is my favorite fic ever simply because everytime I read it I'm hit by this wave of nostalgia and longing that never fails to bring me to tears, it feels as if I was there with them going through everything they did and I can't say many other pieces of fiction have managed to accomplish that so I think that's a testament to your skill as a writer. Another wonderful thing is your characterization of Gojo, you managed to nail exactly how I imagine he would be in a relationship and his character in general, so much so that now I can't help but look for traces of your Gojo in every fic I read ( this goes for your world building too, your depiction of jujutsu society and it's politics is top tier, so unique amongst JJK fics and always a delight to read). then there's Geto who I was never a fan of until I read your fics and fell in love with his character. now I can't even remember the time when I didn't love him, you did great with him too and don't even get me started on my beloved ripmc 😭 I know she's supposed to be an insert but in my head she's an OC at this point. I absolutely adore her personality she's just so endearing to me, my beautiful earnest girl failure she's so lovable and relatable (to me at least) and funny and so easy to root for and if you ask me I think you should be forever proud of creating such a wonderful character and of course I couldn't forget about Shoko!!!!! You do her so much justice and I'm always grateful to you for including her in your fics as much as you do, it is truly a treat. I have to mention the AUs as well, I adore all the children so much you're amazing for managing to give all of them such distinct personalities and making them all so enjoyable to read, also exposure therapy ‼️ I always at least tear up along with ripmc you created something so wonderful and I can't say just how happy and lucky i feel that I got to read it all. Sorry for this insane ask, Sweater Weather came on (I now associate every single tnbh song with the ripverse) and more of that nostalgia I mentioned came and I just felt the need to thank you for bringing me so much joy with your writing. I also never cared for DC but now you've got me reading comics and turned me into a Dick Grayson lover I can't wait to see what you have planned for him and bwmc anyway thank you for sharing your writing with us I hope you never doubt what an amazing writer you are WE LOVE YOU SEOAFIN ❤️

-🦍

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 you've just absolutely made my day with this I'm so grateful that people have given my fics even a single second of their day. like it's truly wonderful to hear that ppl enjoy this little hobby of mine and to me that honestly truly genuinely makes writing worth it 😭😭😭

#like thank YOU for reading!!!!!#this is so sweetttttttt #means the world to me #I thought ripmc was going to be hated ngl so it does warm my heart seeing ppl love her 😣#ofc I did get my fair share of 'this girl needs a backbone' blah blah blah comments but to the ppl that she resonated with...all my love!!!

27 notes · View notes

lemonsrosesandlavender · 5 months ago

Note

If you're still taking suggestions for your "Archmage, Slut" fic I'd love to see Rolan dealing with all those eggs from the first prompt- surely he can't hide them forever?

Anon, I hope you are still out there somewhere to enjoy all ~5800 words of this. This is my eggpreg magnum opus, and has driven me completely insane. It's also available to read on AO3 as Best Laid Plans, if you'd rather read it there. Thank you for waiting, and I hope you enjoy!

Tags: eggpreg (obviously), D/s, sub Rolan, dom f!Tav!Reader, pegging, rough sex, angst with a happy ending, egg laying (the eggs are blanks). Brief food kink, in the context of pregnancy cravings.

As Rolan’s situation progresses, the pair of you often sit up after dark, making notes by candlelight on the changes to his body. At first, they are in perfect accord with Rolan’s translation of the original Drow-language book, On the Uses of Tentacle Spells.

Eggs will not grow significantly in size past that of insertion; slight stomach swelling possible but depends on the subject.

Rolan’s slim, angular form had shown them immediately, of course, but you had expected that. Hoped for it, even. He whimpers beautifully whenever you trail your hand over the bump. In public, he hides it carefully beneath his robes, his belt worn higher than usual to let the fabric hang loosely over his stomach— but he puts up only a token complaint about you snatching a teasing feel, and frequently demands to be ravished in an alley afterwards.

Correct, too, was the note that his appetite would disappear at first.

Eggs appear to interfere with normal digestive processes. Subject’s inclination to eat will typically disappear for several days after insertion, before returning to a normal level. After appetite returns, subject is likely to crave fruit, especially—

‘Peaches,’ you purr with satisfaction, handing the basket over to Rolan as he sits scribing at his desk.

‘Thank the Gods,’ he mutters, sinking his teeth into one and scarfing it down with unseemly haste. It’s gone in an instant.

Clearing his throat, he discards the stone and does his best to recover some dignity.

‘Ah… thank you.’ He pauses, eyeing the peaches. ‘I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but could you leave me to my studies?‘

‘Why, because you don’t want me to see you ripping them apart like a wild animal?’

‘I have been beset by cravings all morning,’ he argues. ‘Forgive me if desperation won out.’

‘So I see,’ you murmur, and lean in to lick the trail of juice off his chin. ‘But I don’t think I will leave you to it. I want to see my pregnant little whore of an Archmage eat the peaches that he begged me for.‘

‘Oh Gods,’ he groans. His tail coils around his calf, so tightly the point snags on his trousers. ‘Zurgan!‘

Subject’s cravings were only satisfied after six peaches, you write; to spare Rolan’s rather warped sense of propriety, you do not record that you made him lick you to orgasm for every single one.

But the longer this “pregnancy” carries on, the more it deviates from the translated notes, and the more you grow concerned. Rolan pretends not to notice, and that frustrates you even more.

‘Maybe we should measure the circumference of the swelling,’ you suggest, as neutrally as possible, whilst the pair of you undress for a bath.

You can’t see the expression on Rolan’s face, as he turns to pick up a towel, but his tone is even more studied than your own.

‘It would be pointless. We have no baseline measurement to work from.’

‘Figaro has your usual measurements.’

His tone shortens. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Rolan—’

‘I was under the impression that you liked the effect on my appearance,’ he says, and there is just enough teasing in his words that you can look past the curtness that preceded them. The sight of him naked, slicked in bath oils, helps a lot too. As his egg-filled stomach slip beneath the water’s surface, you are compelled to admit that you do like the way he looks.

‘I thought so,’ Rolan says smugly, and at that you roll your eyes, force all your worries aside, and press your tongue down his throat.

You are determined to be relaxed about it, if Rolan wants you to be. If he doesn’t mind, and doesn’t want to address it further, then you’ll leave it; tease him about it, in fact, and enjoy the considerable neediness that being full of your eggs seems to induce in him. He drinks from your cunt as if it’s ambrosia, and provokes you into spanking him near-daily, his growing bump pressed against your thigh.

All the same… after two months have passed, with no sign of egg-laying, you feel compelled to revisit the notes.

No further noticeable side-effects occurred; in all tested instances of the spell, eggs were lain within a month, after a brief period of contractions.

You shut the book in frustration— and then open it again, because you saw a long auburn hair trapped against that page. Rolan has been reading it too.

It shouldn’t be surprising; he must obviously also see that his swelling stomach is beginning to show beneath his clothes, and be aware that this does not match the spell description that he himself translated.

And yet he was the one trying to get you to touch his stomach in public just yesterday, leaning against your hand on the Sundries counter and throwing you a suggestive glance. The more concerning this gets, the more he seems intent on pretending nothing is wrong.

Damn it. You put the book away, resolving to address this in a day or two if he doesn’t bring it up himself— but you don’t have to wait that long.

When he comes in from the bathroom the next morning, he announces his intention to visit Bonecloak’s.

‘I didn’t notice we needed any alchemical supplies when I checked the cupboard this week,’ you say, harbouring a kernel of suspicion. It grows as you see Rolan try to subtly roll out his back, the movement stilted and capped with a slight wince.

‘True,’ he says. ‘But after some reading, I have come to the conclusion that some more unusual ingredients might be of use for… the situation.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

Rolan stifles a scowl.

‘There is no need to concern yourself— but fine,’ he concedes, since you’re already yanking your trousers on. ‘If you insist.’

The trip across the street to Bonecloak’s is short, but it’s enough time for the tension to simmer down between you. Rolan even smiles a little as you take his hand.

‘So what are you hoping to buy?’

‘Not much. A few strands of Ki-Rin hair and an ounce or two of fungi typically used for pregnancy. It will not take long.’

Derryth’s door is enchanted with a sharp glass-crashing noise, as sharp as she is. To ward off would-be thieves. It makes you smile every time you enter, reminding you of your affection for the rather sour woman; since you saved the Noblestalk (though not her husband) in the Underdark, she seems fond of you too.

‘Good to see you,’ she observes, finding a streak of almost-warmth to greet you with. ‘What’s your business today? There better not be a problem with the last shipment I sent you. Checked it myself.’

‘No, no,’ Rolan says, waving away her concern. ‘I am in search of a few more unusual spell ingredients.’

‘Such as?’

It’s probably not obvious to Derryth, but you recognise the pinch in his brow as embarrassment rather than recall.

‘Ki-Rin hair. And… Saddlewort.’

‘An anti-emetic.’ Derryth raises her eyebrows. ‘Interesting spells you’re cooking up in that tower.’

Rolan coughs slightly, determinedly avoiding her eye— but there’s no refuge in yours, either. Why, exactly, does he need an anti-emetic, if he isn’t having any side effects? Sickness was not listed in any of the notes. You try to contain your frustration, because this is no place to have an argument— but you are not going to let this drop when you get home.

‘And Midwife’s Favour,’ he finishes hurriedly, his voice dropped low.

Derryth starts, irritably, ‘Speak up. Did you say—’ Her eyes drop to his stomach. ‘Ah.’

‘Ah, what?’ Rolan snaps.

‘Rolan,’ you mutter, holding his hand a little tighter. He yanks it out of your grasp.

It’s lucky there’s no-one else in this shop, because if this escalates further, it’s going to turn into a deeply embarrassing scene. What in the Hells? You thought you were past the days of blazing public arguments, having had a few too many before the Absolute.

‘What?’ he demands, digging his own grave.

Derryth’s eyes narrow. ‘Oh, sure. Take me for a fool, why don’t you. I wasn’t trying to judge you, if that’s what you’re so angry about.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he hisses, tail lashing with anger.

‘Stop!’ you snap. ‘You know Derryth isn’t going to tell anyone— ‘

‘There’s nothing to tell!’

‘If you’re done arguing, are you going to pay for this?’ Derryth barks. ‘Then you can go and have this lovers’ quarrel somewhere else. And she’s right. I’m not going to tell anyone. But you’re stupid if you don’t think people are going to start noticing that, especially if you’re going round buying pregnancy remedies.’

‘Enough!’ Rolan hisses. He slams down a pile of gold at the counter, and you notice him faintly shaking, his lips wrought into a grimace. ‘Have them sent to the Tower when they’re made up. I don’t have time to wait.’

You stare after him in bitter disbelief as he exits the shop, the glass ward once more crashing behind him.

Derryth scowls. ‘Wouldn’t waste my breath spreading gossip.’

You have to chase Rolan up the stairs and up through the portal into your bedroom, as milling customers throw you curious glances. If he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself, he’s doing a terrible job. He even slams the door behind him.

‘What the Hells?’ you hiss, as you wrench it open again.

‘Don’t lecture me,’ he shouts. ‘I suppose you would have handled that differently, if you were the one in this state.’

‘I’m not trying to lecture you!’ you retort, more sharply than you mean to. The anger in his voice takes your breath away. ‘We agreed you were going to talk to me if we did this! And you’ve been lying to me!’

‘How do you think you’re going to solve it if I can’t?’ I’ve studied all the books I can find on the subject—’

‘Rolan!’ you bark, frowning through angry tears.

He grimaces suddenly, turning aside, and you realise he’s trying to hold himself back from crying too. His eyes are shining, vermilion-red around the rims.

‘I am sorry,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I should not have said that. You know I hold your spellcasting in high esteem. Better than my own, even.’

You nod. The insult stung, but you know the apology is genuine.

‘I know,’ you say tightly. ‘It’s alright. But— you can’t just refuse to talk about this. Not if you ever want me to hurt you in bed again.’

‘You didn’t hurt me,’ he interrupts, raking his claws over his neck in frustration. ‘I am fine.’

‘Fine. I can’t tie you up, or fuck you with tentacles, or fill you with eggs again if you won’t be honest with me. I thought we were clear about that. I thought— ’

‘You thought we’ve been doing it long enough, and I should know that,’ Rolan says quietly. ‘You are right. I— was ashamed. And afraid I spent the morning after I first threw up berating myself for my stupidity. How could I finally possess everything I ever wanted and throw it away for some cheap pleasure?’

Stiffening, you remind yourself that in this moment, your primary concern is him, no matter how hurt you are. You are not the one whose body is changing in ways you don’t understand, full of eggs that you know far too little about. And it was your hubris too, that got you here.

You take his hand, and pull him close. Rolan’s shoulders do not drop all at once, and neither does his breath steady— not quickly, anyway. He draws in a ragged breath, tail curling around you, and then he claws, clinging so hard to your body that you can feel the fear beneath his skin.

‘I love you,’ you tell him quietly.

Rolan swallows.

‘I love you too,’ he says. ‘Take me. Please.’

You can’t help but flinch. ‘I thought—’

‘Just take me,’ he begs. ‘I want to be close to you. I need you.’

His voice is still rich, even as it scratches with tears. If anything, desperation honeys it, and suddenly, pain and anger transmute to lust. Thrusting your mouth against his, you pull at his robes, unbuckling his belt, seizing him, owning him— and he nods into your kiss. Please. A tear slips between your lips, salty on your tongue.

‘I want you,’ you growl. ‘You’re mine— you’re mine— Gods, get on the bed—’

Rolan kicks his boots off, unbuttoning his robe and dragging off his trousers. He lies face-down, tail not yet raised. Waiting for you to take him.

You buckle your harness tight, slicking the cock you chose with oil. It’s big, and though you want to vent your frustrations by thrusting straight inside him, you steady yourself, lifting his tail and pressing a firm finger to his hole.

‘Just fuck me!’ he rasps.

Fine. You slap his ass, hard— not hard enough for your liking, so you immediately do it again, and then you drag his hips up and push past his resistance in one rough, insistent thrust.

‘Fuck!’ Rolan sounds like he’s crying through the word. ‘More! Please, more.’

The underside of his tail presses hot against your chest. You lean into it, bracing yourself as your hips ram against his ass, slamming to the hilt over and over. Rolan whimpers, clawing at the mattress; you lean down to shove him into the pillow, his tail bending back as far as it will go.

‘Is this enough?’ you gasp. ‘Do you feel like you’re mine?’

‘Yes— please, may I—’

‘Tell me you belong to me. Tell me you want this.’

Your words crack a little. All you truly want, even in the heat of the bedroom, the roles you play to each other— is to be happy with him. To feel like he loves doing this as much as you do. It was easy to believe when he made all those exacting plans for the eggs, and brought it up often enough that you could finally believe it wasn’t all recklessness. That he’d really thought it through.

‘I want this,’ Rolan gasps, urgency clawing through his voice. He chokes up. ‘I have always wanted this— and I want you. I am sorry.’

The word ruins you, shot through with so much regret that it scalds.

You slip your hand beneath him and grasp his cock, working it as roughly as you’re fucking his hole. Sweat pours down your back and his, the ache inside you mounting as your hips tire and every thrust grows more determined— but Rolan is close, and all that matters is to hear him come.

‘You’re mine,’ you tell him hoarsely. ‘You’re mine, and I want this too. I want you crying and begging and fighting with me. I want—‘

‘Ahhh!’

He comes, and the ache bursts, relief crashing in a wave of exhaustion over your body. You hurry to withdraw, peeling your harness off and casting it aside so you can scrape him into your arms, gathering him up and clinging to his exhausted body.

Moments pass in silence, each of you panting against each other’s skin. Your shoulder is wet with his breath, and his is wet with your tears— ones you haven’t allowed yourself to cry yet, because you’ve been working so hard to be calm.

‘Did you come?’ Rolan asks hoarsely. ‘Please, let me—’

‘No,’ you whisper. ‘It’s fine. Soon. Let me just… hold you.’

‘Wretched Gods. I have spent so little time— I was so worried about myself I did not even think about you. Not enough, anyway.’

Your breath slows, steadied by the warmth of his skin against yours, and the familiar patterns of his wingbones. There’s room again to think.

‘Of course you’ve been preoccupied. Gods,’ you murmur gently. ‘I’m not trying to blame you for it. I want you to take care of yourself, more than anything. All I want is to be able to help you with it.’

‘I saw you flinch before,’ he says. ‘And I am sorry. I promise I do not see any of this as cheap.’

His voice rasps over the word. You nod, tangling your fingers into his hair, waiting with churning feelings for him to continue.

‘It is hard for me sometimes. To accept that I want this. And— I know I do. That is why I asked you for it.’

‘I know,’ you murmur.

‘But it’s not fair to you,’ he says. ‘Changing my mind, and lashing out at you every time.’

‘Have you changed your mind?’

‘No,’ he whispers. ‘I did not even mind the delays, the changes— not until I was sick yesterday. I realised then how serious this could be.’

‘The eggs were a mistake. I’m sorry. We knew it was an experimental spell, and clearly something went wrong.’

‘No!’ He shakes his head. ‘Wretched Hells. None of the blame is yours. And even now— if I can just believe the eggs will pass without incident— I…’

‘Go on.’ Your grip tightens around him.

‘Even with the morning sickness… I admit, I still enjoy it.’

Thank the Gods. Relief floods you. So long as he is not in pain— or pain he is not enjoying, at any rate— you can work through anything. You kiss him gently, brushing your tongue past his soft lips to the radiant heat within.

‘If you are afraid of others finding out, you can stay in the Tower until we’ve fixed it.’

‘No,’ Rolan says quietly. ‘I do not want to hide away. And if others find out… it is humiliating, but I will survive. I have everything I could ever want. The judgements of ordinary people are nothing when I have you.’ He frowns. ‘Gods. I would rather Cal and Lia did not know.’

‘They don’t need to know the full details. We can tell them it was a spell mistake. That you are temporarily unwell, but it’ll pass.’

He nods, slipping his fingers between yours. Your grips close tight on each other, two years of love and hard-won trust in your hold. You will get through this, together.

Rolan arches gently, and you feel his stomach press against your body. Slowly, you draw your other arm from around his shoulders and guide your hand down, over his ridges, his nipples, all the way down to the curve of the eggs inside him. A soft groan falls from Rolan’s lips.

‘Does your back hurt?’ you ask.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I saw you trying to stretch it out.’

‘Hmmph.’

‘Turn over,’ you tell him. ‘I’m going to take better care of you from now on.’

‘I’m not an invalid,’ he grumbles. ‘I can take care of myself— unff— ’

He puts no effort into resisting, rolling over at the slightest shove. Straddling his thighs, you slick your hands with the same oil you fucked him with, and begin to rub in long, slow strokes from the top of his hip ridges up to his wingtips.

Rolan sighs comfortably— and then his tail arcs up, brushing against your clit.

‘Oh, I see,’ you murmur. ‘You enjoy being taken care of.‘

He groans a faint objection.

‘Don’t worry. You can thank me for it afterwards, Archmage. With your tongue.’

The rest of his “pregnancy” progresses far more smoothly. He does at last allow you to measure the bump— looks forward to it, even, as you purr in his ear about how pleased you are that your eggs have grown this big. One time, you even catch him touching himself over your notes, a spot of drool falling from his guilty lips to the page.

‘You’re interfering with my research,’ you murmur, low and threatening in his ear. ‘If I catch you touching yourself without me again— ’

He groans as you lean in and whisper in his ear that you’ll publish everything, tell everyone what a slut he is, and sure enough, he is begging and pleading in your grasp, whimpering for mercy and receiving none.

‘Then punish me,’ he gasps, and that you’re more than happy to do.

Derryth’s supplies seem to be working; the morning sickness eases, and so do Rolan’s sore muscles, though you “force” him into accepting massages and hot baths anyway. Three months into his pregnancy, almost to the day, he stiffens suddenly whilst soaking in one of those baths, and gasps—

‘Oh Gods. It’s happening—’

‘Fuck— do you want to get out?’

He nods, his brow pinched tight. ‘Quickly!’

You’ve both referred to the last of the notes many times— in fact, you’ve read it to Rolan when he was supposed to be working, and watched his thighs clench of their own accord.

Sexual intercourse occurring at the first sign of labour (a “slick” being produced by the subject’s entrance) was reported to be even more arousing then usual, and to make the ensuing egg-laying more comfortable.

Jumping from the bath, you fetch him a towel, and hurry to your drawers to find your harness. You sweep up three different sizes of cock, to be on the safe side, and your usual bottle of oil, only to remember with a rush of lust that you won’t need it at all this time. And Gods— the sight of him on all fours on the towel, tail raised to show his hole already a little loosened and pouring with slick almost brings you to your knees, the coursing blood in your veins too hot in this room still full of steam.

His claws skitter against the stone floor as you press in. When his body is already inviting you in like this, it is hard to resist the temptation to bury yourself right up to the harness ring on the first thrust — but Gods know how safe this is— you should be careful—

‘Harder!’ Rolan sobs.

Never mind. You seize his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, and slam your hips into him, your vision glazed with lust.

‘Harder!’ Rolan begs again. ‘Harder— ngggh!’

Panting with effort, you yank his hair and set about shutting him up with the harshest, most punishing thrusts your practised muscles can pound him with. Every slap of your wet skin against his is met with a whimper— moans broken as his body shakes, driven by your cock and yanked back by your grip. His tail trembles over your shoulder.

He can’t even beg you to come, but you can tell from the sounds he’s making that he’s trying to, claws curling and scratching against the floor and choked sobs running from his mouth.

You shove your hand up between his legs and grease it with the slick running down his taint.

‘Come for me,’ you groan, wrapping your hand around his cock and fucking him into your grip. It twitches— he moans—

And then he comes, shouting, collapsing down on his forearms to ride out the convulsions.

The sight is unbearably hot. You slam your hand over your mouth, holding yourself together, tortured by how close his own orgasm brings you to the edge when he needs you to keep your senses.

‘Turn over,’ you tell him urgently, pulling out. ‘Lie back. Does it feel like there’s time for me to stretch you more?’

Rolan’s shoulder hits the floor as he hurries to get in position, but he barely seems to notice.

‘I think so,’ he whispers. ‘Gods. Wretched Gods— that felt—’

‘Good?’

He swallows, nodding. You finish changing your cock for a larger one— line it up at his gaping entrance—

‘Breathe,’ you murmur, putting a gentle hand on his stomach. The beauty of the bump beneath your fingers makes you catch your breath. You wish you could have another few moments, just to appreciate Rolan like this– but there’s no time to be sentimental about it now. Easing Rolan’s hips up, you roll your own, feeling his hole gently give beneath your pressure.

‘Oh,’ he whispers. He looks dazed already, his back arching against the towel. ‘Oh Gods— ‘

‘Too much?’

He shakes his head weakly. ‘No.’

You slip in and out slowly, getting him used to the feeling.

‘I’m going to put the biggest one on now,’ you tell him, kissing him on the lips. He nods again, and shudders deeply as you push it in. It is truly huge, one you’ve never been able to fully train him to take before— but now, with his body malleable and dripping with this magic, it is in, and you slide it impossibly deep too.

‘Fuck me,’ Rolan whimpers, even though the trail of his come from last time still sits thick and wet on his stretched stomach. ‘Fuck me, please— ah!’

The moment you draw back, his thigh jerks and his eyes widen. He jolts upright, still impaled on your cock.

‘They’re coming!’ he gasps urgently. ‘…Zurgan!’

You withdraw as quickly as you can, trying not to discomfort him, and shed your harness, rushing to help him into the bath.

‘Oh Gods,’ he moans. ‘Gods!’

‘Sit down,’ you urge him. The bath’s still warm, thankfully, though you cast a round of Prestidigitation to make it even more so.

‘Are you alright?’

Rolan is looking at you wide-eyed, gripping the rim of the bathtub so hard his knuckles pale pink.

‘Get in,’ he chokes. ‘Please.’

No time to ask if he is sure, or to think about the logistics of this. You climb over the side, splashing into the heat, and kneel astride his tail.

‘Is the angle comfortable?’ You wrap your arms around him, tilting his hips up as if you were going to fuck him.

‘Kiss me,’ Rolan begs.

When you do, his fingers slip to your clit, trying desperately to stroke you even though his chest is heaving and his attempt at rhythm quickly stutters to a halt.

‘Rolan, no—’

‘Please,’ he whispers. ‘I want you to come. I want you to— nnnh— want this as much as I do. Tell me you find this… attractive. Tell me it is worth it.’

‘Yes,’ you gasp. ‘Fuck, Rolan— I’ve never wanted you more. Fuck— stop doing it yourself and just hold onto me.'

His hand splashes back beneath the water. Sweat pours down his temples, his stomach muscles spasming as if his whole body is trying to break apart.

‘Hold on for me,’ you groan, leaning in to kiss him deep, trying to make room for the egg to come out between you. ‘Hold on— fuck!’

Tears sting in your eyes as you touch your clit, your own urgent need left uncared for, and angry now that you’ve returned for release. Rolan’s claws dig into your ribs, his rhythmic panting half the speed of your own rough fingering. Your own breath swells in volume with his as he jerks and sobs and shouts in pain, a crescendo that brings you shouting to the edge yourself, and over it.

‘Fuck!’ you sob, convulsing, your body livid with pleasure. ‘Fuck, oh Gods!’

Rolan shouts too, and suddenly you feel something nudging against the back of your hand. Fuck, the egg— you crash back into your senses, catching your breath with sudden, cold fear.

‘Are you alright?’ you ask sharply, tilting his face up until his closed eyes open.

Rolan nods. Tears are trickling down his cheeks.

‘Yes,’ he gasps, and lunges for your lips to kiss you. ‘Yes.’

‘Alright. Let me get this egg out of the way,’ you tell him gently, tugging against his clinging arms.

Your fingers almost sink into it, as you reach below the water. Translucent black, clear of any substance except the strange jelly it’s made of— thank the Gods, the spell did not go wrong on that front— and huge. Rolan groans softly, looking at it.

‘Fuck,’ you whisper hoarsely, spellbound. There’s no time for this. You reach to put it aside—

‘Wait!’ Rolan gasps. ‘Gently. I want to— ’

Study it, you know, and you give him a brief kiss to tell him so, before leaning out of the bath and resting it on a towel.

Rolan’s legs twitch again.

‘The second one?’

‘Yes.’ His eyelids are screwed shut, expression caught with an agonised grimace. ‘Wretched— Gods.’

‘You’re doing well,’ you tell him. ‘Breathe with me.’

You know he must be desperate, because he doesn’t protest the compliment in the slightest. Hand on his chest, you feel his heart pound, effort rising within him.

One heavy breath; two; three—

Another egg appears, just the base, seeming to stick even within his impossibly stretched, slicked hole for a second. Rolan cries out, grimaces, spasms— and it is out, drifting to bump against your thighs.

‘Fuck,’ he whimpers. ‘Wretched Gods— please— ’

‘One more,’ you tell him. His cheek is feverishly hot to the touch. ‘Then you’re done.’

He gasps as you withdraw your hand, catching your wrist in a painfully tight grip.

‘I love you,’ he chokes.

‘I love you too.’ You breathe deeply. ‘I love you too. Push—’

His fingers tighten.

‘Yes,’ you tell him. ‘Yes— ’

‘Oh Gods— ahhhhh— ’

Rolan throws his head back until his horns clatter against the tub, and with one last, violent exertion his stomach ripples and his legs jolt. The final egg is laid.

You wish you had a strength potion on hand, to pluck him from where he lies trembling in the bath and carry him safely in your arms to bed. As it is, you can only offer a shoulder. Rolan clutches at you for support as you stumble across your bedroom, a trail of water and slick marking your path.

‘Wait here,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll get a towel.’

When you finally get in bed, dried-off and exhausted, Rolan is silent for some time. His chest rises and falls against you, and though you want to know more than anything if he’s alright, the soft tenor of his breath tells you he might be asleep, so you leave him be.

That wasn’t supposed to mean falling asleep yourself— and yet, you awake a little while later, unsticking your exhausted eyelids.

Rolan is looking at you, his eyes glimmering with feeling. Not just any feeling; warmth.

‘You’re alright?’ you ask.

‘Yes.’

‘Thank the Gods. I’ll get you some water— ’

‘It can wait,’ he says softly. ‘Stay. Please.’

‘I went to Bonecloak’s today,’ Rolan tells you, some days after he has recovered enough to get out of bed.

‘Oh?’ you ask, raising an eyebrow and putting down your book.

‘I realised I owed Derryth an apology,’ he murmurs, warm with self-aware mirth. ‘Perhaps one day I will manage not to alienate your friends and allies over my own internal strain.’

You meet his eyes with some amusement. ‘Maybe. The circumstances were fairly understandable, though. Did she find it in herself to forgive you?’

‘She said hmm,’ Rolan notes drily. ‘But as I was headed out, she asked me if I’d do her a favour and re-enchant that wretched door ward of hers to sound a little nicer. Apparently it’s upsetting her cat.’

If he’s back on favour terms with her, then all is well. Derryth certainly kept her word; no suspect articles about the Archmage’s bump appeared in the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette. In fact, in a possibly ruinous blow to Rolan’s ego, it seems that two years after the fall of the Elder Brain no-one pays as much attention to the city’s Hero and Archmage as they used to. Rolan’s eggs went largely unnoticed— as far as you’re aware, anyway.

‘Well,’ you murmur. ‘Now everything is back to normal, I’ll have to remind you that even without a stomach full of eggs, you still belong to me. Let me see.’

You were thinking of shoving your hand down his trousers and working him into a groaning mess— but you’re caught off guard before you can so much as lunge for a button.

‘Ah,’ Rolan says. ‘Speaking of. I have been revisiting the notes, trying to locate the cause of the unexpected… deviations. On closer inspection, the original spell modification was rife with ambiguity. Mediocre spellwork at best. Fortunately, I have been able to reword the spell in such a way that should preserve its essence whilst— ’

‘Rolan.’

You fix him with a sharp glare. The hand that was gesturing animatedly slips quietly down to his side, but his eyes still glow with focus.

‘I know,’ he says seriously, leaning forward to take your hand. ‘I hurt you last time, and things could have gone far worse than they did. Though… I think that would be unlikely, given the quality of your spellcasting. You summon with such authority that even the most rottenly-conceived spell would be forced into order.’

For a moment, you sit considering his words in silence. Rolan laces his fingers into yours.

‘Believe me,’ he says quietly. ‘I would not ask you this without being certain. The experience was… hard to describe. I have always felt myself tied to you, but during the last months I felt those bonds more deeply than I thought possible.’

‘If we’re doing this again, everything I said about being honest with me— I’m not going to do it unless you let me help you. Take care of you.’

‘Of course,’ Rolan says. ‘I love you. I felt every one of my mistakes, painfully. I tried to make up for it in the last few weeks, but… I understand if it was not enough.’

‘Fuck,’ you curse.

‘What?’

Grasping his shirt, you kiss him firmly, your tongue pressing onto his. Fucking Hells. You can’t resist him, damned to do stupid, reckless things together for the rest of your lives, because neither of you can keep your heads where the other is concerned.

There are worse ways to be.

You growl into the kiss, cunt soaking at the thought of ruining him again. Rolan quivers, looking up at you with bated breath for your verdict as you pull away.

‘Fine. But we’re not going to do it until I’m happy with the spell changes. And you are going to beg me for it.’

Rolan smiles. He escapes your grip and comes up kneeling between your legs, rubbing his face into your clothed cunt.

‘Should I start now?’

After six months, egg insertion attempted again on the same subject, with spell modified to limit egg incubation to two months, and to reduce pregnancy-like side effects (See appendix for spell modifications). Subject complained the eggs did not grow large enough this time; the recorder notes that the spell seems to turn a perfectly respectable Archmage into a wanton whore, who at the time of writing is already begging to be filled again.

#rolan #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #sub!rolan #cabbage writes #cabbage answers #I am so proud this is done #and now I will collapse in a heap #rolan x reader #f!reader

40 notes · View notes