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the-lonelybarricade · 2 days ago

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Queen of Thieves - Chapter 8

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or; A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

Happy birthday to our darling Rhys!! I got him everything he wanted 😏

CW: Smut, Mild dubcon/CNC elements, mind control, and other dubious, wicked things

Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

Feyre was eleven years old the first time she was desperate enough to steal.

Like any ordinary child, she'd been taught that stealing under any circumstance was wrong. Her father was a merchant, which meant that thieves posed a direct threat to his livelihood, particularly when piracy was so common along the trade routes to the continent.

He'd built his legacy, the Prince of Merchants, on his willingness to sail those trade routes, navigating pirate-ridden seas because the higher risk equated to higher reward.

But a name wasn't won through gambling alone. Any merchant with a rookie crew could luck their way to the continent and back. What made him the best—the Prince—was his expertise in the art of bargaining. He was renowned for having deals so detailed, so craftily constructed, they needed to be written and signed in advance of each journey.

Feyre had been present for a few of those meetings, watching as ink bled from paper to skin. Sometimes, she'd even been present for the aftermath, listening to crewmen grumble about underhanded terms.

I am a man of my word, Father once said, rolling a contract over his desk and stabbing a finger to its contents. And my word was stated plainly. Do not impute your failure to read the terms on my good name. I am no liar, and I am certainly no thief.

He always used that word like it was filthy.

Feyre once mirrored that belief.

As a child, she would delight in sitting atop storage crates on the docks, monitoring the gangways as her father's crew unloaded cargo from his ship. If there were any wayward thieves, she was determined to catch them.

After all, Father didn't trust the folk along the docks. He barely trusted his own crew.

They don't have any passion for the exploration or the trade, he once grumbled. All they want is a bed and a meal.

Feyre remembered being shocked to hear that some people didn't have those things. Until that point, she'd always relied on having her basic needs met, and then some.

What's so bad about that?

When all a person cares about is surviving, it means they're willing to blur lines. They'll cheat, lie, and steal if it helps them get ahead.

Father shook his head like those three things were truly abominable. Little did he know that one day, Feyre would become a master of all three.

But she started with mastering one.

Two years after her father's vessel sank on the route to Bharat, Feyre's mother had fallen ill. Humans had weak constitutions, and grief could take a heavy toll. So could debt—of which, they'd learned the famed Prince of Merchants had many.

So Mother sold the house, then the jewels, then, eventually, her own body.

It was barely enough.

By the time she was too ill to work, there was nothing left to get by. No silver candlesticks or golden rings they could pawn at the market for medicine.

When Feyre wandered into the apothecary's shop, her intentions had been pure. If she knew the price of the medicine, then perhaps she and her sisters could find a way to scratch together the amount needed. They could scrub floors, or pull weeds in someone's garden, or maybe Elain could use her big brown eyes to draw sympathy begging in the streets.

The shop was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves on every wall, filled to the brim with glass vials of varying colors and consistencies. Each sported a white label Feyre couldn't discern, though she was happy to pick out the colors that she found most interesting: a flask of swirling violet flecked with silver granules, another of bright, bubbling pink, and one which she swore housed a slithering creature.

"Can I help you?" The apothecary asked.

She sounded concerned, which any adult rightly would be at the sight of Feyre's tattered clothes.

It sparked hope that Feyre could appeal to the elderly female's empathy. That was all she'd been trying to do when she stared into the apothecary's eyes. Please help me, she thought. I know you want to help me.

The female's concern was so potent that Feyre could feel it, a rope tethering two strangers, built on kindness, on compassion. Her mind was as wide open as her heart.

Feyre didn't know she was digging into it until she felt something give. Like fingers clawing into wet sand.

I need a cure for a human fever, Feyre said.

She thought she said it out loud. She must have, because the apothecary started moving toward the shelf on the back wall.

Acting troupes occasionally put on puppet shows in the market squares near The Rainbow. Feyre felt like she was watching one of those shows as the female jerked open a drawer, her movements erratic. Unnatural. Like she was being controlled by an inexperienced puppeteer.

But the oddity was forgotten the second the woman produced a vial of shimmering liquid and handed it to Feyre without a word of the price. Her eyes were unnervingly vacant as Feyre took the vial, thanked the apothecary, and fled back to her mother.

She didn't realize until years later what happened; she didn't realize that was the moment she'd become a thief.

Daemati magic came in many different forms.

Suspended in the space between the High Lord of the Night Court's foyer and study, it took the shape of madness and indulgence.

Over the years, Feyre had progressed from accidentally breaking into people's minds into doing so with intention. It was a gradual process, one she likened to painting. A child used their fingers, but an artist used a brush.

And she was learning her mental bowstring was as rudimentary as finger painting to Rhysand.

Last time, he'd shown her brutal talons that allowed him to play ventriloquist, and she'd thought that was the extent of it. Pure, unyielding power.

But of course, it could be soft, too. Gentle, like a feather's touch ghosting over her mind. Almost… ticklish. Playful.

Like the fingers landing on her bare stomach. He splayed them out carefully, the way one might handle ruptured glass. They might have both been holding their breath as the challenge became real.

Their eyes met, waiting for the other to fracture. This was a ridiculous, dangerous game; they both knew it.

He was lowering himself to his knees before her, for Cauldron's sake. The most powerful male in Prythian bowing like a supplicant. It all seemed so backward to her.

But those strong, capable hands spread wider, undeterred by the constraints of social hierarchy. What did a High Lord care, when he could simply rewrite the rules with his fingertips? He stretched them until his palms landed flat, scalding her on either side of her abdomen. She tried not to focus on how long his fingers were, spanning over the curve of her waist while the tips of his forefingers skimmed her ribs.

"This," Rhys breathed, tracing one of his thumbs along the golden chain adorning her midriff, "was an excellent wardrobe choice."

"You can thank one of the mountain nymphs in the Palace of Thread and Jewels," Feyre said. As if this were a perfectly normal conversation. "She sold it to me."

"I'll make note of that," Rhys murmured, still toying with that gods-damned chain. Feyre fought the urge to squirm. "I owe her my heartfelt gratitude."

"I bought it with your money," she added.

Rhys shut his eyes. She watched him take a deep breath, and she couldn't tell if that knowledge irritated or excited him. When those violet eyes flashed open, bright and burning with hunger, Feyre thought she had her answer.

"Then it was arguably the best money I've ever spent."

"Arguably?"

It was meant to come off as teasing, but with his fingers drifting up her stomach, everything was coming out a little bit strained. And maybe… a little hurt. Not that it mattered if the High Lord regretted spending his money on her.

When Rhysand laughed, his breath danced over her skin, as light a caress as his presence at her mental shields.

"I would claim it with more conviction, but you weren't here for the ass-chewing I received from my second."

"Your—" she broke off with a little gasp as Rhysand's hands slid upwards, dipping beneath the golden band that cinched her top over her breasts. She adjusted her grip on the rope, holding tighter. "Your second in command?"

"Amren," he supplied. "She's a vicious firedrake trapped in a tiny female's body."

"Amren," Feyre echoed, squeezing her eyes tight as those curious fingers began running along the beads hanging beneath her breasts. They made a soft, metallic tink as they swung and collided with each other. "Amren like… like from the children's stories?

Nesta used to tease her with cautionary tales of the bloodthirsty Amren, who lurked in the shadows and sucked on the bones of naughty children. It wasn't the first she'd heard of Rhysand being in cohorts with Amren, but she'd always assumed it was figurative. The way a Priestess was associated with the Mother.

"She doesn't devour misbehaving children, if that's what you're wondering." Rhysand paused, drawing back for a moment with a horrifyingly considerate expression. "Anymore," he clarified.

"Anymore?" Feyre squeaked.

"There's no need to be afraid, Feyre." He grinned, leaning in closer. "Unless, of course, you've been misbehaving. Is there something you'd like to confess?"

Cauldron boil her. Feyre couldn't tell if he was being serious.

"Last I checked, stealing and gambling aren't exactly the traits of a priestess."

"It's a good thing Amren isn't the Mother, then. I think she would find those things amusing," Rhys said, a curious warmth to his voice. One she might even dare to label as affection. "In fact, I think she'd be quite impressed with you."

Feyre repeated, incredulous, "With me?"

"I certainly am."

And before she could digest that statement, Rhys circled a hand to the small of her back, untying the golden band that kept the fabric over her breast secured. It dropped to the floor in a clatter of beading, marking the descent of Feyre's resolve.

Her arms were starting to tremble, and she was grateful she could blame it on the exertion of holding them up. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to focus on the stinging in her palms from how tightly she gripped the rope. It was far better to focus on her chafing skin than the kiss of cool air against the underside of her breasts.

There was nothing preventing Rhys from slipping his hands beneath the newly loosened fabric and discovering her hardened nipples—not that they weren't already visible, peeking through the thin layer of fabric.

Rhys drew back to observe her, holding his advance for the moment.

"Are you getting nervous, Feyre?" The lapping presence at her mind became a little pushier, more of a prod than a stroke. "Your shield's still holding up nicely."

"Because I'm not nervous," she insisted.

"No?" Rhys leaned in, pressing the tip of his regal nose just beneath her navel. "Is that something else I smell, then?"

"Is it the stench of your own ego?"

"So sharp with me," he chided, momentarily abandoning his conquest near the top of her ribs to guide his nose lower, down to her hip bone, then across the low dip of her skirt. "What will it take to make you soft? Is it just a matter of finding the right spot to stroke?"

Feyre snorted. "I don't think soft is what appeals to you, High Lord."

"Oh?" His eyes flickered up to hers, only briefly, before he resumed his slow exploration. "What is it you think appeals to me?"

Feyre didn't answer. She didn't know how—not once he found the knot that kept her skirt in place. He bit into it, tugging with his teeth despite having two perfectly good hands placed just below her breasts.

Feyre nearly let go. She considered it, at least, as she watched Rhys unravel the knot with his mouth. She had time to stop it from plummeting to the ground in a waterfall of blue cloth. But she didn't.

As it pooled at her feet, Rhys drew away again, taking her in with riveted interest. With her hands occupied, there was nothing she could use to hide from his stare, though she twitched with the urge. She felt like a creature trapped in a frame, laid bare under his assessment.

It wasn't the clothes, or lack thereof. Though, he looked delighted to discover the pair of lacy underthings she'd selected that morning. It wasn't the lust, either. Not when she felt it in equal measure, and had walked into this house fully intending to slate their shared desire.

No, what caught her off guard. What stripped her raw, worse than the rope squeezed between her fingers, was the way that smug smile faded into something… something Feyre didn't know how to name.

His eyes captivated her. Blazing and intent, no different from the moment they met. She couldn't look away from them—and she wanted to, if only to glance over her shoulder and ensure the Mother hadn't materialized behind her back. That was the only way Feyre could have explained the awe creeping over his expression.

His fingers flexed at their place over her ribs, as though restraining the urge to drag them lower.

"You," he said, answering the question she couldn't. On his knees, in that voice… It sounded oddly like a prayer. "I want you however you come, Feyre. Soft or sharp, you're equally exquisite."

Her heart was beating in her throat. "What if I only know sharp?"

"Then be as sharp as you want with me." He was leaning towards her again, less as if driven by hunger and more as if he simply couldn't resist. Like she was the puppeteer, pulling him forward. "Cut me, make me bleed. Just—don't make me stop."

Feyre didn't plan on it. That rope was her lifeline, and she held tight as Rhys dived back against her stomach, his mouth open this time, tasting and nipping at her skin. There would be marks there tomorrow. A trail of love bites across her hips, just beneath the golden chain he seemed so obsessed with.

When she tried to wriggle away, growing impatient, Rhys slid his hands to her hips, locking her in place.

"Stay still for me." She found his orders lost some of their impact when muffled into her stomach. "I told you I intend to taste every inch."

It was a shame she couldn't dive her hands into his hair. If she could, she would have taken hold and pushed his mouth where she actually wanted him—needed him.

"Rhys."

His name was half gasp, half complaint.

"You know." He slid his tongue around the curve of her navel, before mouthing his way to the valley of her breasts. His hands followed in a slow, scraping caress. "I don't think I've ever heard you call me that before."

"Would you—" Feyre's breath hitched as he brushed the back of his knuckles against one of her nipples. "Prefer to be called High Lord?"

That seemed to amuse him. "My bedmates aren't usually so formal."

"What do you prefer then? Master? Milord? Your Great Exaltedness?"

Rhys hummed dismissively. "If you can say that many words, then I'm not doing my job right."

"Well, I've been speaking this whole time. So what does that tell you about how you're doing?"

Feyre knew she was in trouble when Rhys stilled. She didn't know why she always felt the need to provoke him. Maybe it was because she still couldn't figure out why he tolerated it.

This was the same male who threatened to cut off someone's tongue for speaking too casually in his presence. The same male who slaughtered one of his captains without blinking. He had a reputation for ruthlessness, and she'd witnessed firsthand how he'd earned it.

And yet, he always seemed to hold back the breadth of his cruelty around her.

Even now, as he thumbed at her nipple through the loose fabric over her chest, he exuded patience. Musing, "Have you ever tried Illyian tea?"

Tea? Not following where he was going with the question, Feyre answered with a hesitant, "No?"

"It's cold in the Illyrian Mountains," Rhys said, emphasizing his point by ducking to blow a gust of cold breath over her collarbone. Feyre shivered. "The tea keeps us warm, and doubles as treatment for the wounded. It's strong stuff. The kind that burns down your throat and will land you on your ass after too many cups."

"What's your point?"

"You don't savor Illyrian tea. You down it as quickly as possible and wait for the warming to start."

"Okay?"

"I spent most of my youth in the Illyrian Mountains," Rhys went on. "And the first time I attended a High Lord's summit with my father, he smacked me upside the head when I tried to down a thimble of Day Court Mead. He told me I looked barbaric. Day Court Mead is one of the finest wines in Prythian, you see. You're meant to sip it, holding the flavors on your tongue."

"So I'm the mead, then," Feyre said, guessing where he was going with the analogy. "Am I supposed to be flattered that you're comparing me to a drink?"

Rhys didn't answer immediately. He only grinned to himself, before pulling away and rising from his knees. An unsettling response—almost as unsettling as his cryptic, "Stay here."

Then he headed back into the dining room. Feyre leaned through the doorway as best she could to follow what he was up to, but from her vantage point, all she could see was the end of the dining table and the abandoned chairs. She didn't dare let go of the rope to inspect any further.

It could be a trick, after all.

"I swear to the Cauldron, Rhysand, if you intend to leave me hanging from the doorway for the rest of the bargain—"

"You'll what, exactly?" He asked, sauntering back into view with a bottle in his hands, his face the picture of smug amusement.

"You'll owe me anything by the end of this," Feyre reminded him. "If you decide to be cruel, I'll endure it. And then I'll ensure it's repaid in full."

"Such a feisty creature you are." The words sounded gratingly affectionate, the way one would speak to a kitten batting at their leg. "And, pray tell, how will I be repaid if I decide to be kind? Might I expect more warmth from you?"

Feyre narrowed her eyes at the bottle in his hand. "What's that?"

He displayed it proudly before her. "Day Court mead, of course."

That was where he lost her. And it made Feyre nervous, seeing his large hands braced around the bottle, watching as he drew his thumb suggestively around the rim of the cork…

Her voice wobbled a bit as she asked, "W-what are you planning to do with it?"

All it needed was a small push of his thumb and then—pop.

"I want you to try it," Rhysand said, closing the distance between them.

His fingers lodged under her chin, burning where they touched. She was burning in so many places, now. Her hands, raw from the rope. Her chin, warm from his touch. Her cunt, aching with need. And her cheeks, embarrassed from it all.

"Be good for me." Rhys tilted her chin up, until her eyes were level with the sight of her trembling arms, growing white and numb, but still holding fast.

When he raised the bottle, he dragged his thumb across her lower lip, prompting with a single, firm, "Open."

Feyre parted her lips, allowing him to pour the mead into her mouth.

The first drop was like sunlight. Honeycomb drenched sunlight. Sweet, but not like sugar. Sugar was sharp, quick, and over too soon. This was slow, like a sun-warmed nap in a swaying field, rich and indulgent. The longer she tasted, the more depth she discovered, luring her in, somersaulting her towards a golden abyss.

"Don't swallow," Rhys whispered, his voice wending around her, coupled by strokes of dark tendrils that forced her awareness to return to her other senses. On her tongue, a drop had become a flood, filling her mouth until it pooled, then overflowed, streaming down her chin, her neck, her breasts.

She could already feel the sugar sticking to her, but her focus was on remembering to breathe through her nose, trying desperately not to choke while Rhys continued pouring, his other hand cradling her skull as he murmured, "That's it, Feyre. Good girl."

Eventually, the bottle ran dry.

"Not yet," Rhysand said. "You're meant to hold it on your tongue, remember?"

Feyre's throat bobbed uncomfortably. That was another place she was beginning to burn.

"Stay still," he coaxed, leaning in. Their eyes met as his lips fell over hers. Those damn, discerning eyes that saw everything, including the desire she was trying so hard to fight.

He saw it, and smiled, all wicked and taunting. His tongue flicked across her lower lip, tasting the wine. But he didn't stop there.

His fingers curled in her hair, urging her head upright so the mead could flow from her open mouth to his. It wasn't clean by any means. Honeyed wine spilled from the seam of their lips, dripping onto her skin and his clothes, making a mess of them both. She swallowed what was left—it was the only way she could kiss him back, and Rhys didn't seem to have any complaints.

With a groan, he dashed the empty bottle to the floor, bearing no mind to the resulting crash and scattering fragments. He seemed to have much more pressing concerns, which involved scooping Feyre against him to deepen the kiss. His tongue traced her lower lip again, and she opened her mouth, inviting him to taste at the source.

His tongue swept in, tasting of honey, and she wanted so badly to let go of the rope so she could hold him there, to suck at his tongue and bite at his lips. Rhys was in full control, positioning her just as he wanted so he could taste.

Feyre hissed when he pulled away to lick a trail of mead from her chin.

A rasping chuckle was her response. "I've made a mess, Feyre. It's my duty to clean it up."

A hand fisted in her hair and tugged, angling her neck back so he had full license to lick the column of her throat.

Feyre was panting, squirming against his hold and furious that he would stop kissing her. "Rhys—"

"What happened to Your Great Exaltedness?"

He kept her arrested in that position, taking his time to suck and nip at her skin, then pull away with an audible pop. Over and over, he ignored her groans of frustration, creating a path of red welts that were soon interrupted by her sullied top.

"Oh dear, this has been ruined, hasn't it?" He didn't sound the least bit concerned as he ripped at it, casting the garment away as if it were mere cobwebs. "Don't worry, I'll get you a replacement."

And then the heat of his mouth surrounded one of her breasts, his tongue circling her nipple. Feyre gasped, bucking into the air. This was going to be impossible if she didn't have something to ground her, something to—

Rhys, as if sensing what she needed, wedged his thigh between her legs. The pressure against her clit relieved some of the ache, but introduced the new, humiliating urge to drive her hips forward.

She bit her lip, determined to resist.

"Is this what you needed, Feyre?" Rhys coaxed, palming her hip to create the movement for her. She fought a whimper as her clit ground against his hard muscle. "Does that feel better?"

She refused to answer him. But she also didn't stop moving her hips when he let go.

"That's it," he murmured, returning his attention to her breasts. One was cradled in his palm, while the other endured the countless lashes from his tongue, teasing her so mercilessly that she thought she might die if she didn't touch him.

When his teeth clamped down, Feyre screamed, driving her hips against his thigh harder. Her head was beginning to spin, a mixture of exhaustion and pleasure and pain.

As she writhed against him, Feyre started plotting all the ways she would get her revenge once her hands were free. Maybe she'd fish another bottle of mead from his cellar and sip it from his abs. Maybe she'd tie him up and ride his face until he couldn't breathe.

Maybe she'd—

My, don't you have the most delicious thoughts about me.

Feyre froze. Rhysand's mouth was still latched to her breast. Those words hadn't come from his mouth. Which meant that voice…

It was in her mind.

You should pay more attention to your mental shields, Feyre. A lesser male could walk right in and decide to take you up on those filthy thoughts of yours.

Feyre's fingers flexed with the urge to lash out in front of her, as if she could physically push him out. What are you doing?

Did you forget? This was a daemati exercise. And it looks like your shield dropped as soon as you started enjoying yourself.

A familiar sensation crept over her—awareness, like a cold breath cascading down her spine, that her body was yielding to a foreign presence. Her veins became a latticework of strings, and she felt his talons pluck at them, transforming her into a marionette of his will.

Now, now, he tutted. Don't stop on my account, Feyre.

Captive in her own mind, Feyre could do nothing to prevent her hips from rolling forward. Her head tipped back, and without restraint over her body, there was nothing to smother the moan rising in her throat.

There you are, Feyre. Give in to it.

He was everywhere, physical and otherwise. His magic swarmed through the crack in her mental shields, blanketing her mind in a fog of endless starlight. She treaded through it the same way she'd learned how to swim, thrashing and kicking blindly in an attempt to reach the surface. But that assumed there was a surface, an ending to the vastness of power that twined and twisted around her.

Rhys clicked his tongue. Must you always fight me?

Outside their minds, she felt cool air sting her puckered nipple, exacerbated by the saliva glinting there, and the trail of it that led to Rhysand's cat-like grin. She watched him lick his lips as he admired his work: From her flushed skin, covered in love bites and rivulets of golden wine, to her trembling arms, waning in strength. Finally, his attention dipped to his thigh, where the fabric of his trousers had become damp from each consecutive pass of Feyre's hips.

He took a deep, pointed inhale. You can admit you want this. There's no sense hiding what we both already know.

I want—even her mental voice sounded shaky—the money and the favor. Not you.

Immune to her lies, her body continued helplessly rubbing against him. Her breathing quickened as that pressure began to build, winding hot and tight.

Why not me, Feyre? Rhys pushed, almost taunting. He could feel she was close to the edge. Is it because it frightens you?

Because it's not real!

That's not the game we're playing right now.

His tongue snaked along her throat, licking away more of the mead.

Inside, she was grappling against his hold. They thrashed and rolled through the darkness, her claws scraping his, pushing and pulling, ebbing and flowing until they were a tangled mass of magic, so deeply intertwined that Feyre lost all sense of where she ended and he began.

Meanwhile, Rhysand held her, enveloped her, worshiped her with his mouth and hands and talons, and she thought it wouldn't be the worst thing to surrender to this.

Why was she holding herself back?

This is all just a distraction, she reasoned. It doesn't mean anything

Do you want it to mean something, Feyre?

Feyre wanted to scream. Though, from frustration or pleasure she wasn't certain. Everything was becoming muddled, colors bleeding together like water over paint. There wasn't room in her mind to think, and outside her body was being driven to a pinnacle that she couldn't hold back.

Get out of my head!

Rhysand's voice was full of faux sympathy. If it's too much for you, darling, then let go of the rope.

Fuck you.

Oh, I intend to. His voice was starting to sound a little breathless, too. A large hand palmed her backside, moving her faster against him. She watched through half-lidded eyes as his head tipped back with a low, guttural sound. Fuck. Feyre—

The world fractured. Erupted, like dropping into the ocean and feeling the water rush past. She delved deep into that darkness, feeling her own magic rupture and scatter into stars, washing her soul against the shore of his, their very essence seeping through the cracks of the other, becoming a tapestry of magic threaded so tightly she could feel it pulling in her chest.

Feyre let go of the rope.

She didn't know she still had enough control over her body to do so, not until she was already moving, threading her arms behind his neck to crash her mouth to his. It wasn't gentle. He didn't deserve gentle.

Bed, she demanded.

Rhys obeyed without question, not breaking their kiss as darkness folded and unspooled around them, depositing Rhys on his back atop his bed. Feyre straddled him, clawing at his clothes with shaking, rope-burned hands.

Until Rhys caught both wrists, bringing them to his lips one at a time to kiss away the raw flesh.

There's no rush, he soothed, running his thumb across her newly healed palms. We'll have an extra six hours together, after all.

For that comment alone, Feyre tore straight through his jacket and undershirt, coming away with strips of cloth. The High Lord didn't seem to mourn his clothes in the least. She would have taken more time to admire him, to admire the tattoos that she discovered on his chest and shoulders, so strikingly similar to her own.

Except, he was staring up at her, raw delight on his face. So feral—

Shut up.

I'll need to subtract that from your—

I said. Feyre crawled up his body, tearing off her soaked underthings. Shut. Up.

Unfortunately, sitting on a male's face was only an effective silencing technique when that male wasn't a daemati.

What a pretty view, Rhys purred, craning his neck before she'd even finished lowering herself down. The second she was steady, her hands balanced on the headboard, he hooked his arms around her thighs to bring her closer. Here I thought you planned to punish me.

Congratulations, you've proved you can run your mouth. Do you actually know how to use it?

Rhys arched a brow. Even Feyre couldn't believe her own boldness. One of these days, she was going to overstep and find herself on the receiving end of that boundless power, and it wouldn't be teasing and caressing her the way it was doing now.

Don't be so certain. I like that you're not afraid of me.

The purr in his voice heated her blood, nearly as much as that first, filthy kiss he pressed against her cunt. He went slow, using the broad flat of his tongue to part her folds in a long path ending at her clit. That was where he focused his attention, sucking and lashing while he kept her hostage in his grip.

But if you're going to mouth off, he continued without faltering in his expert torture. Be prepared for the consequences.

This, Feyre gasped, doesn't feel like a consequence.

Yet, he said smugly. I have all night with you. And I intend to 'put my mouth to use' until I've had my fill.

She knew he was bluffing. Feyre could count on her hand the number of males who had put their heads between her thighs, and all of them disengaged after a few minutes into the act.

With a growl, Rhys redoubled his efforts. A word to the wise when fucking a daemati: try not to think of other males unless you want them dead.

Jealous?

Insufferably. He nuzzled his face lower, dragging his tongue to her entrance. Do you still remember their names?

No. Even if she did, she wouldn't have told him. On the chance that he wasn't joking when he said they'd end up dead.

Good.

His tongue slid inside her, and the headboard creaked from how tightly Feyre clutched to it, convinced she would topple over when his fingers slid between her legs to supplement his tongue, rubbing tight, delicious circles. Her hips bucked, her climax shattering through her at incredible speed, causing light to dot her vision.

Rhys didn't slow his movements, continuing to lick and stroke her as he crooned, There's only one name you need to remember.

They were still mind-to-mind, completely entangled. Paired with her mind-numbing pleasure, it made the task of searching through her memory rather tedious. It was like trying to navigate a familiar place in the dark, she knew the information was somewhere around here…

Cassian? She said, recalling the name she'd heard from the rumor mill with a great deal of effort.

Rhys growled. Very funny.

Her thighs, clamped tightly around his head, were beginning to twitch as he worked her towards another rapidly approaching edge. Feyre didn't think she could survive this all night.

Wh-what was it you said? If I can say this many words, then you must not be doing a very good—

Those hands at her thighs grabbed her roughly, pushing her off his face and flipping her onto her back in a single, fluid movement. Feyre yelped as one of those hands grabbed her throat, pinning her to the mattress.

You can't help yourself, can you, Feyre?

Not any more than you!

An exasperated laugh rasped out of him, making her think she had just proved his point.

What happened to having your mouth on me all night? She challenged.

I'm thinking I need to tire you out first. Get you a little more… subdued.

He withdrew his hand, then his body entirely. Feyre's mouth went dry as she watched him unbutton his trousers, finally freeing his erection. He had no right to be as big as he was. To be as beautiful and powerful and arrogant as he was and to still have a cock like that…

Feyre hated him a little bit for it. Hated how difficult it would be to walk away from him by the end of this.

Rhys sauntered forward, expression as satisfied as it ought to be with a cock like that swinging between his legs and unfiltered access to each of the filthy thoughts she was having about it.

There'll be time for more play later, he said, pressing a knee into the bed.

He crawled over to her, and she watched his eyes fall over her naked body, parted in invitation for his. The hunger on his face curbed into something softer, something she didn't know what to do with.

You're beautiful, he murmured, seconds before his mouth found hers in a deep, open kiss. He tasted of honey wine and her own arousal, an unexpectedly pleasant combination. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It struck me the moment I first saw you.

His bare skin was so warm against her own, each contact point jolting her with a feeling of rightness. They slotted so perfectly together, his cock nudging at her entrance as she wrapped her legs around his waist, their tongues moving together and their fingers locking so that there wasn't a single part of their bodies and souls that wasn't entwined as Rhys pushed himself in.

Then paused.

Feyre fought a snarl.

Tell me you want this, he said. Forget about the bargain. Tell me this is about more than the money.

I want this. Feyre pulled at him, clashing their noses together from how fiercely she clutched at his face. She pushed her heels into his muscular backside, trying to urge his hips deeper. I want you, Rhys.

He groaned, pushing his hips forward.

The stretch of him was exquisite. Feyre had never felt anything quite like it—the decadent pleasure made sharper by the slight burn as he pushed in further, slowly, ensuring she felt every inch, every delicious place they were joined.

But that was just one layer of the overlapping sensations. There was also the cradle of his body, surrounding her in warmth. The soft lips against her neck, panting sweet, reverent breaths of, Feyre—oh, Feyre.

And then their minds. One seamless, blended entity of magic, of starlight. She could feel him everywhere, no piece of her soul untouched, but she could see all of him, too. Like gazing upon the very fabric of his life, woven from the moment he was born—maybe even before then.

If she plucked at one of the threads, she wondered what she'd find. A memory? A vital fragment of his being?

She wouldn't dare, not when she could feel him staring back so… openly. Like he wouldn't stop her if she tried. It was vulnerable in a way she didn't know how to honor. In a way that made her wary.

You are… Feyre trailed off, failing to find a word that articulated what she saw, what she felt.

Perfect.

That snapped Feyre out of her awe. She blinked, refocusing on her physical body, where he was shaking as he held himself still, letting her adjust and…

And just staring at her. His lips parted open, mouthing a word she couldn't make out as his wild eyes darted over her, studying every detail.

Adequate, Feyre said, narrowing her eyes at him. I was going to go with 'adequate'.

For a moment, Rhys said nothing, his brows pinching together in confusion. And then he seemed to snap out of it, barking a laugh that echoed through the starry cavern of their minds.

I was talking about you, smartass. He leaned down, licking a stripe up her throat that sent ripples of pleasure down her spine. But allow me to demonstrate just how 'adequate' I can be.

He withdrew his hips, just slightly, then plunged them forward, grinding deep as Feyre clawed at his back, panting.

Rhys let out a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest. In their minds, it became a clap of thunder, his magic roiling, surrounding her in zapping, crackling power. Her hair stood on end, her pulse quickening from the thrill, like standing at sea during a storm.

She dug her nails harder, certain she was peeling back skin, and he snarled in encouragement, withdrawing and snapping his hips. Again.

I've thought about this, he rasped, punctuating his words with another hard thrust. Every damn day since our last bargain, Feyre.

He drove into her harder, relentless. Grunting, I haven't been able to get your scent out of my nose.

I haven't been able to get you out of my gods damned mind.

Those words rippled through the space between their minds, echoing his confession. Feyre rolled her hips up, begging him to go harder, faster. Trying to say, in her own way, that she couldn't stop thinking about him, either.

I thought—

His teeth grazed over her pulse, making it jump. Her breath hitched.

Go on, he said, voice molten velvet.

I thought I was supposed to be the one practicing my shields. But it's your mind that can't keep me out.

His laugh was rich, warming her bones. If you think I'm the one with all the power here, Feyre, you are mistaken.

Then, as if to disprove that very statement, he let go. Every restraint, every glamour, every attempt he made to act the average fae—it all disappeared in that moment.

Great, membranous wings unfurled behind his back, blanketing them in the scent of citrus and sea salt. With a splintering crack, his magic untethered, spilling darkness into the room.

Without her sight, it became impossible to differentiate between the mental and physical worlds. As if they existed in a liminal space between, where slapping skin became the thunderous collision of souls, crashing and merging together.

Feyre was certain she was screaming. She thought, distantly, he might have been too. Somewhere, her mortal body clenched around him, hot and fever-bright.

She heard her name, over and over, Feyre, Feyre, Feyre—

And then he shattered, too, shooting every star out of orbit, his magic flooding over her in wave upon wave. She should have been frightened, surrounded by so much unyielding power, but it felt oddly peaceful. Like diving into the sea from her dreams.

She floated through that presence, Rhys buried inside her, both of them panting.

When he withdrew, so did the magic.

It was too bright. Feyre cringed, burying her face into his heaving chest, not caring the least that he was covered in sweat and shaking. They both were.

When she finally pulled away, blinking into the light, she found a pair of stunned violet eyes blinking back. For the first time since meeting him, he looked dumbstruck, mouth opening and closing like he was floundering for words. Like maybe all daemati sex didn't feel that… world ending.

For a long moment, they only stared, catching their breath.

Feyre took the time to reconstruct her mental walls, finding it oddly empty inside her mind without his presence.

Meanwhile, Rhys rubbed a hand down his face, then his chest, feeling absently at his ribs. She wondered if she'd accidentally hit him there when everything went dark.

She felt a bit battered herself. Sticky and sweaty and sore in far too many places. Tomorrow he'd probably take pleasure in laying her out to count each of his bite marks.

"Was that adequate enough for you?" Rhys asked, finally breaking the silence.

Smug bastard.

Feyre shrugged. "You're the High Lord who's supposedly so difficult to please. You tell me."

He smirked. "Lay back, Feyre."

Her mouth popped open. Surely he wasn't serious.

"Already?"

Rhys crawled toward her, wedging his massive body between her thighs. "I told you I wouldn't stop until I've had my fill." He flashed her a wicked smile as he lowered his mouth to her cunt, licking at their shared spend like it was a delicacy.

And I'm not nearly close to finished with you.

At some point, they did stop fucking long enough to eat and bathe—just barely.

Rhysand was ravenous. And Feyre didn't know what had gotten into her, but she was, too. They couldn't stop. Even long after they were exhausted, they kept touching and kissing until they collapsed completely tangled in each other.

Feyre had gotten maybe an hour of sleep, if that, when she woke up to pee.

She took her time on the way back to bed, marveling first at the sleeping form of the most powerful High Lord. He didn't look nearly so intimidating when he was naked and snoring, the blankets strewn haphazardly over his muscular legs.

If she had the time, she would have liked to draw him like this. No one else in the world got to see this version of him.

Except the other females he bedded.

That… was a sobering thought. The reminder that this wasn't some sacred, meaningful tryst. He was paying to fuck her, no different from any other whore in the upscale pleasure house she heard he frequented often.

With burning cheeks, Feyre turned away from his sleeping form, refocusing on why she was here to begin with.

His personal bedroom was larger than the one she'd stayed in last time, though only slightly. He had a worktable, scattered with paperwork and curious trinkets. Star charts and models of planets and books upon books of topics she couldn't discern.

That was another scalding reminder of how far apart their worlds were.

She was really only good at one thing.

Feyre tiptoed to his bedside table, silently pulling the drawer open to inspect its contents. More books, a pair of reading glasses, a velvet box, and a dark crown that she assumed had wound up in here after a late night at some formal gathering.

She imagined Rhys winnowing directly to his bedroom, flinging the crown into the bedside drawer, and collapsing atop the mattress.

It couldn't be easy, this life.

Feyre lifted the crown, measuring its weight in her hands, before she indulged the childlike impulse to place it on her head.

It couldn't be hard, either. Better than starving. Better than whoring yourself to survive.

She rose from his bedside table, searching for a mirror to admire how she looked in a crown, but a hand at her wrist stopped her.

Rhys was reclined across his bed, wings splayed beneath him, a lazy smile stretched across his lips.

"Find something you like?"

Panic seized her chest, squeezing like a fist as she scrambled to think of an excuse. "I—"

His eyes darkened. "Come back to bed."

"Rhys, I'm—"

"Keep the crown on," he said, tugging at her wrist with urgency.

She followed his pull, uncharacteristically pliant as he positioned her thighs over his face, groaning, "Gods, look at you," as he dived his mouth between her legs.

The final six hours of their bargain passed much the same.

There wasn't any noticeable shift to the way Rhys touched her, still slow and indolent, like he had all the time in the world.

It was nearly dusk and they were still in bed, still kissing though too exhausted to do much else. Even so, his kiss was gentle and thorough and maddening.

Feyre missed it when he pulled away.

"Your bargain's fulfilled," he said, breathing heavy. "I can take you home now."

It was a bad sign that it was dread coursing through her instead of relief.

Rather than untangle her alarming mix of feelings, Feyre fisted her hands in his hair, urging his mouth back to hers. Just one more kiss. To remember him by.

Rhys made a low, pleased sound in the back of his throat. He returned the kiss open-mouthed, cradling the back of her head to bring her closer. When she felt him harden against her thigh, they both groaned.

Rhys withdrew again, something achingly hopeful in his expression. "There's nothing preventing you from staying," he added. "If you want to."

That was what scared her—that fact that she wanted to.

Feyre kissed him again. Kissing him was easier than answering. Only, Rhys seemed to take kissing as an answer. He shifted closer, wrapping his wing around them so that she was cocooned in his heat, his scent, his touch.

And as the kissing grew more fervid, she didn't stop him from flipping her onto her stomach. He used his knees to wedge her thighs apart, spreading her open as those strong hands found her hips, urging them up, up, up.

She buried her face in the mattress, already clutching tightly to the sheets in anticipation of that first, perfect thrust.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Rhysand." The voice was female—crisp and edged, entirely undaunted by the High Lord's responding snarl. "You're late."

"Leave us."

It was a direct, uncompromising order, and yet the knocking came again. Louder.

"We are not rescheduling this meeting again. I'm sure your playmate can survive without your cock for an hour."

Feyre was still pressed into the mattress, gaping at him over her shoulder at the way the female was speaking to him. At the way Rhysand was letting her speak to him.

And more so that he listened, turning to Feyre with an apologetic wince. "I need to go. But you can stay here." He paused, hesitating for a moment before adding, "I'd like for you to stay. I'll be back within the hour."

A cough on the other side caused him to blow out a long breath.

"Maybe two hours."

Feyre nodded, slumping into the mattress. Rhys pressed an apologetic kiss into a notch at the top of her spine, then the next. The next. He nearly made it to her ass before the door rattled with an irritated thump.

With a long-suffering sigh, Rhys lifted himself from Feyre's body. It was no easier than trying to lift a boat from the sea; they both felt heavier once they were separated.

"Rest," Rhysand said. "You'll need it when I'm back."

After less than an hour of sleep, the stack of pillows at the headboard was practically calling her name. Feyre made a show of nuzzling into them, wrapping the blankets around her as a surrogate for Rhysand's warmth.

She felt him staring at her. Heard the soft little hmph he made in the back of his throat. A pleased sound, like he enjoyed the sight of her nestled in his bed.

Then, with a wave of his hands, he was dressed, closing the door behind him. She heard him speak to the female on the other side, their voices too muffled to discern, but she could tell he was grumbling about something.

Feyre listened intently as those voices faded down the hall. She waited until she was certain they were gone.

Quietly, she crawled to the edge of the mattress and opened the bedside drawer. The crown had been tossed to the floor some time in the night, but the rest of the objects were still there.

Including that velvet box.

Feyre reached for it, parting it open with her fingers to confirm its contents.

From there, it took all of five minutes to slip on her clothes and bolt out of the town house without looking back.

#god I hope this lives up to the expectations #Queen of Thieves #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #QOT

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oakskull · 1 day ago

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I wanna see your pony moshang 🥺🤲

ask and you shall receive!!

my drawings do come with worldbuilding rambling, terribly sorry (not sorry at all)

Side note: "windigos" are creatures in My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic (FiM) and I am using them here, but I am changing the name to frost spirits and changing some of their behavior, they look the same.

Design Notes:

SQH has ink stains on his mouth because non magic users write like that. He was a unicorn pre-transmigration and mourns his loss of unicorn magic and technology regularly. The world he transmigrated from is like the far future of FiM, with modern technology and the internet. (not the latest gen, I honestly remember jackshit about the lore in that movie...)

I've seen Earth pony SQH and I get the appeal. But here me out: Pony maigu ridge needs Qinghua to fly! And he's literally a flight risk!

His cutie mark is a brush and a paper airplane, because its his pen name (get it?). PIDW (mlp ver) has a level of technology more similar to SVSSS, but instead of flying swords there's trains. Im taking away xianxia flying swords and giving you trains. Ponies on swords just look too silly! they'd be unstable! (not that this whole AU isnt very silly >w<)

The Northern Kingdom in this au would be the Crystal Empire equivalent, except there is no crystal heart. The Northern desert is kept in a perpetual blizzard by the frost spirits (there is a barrier against storms around the capital created by the northern kings, redone as part of the ascension ritual but otherwise free standing) Instead of love and light protecting the kingdom, the crystal ponies use the power of incredible violence to keep the umbrums at bay.

Additionally, the crystal ponies of PIDW (mlp ver) are physically stronger, have higher base levels of magic, and are generally more cold resistant, due to living near the frost spirits for so long. They are still flesh creatures; the crystal skin is more of a replacement for their coat rather than the skin itself. Crystal ponies are also hypercarnivores, whilst regular ponies are omnivores (this isn't FiM also the horses are magic. they have basically human diets)

I also couldn't decide on a coat color for MBJ so there's two versions. I'm leaning towards the white fur for contrast reasons. And yes, I Did forget to render the crystal part of crystal pony on MBJ, thank you for noticing (lmao)

MBJ's cutiemark is the flag for the crystal empire, because he's part crystal pony, he still has a cutiemark, but all direct descendants have the same cutie mark after they absorb their ancestors power. Before this, they do not have cutiemarks, and gaining a different cutiemark means the frost spirits didn't acknowledge them as a potential decendant, and they can no longer become king.

Pre-Asension Mobei-Jun:

In PIDW (mlp ver) MBJ is a crystal pony decendant of the frost spirits which keep the Northern Desert perpetually cold. They gave the first northern king their power in the war against the umbrums (the things that made King Sombra in FiM). There's no friendship fire to chase away the frost spirits because this is PIDW (mlp ver) it's a stallion novel (pun intended); Instead, the frost spirits are sated by the constant war. There was an umbrum unicorn created to infiltrate the Crystal Empire like in FiM but they just became a regular pony instead of trying to take over and basically just created a new clan of ponies with shadow powers. MBJ's mother was part of this clan, and the abyssal shadow pony ancestry cobined with his frost spirit ancenstry gives him the ability to shadow step/ teleport through the shadows.

MBJ didn't get his pretty hair until he absorbed his ansestors power, which works similar to SVSSS canon. The previous northern kings die and pass on their power to the next generation because they are technically still frost spirits, and not really alive in the same way that regular ponies are.

SQH in an MLP style coat:

Ponies in FiM don't really... wear pants, even when it's cold. In Airplane's world they definately wore pants, and SQH will never go back (like the opposite of SVSSS LOL). In PIDW (mlp ver) ponies don't wear pants for bad porn reasons, Airplane justifies this by pulling the history card (peerless cucumber is not impressed)

Also! you can see SQH's mane better because its profile view, he's not a crystal pony, but he wheres the crystal pony hair bands as an homage to a bun without me actually having to give him one. Because ponies have ears on their head it always feels to me that a bun takes up too much visual space, thus, fancy hair bands.

Moshang flirting:

SQH can dish out flattery all day but he absolutely does Not know what to do when MBJ returns the favour (lol)

Alicorn Shang Qinghua:

In PIDW (mlp ver) I like to imagine that Airplane cut out alicorns because acending through nice things like friendship and love did not fit the vibe. Alicorns were instead like, the old gods who controled elemental stuff, like Celestia and Luna (renamed in PIDW (mlp ver)). Ponies don't control the weather or sun and moon and have less inate magic (earth pony magic, pegasus magic, and unicorn magic), instead, all the alicorns dispersed into spiritual energy that controls the elements and weather and stuff. Ponies cultivate this spiritual energy to gain a golden core of their inate energy, and eventually immortality, but they don't get the trappings of an alicorn.

So, like there aren't really any gods in SVSSS, there aren't any (living) alicorns in PIDW (mlp ver) they're more like myths than anything, and reside in the heavenly realm. I won't be getting into this AUs binghe/ heavenly demon equivalent because this is a moshang post, but Heavenly Demons are changling royalty, which have their FiM powerset on steroids and are sort of corrupted alicorns.

So alicorn SQH is bascially this AUs equivalent of God!SQH. It's not nessisarily canon to the AU but this mostly exists for me and I really like God!SQH so it basically is. Schrödinger's canon.

("Small Matters" style is a reference to the series by Coffeetailor on Ao3)

#oakskull art #moshang #mlp au #shang qinghua #mobei jun #svsss #long post

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acesandocs · 2 days ago

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Some of the different phases in Åse's life.

3-6 Like most are at that age he's a curious but shy kid. He has at that point started to pick up on how a lot of people seem to dislike him but he doesn't know why. His mom and grandparents try to shield him from most of it but he still gets teased and bullied by a lot of the other kids though since he was so little at that point he couldn't do much about it. (theme)

6-9 This is the point he gets big enough to actually defend herself. This period is marked by a lot of visits from angry neighbors about whatever new fight he had gotten into with their kids. His mom usually didn't punish him for this though as even she knew nine times out of ten he was just defending himself. And while he didn't actively start exploring her gender identity until after she moved to America, she did start asking a lot of question about why certain things were only for boys or girls, like having short hair. He ended up cutting it himself after getting into an argument with his mom about it and it was mostly a decision made out of spite and just to see what would happen. (theme)

9-14 When he came into his preteens he had proven to be more trouble that he was worth so most left him alone at this point and just judged him from a distance. She also started making her own clothes and expressing herself though her fashion, taking a lot of inspiration from the fairy tale illustration in her favorite books. She also made her closest childhood friend when she was nine. And maybe she also wanted to look lovingly into her eyes and kiss her but all girls want to do that with their friends right? They stayed friends up until Åse had to move which was also her first heartbreak. (theme)

14-18 Maybe the worst part of her life if you asked her, not that she really want to talk about it anyway. Moving took a big toll on her and after a falling out with her mom she ran away from home. She fell in with a bad person who was very controlling and made her dress more to his liking than what she actually felt comfortable in. She wore a lot of dark colors and she felt and looked the least like herself. (theme)

18-19 After some questionable decisions and a short incarceration she officially became a fugitive from the law and thus started traveling west to escape the heat. He presented fully male at this point as well as starting to bind his chest. Traveling was ok enough and in some ways he got to fulfill a childhood dream of traveling the country. But the stress of not having a stable and safe place to sleep at night and not knowing if one bad run in with a cop could land her back in jail took a toll on her. So did all the back alley fighting matches he took part in to make money, its a miracle he still has all his teeth. (theme)

19-21 after getting scouted at a match in st Louis a subordinate of atlas got him in touch with her and he offered her a job, to which she agreed. She was a bit of an outsider at first but eventually found her footing. He kept presenting male but did open up about his assigned gender to a few people. (theme)

21-22 while she wasn't all that close to Atlas his death still affected her through the shock waves it sent though the Lackadaisy. She might be the person with the most reason to pack up and leave other than maybe Horatio. Still she stays, because even if he doesn't want admit it she cares about these people. It took me a few tries to land on his default design but I feel he started to come together when I gave him the neckerchief. Its kind of a signature item and I try to include it in most of his designs now. He inherited it from his mom and thus didn't have it as a child. It kind of represent him stepping into being an independent adult. While the general style and length of his hair has stayed the same how I draw it is something I have and still struggle with. This is probably the closest Ive come to being happy with it. I struggled similarly with her pants as well for some reason. They have ended up looking more like bell bottoms thank suit pants which isn't all that historically accurate but its ultimately what I think looks best. (theme)

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy oc #art #my art #my oc #Åse ''ace'' olaug Årud #åse lore #character design

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nyx-knacks-writes · 15 hours ago

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Be More Careful, Okay?

Based off of @princeloww's idea of Alec and Campbell being uncle and nephew. I think Alec is a tad out of character here, but I saw this prompt by @prompt-dealer and had an image of Campbell being chased by an angry Alec, and I couldn't resist. No spoilers for either Broadchurch or Takin' Over the Asylum, and none for princeloww's The Never-Ending Sky, either. This is just my little idea of something that could occur if Campbell were to end up in Alec's care. I take zero credit for the idea of Campbell and Alec living together and zero credit for the prompt.

“I’m too young to die!”

“Young ain’t got nothin’ to do with it!”

Alec chased Campbell around the house, literally around the outside of the house, yelling obscenities and threatening—well, Campbell didn’t exactly know what he was threatening, but chances were high that it wasn’t good. Nature of a threat, after all.

Truth be told, Alec also didn’t know what he was threatening. He’d figure that out later. However, he did know that Campbell was in deep trouble. Trouble so deep that he wasn’t exactly sure how to punish the boy. Especially given that Campbell wasn’t even his son. So round and round they went, both yelling and trying not to slip on wet grass that would surely yank their feet out from under them at the first opportunity, causing an impromptu meeting with the cold, wet, muddy ground.

The first offense had been the shirts. Campbell had had good intentions, really. He’d come home early from school on Monday, seen that the bathroom laundry hamper was full, and decided he’d do a load of washing to help his uncle. What a lovely nephew he was, right? Right? Wrong. Despite his best efforts to sort the colored clothing from the whites and the darks, he’d missed a pair of socks. A pair of red socks. A pair of brand-new red socks the exact color of a freshly washed fire engine gleaming in the summer sun. The shirts had come out pink. Oops. When Alec finally got to see the result of his nephew’s good intentions, he’d simply sighed and shaken his head. No sense in getting mad. He could probably do with some new shirts anyway. He’d donate the pink ones to a charity shop in town. Yeah, yeah, “real men wear pink” and all that, but what was he supposed to do? Like it or not, pink was still very much thought of as a feminine color. He could only imagine the abuse he’d suffer at the hands of his coworkers if he came in wearing a pink shirt. Big, bad DI Hardy in pink? Unthinkable. So he’d donated the old shirts, added a shopping trip to his weekend plans, and obtained the new white shirts that he preferred. A little hit to the wallet, but ultimately, no lasting harm done.

The second offense had been the soup. After the Sandbrook case had finally been solved and closed, Miller had insisted Alec start taking better care of himself and get a hobby. So what did he choose but learning to cook, which would satisfy both her demands? Ever the efficient one, wasn’t he? However, some dishes required a couple of extra hands for the sake of timing, so he would recruit Daisy and/or Campbell, depending on the day and on who was around, to help him out in the kitchen. On Tuesday, he’d needed both of them. It was going to be pumpkin soup for dinner that night, since it had been so cold and rainy, and Alec had asked Campbell to add the cream, nutmeg, salt, and pepper to the pot while he began pureeing vegetables a few cups at a time and Daisy helped him to avoid overloading the food processor. Four teaspoons of nutmeg would do it. However, when Alec caught sight of the little container of nutmeg on the counter after putting the soup back onto the stove to simmer, there was no teaspoon in sight. Instead, there was a tablespoon with a suspicious coating of brown powder sitting only an inch or so away.

“Campbell,” he’d asked slowly, “how much nutmeg did ye put in the soup?”

“Four tablespoons,” Campbell answered, looking up from the knife he was washing. “Why?”

Alec cursed, cut the gas, and put the soup pot on the stove’s back burner.

“Nutmeg is poisonous in high quantities,” he said. “The recipe called for four teaspoons, not tablespoons. If we eat that, we’ll end up in hospital.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair, debating on chastising Campbell versus just letting it go. ‘Try to read it a bit more carefully next time, aye?” he eventually said as Campbell made a point to look anywhere else but at his uncle’s eyes. “Anyone have suggestions for dinner tonight? Looks like we’ll be doing takeaway.”

The next day, Campbell really did wind up in the hospital. Not for ignoring his uncle’s warning about the soup, but instead for a skateboard accident. It had been something of an impulse buy on Campbell’s part, and while he was getting to be rather good when it was dry, he’d not yet practiced when it was wet. He’d missed the bus to school in the morning, pondered what to do, and instead of calling a friend or his uncle or even Ellie Miller, he’d decided that the best possible way to rectify this problem was to attempt to skateboard to school and ask to leave the board in the office until the end of the day. He’d load up his backpack, throw on a rain jacket, hop on the board, and sail off into the morning light, perfectly balanced and confident that as long as he was careful, nothing would go wrong.

What actually happened was that he rolled out with all his things, made it about halfway to the building, hydroplaned on a small hill, and ate dirt. Great. One ambulance ride, a thorough wound-washing, a chunk of chin and six stitches later, he was sitting in a hospital bed as Alec chewed him out for being irresponsible and not just calling for help or walking to school instead of getting on a set of wheels that had not been properly tested for mildly inclement weather. Not that he could be too hard on the boy. His intentions (get to school without inconveniencing anyone) had been good, and the fall, given its consequences, had really been punishment enough for poor Campbell. He looked like he’d expected a bowl of cherries and gotten a cherry bomb instead: a little confused and a lot regretful. Like he was contemplating the choices in his life that had brought him to this moment.

Thursday had been blessedly normal. No blood, no pink shirts, no ruined meals. Normal ride to school, normal day, normal ride home. He didn’t even have homework for once in his school career! Maybe he was in the clear! Maybe his little bad-luck streak was over!

And then on Friday he inadvertently dyed his uncle’s hair a bright teal. What he wanted to do was put a teal streak in his own hair. It had been something he’d been thinking about for a while, and after having such a rough week, he figured that it wouldn’t hurt to try. He’d spent the afternoon in and out of the bathroom, making sure he was doing it right and not dying the whole house at the same time, and it had come out beautifully! Not a drop anywhere but in his hair, nice clean stripe, absolutely gorgeous. His one mistake? Leaving the bottle in the shower. When he’d gone to rinse out the excess dye, he’d taken the bottle into the shower with him to check the instructions for how to properly care for the freshly dyed hair. When he was all set, he’d left it there. And what did his poor, unsuspecting uncle do when he went to wash his hair later that night? He grabbed the dye bottle instead of the shampoo. And what did he see when his hair finally dried? Bright teal. Everywhere. All over his head. No missing it. Thus leading to the lovely game of ring-around-the-house. It was a little childish, yeah, but Campbell hadn’t been sure what his uncle was going to do with him when the newly teal-headed man had stormed into the living room with murder in his eyes. The options had been limited, so Campbell chose to run.

Uncle and nephew made the oval at least four times over, pushing Alec’s pacemaker to the limit, before Alec finally stopped seeing red and had the bright idea to simply wait for Campbell to come back around again. He snagged at his nephew’s hood when the opportunity presented itself and pulled the boy against his chest.

“Campbell, I . . . why?” Alec asked helplessly, wind going out of his sails. “I know ye’ve had a tough time adjusting here, but why?”

“I didnae mean to!” Campbell squawked. “I left the dye in the shower by accident, I swear!”

“I know ye didnae mean to, I’m asking ye why ye haven’t been more careful! Two out of the last five days ye’ve injured or nearly killed yerself, an’ I just want to know why!”

Alec stopped for a moment, released a breath, and let it go.

“Look, I know ye’re not happy to be here. I know nothing’s the same and ye’re not even with yer mum and da anymore. I’m worried about ye. Please, just . . . I need ye to be more careful. That’s all. That’s why I’m upset. Now please, let’s stop these Looney Tunes shenanigans an’ go back inside. It’s too cold an’ wet to be out at this time of night.”

Campbell stopped to consider that for a moment, and Alec realized what he’d said. However, the apology wasn’t halfway out of his mouth before Campbell cracked a grin.

“But I am a looney.”

“Campbell—”

“How can ye expect me no’ to engage in Looney Tunes shenanigans when I am, in fact, a looney?”

“Campbell—”

“In fact, you ought to be thankful that I don’t engage in more Looney Tunes shenanigans just to spite ye! In fact—!”

“Campbell!”

The boy in question stopped talking, but his grin didn’t fade even a little.

“Yes?”

“Inside. Please.”

And so, the pair trooped to the door in silence, neither sure what to say to the other until Campbell paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“I’ll be more careful,” he promised. “I didnae mean to worry ye, really. I’ve just had an unlucky couple of days. I’m fine.”

“Really fine?”

“Aye, really fine.”

“And ye know ye can ask fer help any time?”

“Aye.”

“And—”

“Yes, yes, come on, let’s go inside! I haven’t eaten since lunch, an’ dinner won’t cook itself. What are we makin’ tonight?”

#alec hardy #broadchurch #broadchurch fandom #broadchurch fanfiction #daisy hardy #no beta we fail like alec's heart #david tennant #campbell bain #takin over the asylum #i'm tired

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itwdoris · 1 day ago

Note

I'm a gamer and sometimes the game goes on for so long that you just can't go to the bathroom and all I can think about recently is yuji being your under desk support and being your personal toilet IM GOING CRAZY YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND

itadori yuuji x afab reader.

author notes; all characters are aged up.

tw; piss drinking, not revised.

★

you just needed to stay there a little longer to break another record, with your eyes glazed over the colorful screen and a controller in your hand being guided with quick gestures, a headset to keep out any noise from outside the game and a small bottle of water on the table.

the same one that once belonged to your boyfriend; yuuji, and that has held a lot of your piss when you couldn't be away, even if you don't tell anyone about this part. it was already too "complicated" and embarrassing.

just like that moment, where you scream as quietly as you can while frantically pressing the buttons, because itadori was right there in your bed and you no longer knew if he was asleep or not. sometimes he was in the middle, anyway, you just didn't want him to be far away.

and you had drunk almost the entire bottle and your bladder was begging for redemption, your legs were restless and so were you until you found a better position to hold on just a little longer, even if it wouldn't do any good. you ended up having to kill yourself in the game just to get time to position yourself well and maybe use the bottle.

with just a few seconds to think about it; even though the screen shows you that it would take a considerable amount of time to paste until you came back. you didn't need to tell any of your colleagues that you were currently raising your knees and putting your feet up on the chair, open legs, a small wet spot being revealed on the panties you were wearing under the itadori's big blouse.

holding back a few sighs as you reached out to grab the bottle from the table, at least until noticed a figure with your peripheral vision, not needing to turn around to discover that it was him who was coming to hug you as tightly as he could. needy needy, as always when he wake up.

he stood over you and mumbled some incomprehensible things, burying his face in your neck to smell and kiss your skin, rising almost slowly in a wet and needy trail of kisses and smells to your mouth, which he almost devoured, even though he was still drowsy.

you sighed softly, trying to hold on for just a second longer, squeezing the bottle as you moved your legs slightly. "y-yuuji-" he held your knees as if to stop you from moving, because he had now noticed your position, and soon his hand went to your panties.

with thick, slow fingers sliding down until he found the wet spot on the fabric, his eyes opened curiously to you, who could only feel your face getting hotter and hotter. but somehow, itadori's mind began to work in some questionable ways, looking at the almost empty bottle of water in your hand, feeling something too wet on your panties, too ashamed face.

so he turned away for a few seconds only to yawn and bend down to get under the desk, approaching you to get very, very close, between your legs, placing his hands on your hips to pull down your panties and give him more space.

you couldn't quite work out what he was doing or what was going on, but it seemed to be quite clear when a moan came from your lips as he opened your folds and left a kiss, fitting his mouth on you, looking at you as if he expected something.

because he was. and with the computer screen counting down for you to start again, yuuji ran his soft, wet tongue over your folds, repeatedly stroking your urethra with the tip, the bottle in hand but useless at that point...

that's how you discovered things.

"yuuji!!" you whimpered softly with your hand covering the microphone of the headset you were wearing, without having to look very far to see the pink-haired man coming at you quickly, getting under the desk to do the job. "please.."

and you didn't even wear your fucking panties anymore, because you drank so much water and every time you had to pee, it was very difficult to have to take it off every time so that he could help you while you keep playing and breaking your records.

ah, he really was the best boyfriend, wasn't he? being the best urinal for you.

and oh, itadori loved to feel the warm liquid filling his mouth, going down his throat as he heard your sighs of relief at finally emptying your bladder, small drops turning into a weak stream and then into an almost endless flow.

love how you hold his hair when you're holding it for a long time, how you bite your lips and your cheeks turn red, still concentrated on the game.

pressing your bladder just to hear you moan and make the piss spurt into his mouth, swallowing every drop with pleasure because he loves it, you can hear him gulping, to see how his eyes look at you so pleased that he's being useful, that he's being good to you, making you look so pretty that his semi-hard cock throbs inside his boxers wanting attention, maybe wanting you to get him wet too.

the flow comes to a close and inevitable end, making you sigh and lean back in your chair as ends the game in victory, but he continues his work, cleaning your folds with his tongue, leaving wet kisses on it before turning away a bit.

"you won?" yuuji asked with a grin when he noticed the lightly bluish light on your face, wet lips and chin dripping a little.

oh i miss you guys so much!! i saw this yesterday and i just wanted to do it, think its a bit rushed and kinda meh cause i had to stop several times during the process, but yeah, hope you like it! <3

i loved this prompt sm, bc hes so cute, like waa the best urinal!! IM GOIBG CRAZY TOO

#itadori yuuji #itadori x reader #yuuji x reader #tw piss

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jillsandwhichs · 3 days ago

Text

Our Future Days

Joel Miller x Reader series , Chap 9 , Melody

Masterlist

Pairing: F!Reader x Joel Miller

Summary: Tommy takes you up to Jackson where you and Joel are finally able to reunite

WC: 3.6k

Type: SFW

A/n: Hi! Hope you all enjoy. Please check out my masterlist, there's a lot of stuff there. You can get to know me, you can see the rules of my blog and then you can see all of my fanfictions. You'll be able to find the previous chapters to this fic and upcoming ones. You'll also be able to find my Wattpad & AO3. Comments, reblogs & likes are appreciated. Thank you

Tommy's horse began to slow down which caused you to look up. That entire ride, your head was resting against his backpack. You couldn't help but just stay like that with your eyes closed. Admittedly, you were thinking about Joel and how it'll be to see him again after two decades. You wonder if he'll even recognize him. You hope so.

Not much has changed with you. Same face just a bit aged, same body type but only slimmer if anything, same hair color and what not. You'd say all that's changed is you have longer hair and a skinner body type than before due to the lack of food and nutrition. You presume he appear very aged just based on those investigation photos you seen awhile back. He definitely aged due to stress—there's no way a man looks that rough in their fourties.

Nonetheless, you still find him attractive and you know that if you saw him out in the wild, you'd know it's him.

Looking before you, you saw a large long gate. It was a deep blue color and there appeared to be two people on top of it in little boxes. They're probably the ones in charge of keeping a lookout—smart. "Open the gates!" Tommy shouted to the two men. They gave him a nod and shortly after, both doors opened at a slow and agonizing rate. Your heart beat began to increase in speed and you could feel your palms getting hotter. You are nervous.

Tommy's horse picked up in speed again as he rode in through the gates. You analyzed the area. Wow. It's like a literal township. You are impressed to say the least. They really made Jackson their own. Tommy chuckled, "Enthralled?" "Definitely." You huffed out. You are proud of Tommy and the life he's managed to build alongside these people. They must have a strong bonded group. You doubt any of the people you were once with could've pulled this off. Maybe John but that's it.

You started to dart your eyes around. You hoped to catch a glimpse of Joel or just someone you may have known from a past group. Nothing. "Where do you think he is?" You asked Tommy. "My guess? Either at his house or at the bar." You nodded at his words. Makes sense. Tommy rode his horse into the stable and hopped off. He reached his hand out and helped you off as well. A blonde haired woman walked up with haste and looked you up and down before glaring at Tommy.

"Tommy I-" "Maria, don't start just yet, let me explain." Maria scoffed and crossed her arms. You felt judged. You also felt a bit scared. This woman seems intimidating. Tommy introduced you and began to continue his statement. "Me and Joel have known this woman for damn near twenty years. She was Joel's neighbor. I'm not sayin' she has to stay permanently, she's only here to talk to Joel." Tommy established with Maria. The woman looked at you and spoke.

"Listen I don't mean to come off as bitchy it's just that I don't trust very easily." Maria said softly with her hand cautiously in front of her. "No apology necessary, I understand. Like Tommy said I'm just here for Joel." You spoke kindly to her. Maria gave you a soft smile. "Okay." She nodded. "He's probably with Ellie at the tipsy bison, come on, I'll walk you there." Maria stated. You glanced back at Tommy and said thank you. He gave you a nod.

You and Maria began to walk side by side of one another as she led you through the town. The grass was green and the dirt on the ground was beige. It looked... Lively. Like a real town. You were surprised by all of this. People around the area were in nice clothing. It is later in the year, most likely November if you had to guess. You're sure this place will be covered in snow soon. You have to admit, this place is epic.

There were even children. You haven't seen a child in years. They were smiling and laughing. The sight was precious. There are also a lot of buildings that are clearly being put to good use. You saw a school, an aid and even a deli. "I have to say, this is impressive." You gawked out. Maria snorted and nodded. "Thank you. Me and Tommy built this together alongside our community. We've worked seriously hard so I appreciate that." Maria smiled at you.

Maybe this woman isn't so intimidating after all. She seems sweet. "Is Tommy your boyfriend?" "Husband." "That's nice. Did you two meet during all of this? I just don't recall him having a lady back in the day." "During all of this, yes. So I've heard, Joel talks about how much of a wild cat Tommy was." Maria giggled. You laughed along with her. "I don't remember much about Tommy, he was quiet and was only ever over if Joel had work." "Right." Maria nodded. She does seem cool.

"Just to warn you, Joel isn't the talkative type. A lot has happened to him and he's definitely closed up." Maria said softly. She seemed sad. You sighed softly. "I understand. I'll be understanding." "Good. He's definitely gotten better ever since he met Ellie but overall, he's still that brudy man." Maria giggled. Ellie? Who the hell is Ellie? You went quiet. Did he find some kind of lover in the midst of all of this?

Standing before the two of you was a place called the 'Tipsy Bison'. "Is this it?" "Yes. Come on in." Maria said kindly, opening the door and holding it for you. You walked in and Maria did too. Wow. This place is full of life. It has a warm feeling to it. It's definitely the lighting and the joyous laughter and conversing. The lighting is a deep orange dim color and the people just seem... Normal...

You looked around and whistled. "This reminds me of a bar near my hometown. This is great." "Thanks. I designed most of it myself because it was completely torn down. I've definitely flipped it for the better." "For sure." You're still wondering who Ellie is. If Joel has some sort of a girlfriend now, you get it, but it'll be a bit upsetting. You don't know why or how but you've somehow managed to maintain feelings for him. It's not healthy you imagine but it's just how it is.

Maria waved to someone and ambled up to her. The person was a young girl. She's definitely a young teenager. She's super pretty and seems quiet. All she is doing is eating a sandwich at the table. "Ellie, hey, where's Joel?" What a fucking relief. Ellie is a little kid. Thank God. You sighed softly and crossed your arms. "He just left, said he was going back to his place to get some rest." Maria sighed and nodded. "Thanks honey. Continue eating."

She glanced back at you. "Off to Joel's it is then." Maria then had the two of you walk out through the back. "Another thing we've managed to pull off was having houses all around. We have almost fourty different homes now. For others, we have cabins or they shelter someplace else. But Joel and Ellie have their own place together." "Who is Ellie to Joel? Sarah is his kid." Maria paused in her tracks and looked back at you. "It's going to be a long story and it's a story for you and Joel." How ominous.

You nodded and continued to stroll beside her.

After walking for a bit, you two reached a road and Maria nudged you. "This is it. His house is just up there." She pointed to a house just a few yards ahead. It was a white house. It looked like your average home, it was pretty but ran down. There was a white picket fence surronding it too and a cemented staircase leading up to it. The two of you gradually got closer and your heart rate once again increased. You've never been this nervous before, not even when in a fight or when doing something you shouldn't be doing.

Although, you froze. You froze as the front door opened and you saw him. He was wearing a brown jacket with a black shirt and jeans. Definitely still has his old style. He was wearing torn up boots too. His brown hair was lightly now and more messy. He had a bit of a beard but it appears he recently shaved it. You couldn't move. Maria nudged you but quickly realized you were in complete shock.

"Hey Maria." Joel said as he stepped off of his porch and began to tread closer to you both. "Hi!" Maria said in a friendly voice. It seems he has yet to notice it's you. Maybe he doesn't recognize you. As Joel got closer, his eyes widened and he dropped the bag he was holding. Maria slowly stepped back. "I'll just let you two... Rekindle..." Maria definitely felt the tension between the two of you.

The two of you locked eyes. This moment, you thought it'd never come but here you are, living it. You couldn't speak. Literally, you are speechless. Joel huffed out a breathless laugh. "Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?" He still has that southern accent you love. You didn't say anything. "After all these fuckin' years, you're alive?" Joel said in disbelief. You could feel your heart slow down. He seems happy? Right?

"Joel, I." You couldn't finish your sentence because you were suddenly picked up into his embrace. He had his burly arms around your torso as he held you close. Your arms encased around his neck and you giggled. This is a feeling you'll never forget because it's the feeling you had when you first saw him—love. Joel spun you around and held onto you tightly. You didn't want to let go, not ever.

The hug was special. This was the kind of hug you experience very few times in your life. It was full of love and remorse, kindness and happiness. "Jesus Christ." Joel whispered as he slowed down and placed you back down. You chuckled and gazed up at him as your feet hit the ground. His hands stayed on your waist and yours on his shoulders. He's gotten taller, or maybe you've shrinked. Or you're just misremembering because it's been twenty fucking years.

"Let me look at ya." Joel whispered. He looked you up and down and smiled. "Holy shit." He hummed. You didn't know what to say. You are just... Happy. The happiest you've been throughout this entire shit show. "Hi." Was all you managed to get out. "Hi? That's all you gotta say?" Joel laughed, he was just teasing you. His hands went to your face and he sighed. "You're so cold, come on." He took your hand and jogged you up to his house, completely forgetting about the bag he left on the ground.

Closing the door behind you, Joel entered his living room and patted a spot beside him. You sat down and sighed deeply. Joel looked at you again. Both of you are in shock. "Jesus girl, I figured you was dead." Joel admitted. You laughed out. "I myself am surprised I survived this long." You actually managed to speak. Joel's soft eyes gazed at you. "You look... The same... You sound softer, somehow." Joel chuckled. You giggled.

At least he thinks you still look the same. You constantly worry about looking too old.

"Tell me, how have you survived this long? Just tell me how these two decades have been for you." Joel was ready to listen intently to all of it. You snorted and nodded. "This is going to be a long one." "And I'll listen to every bit." Joel said with assurance. You smiled. "Well, when, Sarah and Tommy left, I took Becker into my car and we drove away. We drove for miles and miles until we got to Oregon." You stated.

"The car eventually gave out so we went on foot but we got to my parents house. They were both dead. Like I literally walked into the house and saw my mother and father decomposing. I never saw my sister, I still have no clue where she's at. Same goes for her dog she had at the time." You said. Joel spoke quickly, "I'm sorry for your loss." "It's okay. I'm long since over it." You spoke softly.

"Me and Becker eventually found a different car full of gas and we drove off for miles then. I was completely stocked up, I had a full arsenal and a shit ton of food. We stayed in Oregon for a while until eventually we moved back to Texas and that was pretty crazy as you can imagine." You said softly. Joel was still listening. "I think most of my time has been in Texas. I was even a QZ there for a while, that's how I knew you were still alive."

A confused look painted Joel's face. "What do you mean that's how you knew I was alive?" "I saw photos of you and some other woman. Those photos have been surfacing for a while." "Right. That was Tess. We were smugglers." You gave him a nod. It makes sense. It's a rough way to live, definitely not an honest one, but it gets the job done. "I moved away from Texas again and ended up staying in Michigan for a while. I had a great group there. But they eventually all died, me and Becker had to go."

"After Michigan, I stayed in Maine for a long time and that's when I lost Becker. He passed away. That was about four years ago. I stayed in Maine for another year after that but then I eventually found my way here, in Wyoming." You adjusted your seating position. You didn't know what else to say. "That's basically how it's been for me. It's been rough and I've been alone for most of it, but I've managed to survive and I think that's all that matters."

Now that you think about it, you can't shut up. It's hard not to. You and him have so much to catch up on. Joel nodded. "I'm sorry Becker died. He was a great dog. I knew you and him would stick together." "We definitely did. Through thick and thin." Joel chuckled at your words. He found that adorable. "Tell me, how has it been for you?" You are sure his life has been a lot more eventful.

Joel sighed deeply. He seemed upset, sad. You made a confused look. "If you don't want to, that's okay." "No, I do. It's just the beginning that's hard to get through. I'm just going to say it, Sarah died. She got shot on the same night all of this shit went down." That made you go quiet. She was shot? She was just a kid. This made you feel so sorry for Joel. He lost his babygirl. That must've been was Maria meant. This is terrible.

You let out a soft sigh and set your hand on his upper shoulder. You rubbed it gently and nodded. "I'm so sorry. Sarah was so sweet. She didn't deserve that." "No, she didn't. She was shot by some military guy. I tried takin' the bullet for her but it seems I didn't have my timin' correct." You shook your head. "It isn't your fault. It's the corrupt military. It was crazy that night." You reassured him. Joel licked his lips in concentration. He was trying to continue on.

"After she died, I ended up in a hospital where I was mended alongside Tommy. I could hardly live without her. My only will was Tommy. Me and him ended up in Boston where we became smugglers. I was a smuggler before I met Tess." Joel stated. "Then Tommy left me for some time. I was alone. He got sick of me, joined the fireflies and I hadn't seen him for a while. Actually, not even until recently." You were surprised. They always seemed close. At least they have each other again.

"When me and Tess met, I had a reason to live again. Me and her were smugglers together, we work together for a long fuckin' time until she died on me too." "Were you and Tess like...?" You paused. You are treading lightly. You don't want to upset him. Joel just gave you a nod. "We definitely hooked up a few times but she wasn't into romance or dating." Joel snickered.

That made you laugh. At least he had some action during the apocalypse. You did too. With John. "I knew someone like that as well. His name was John. I met him when I was in Maine." "Where is he now?" "No clue. He's still alive but when I left Maine he didn't want to come with me, I left alone." "I see." Joel stated. "Look at you now. Still alive. You didn't need anyone. I'm not saying this to sound like a dick but I'm surprised, a girl of your size and caliber would have died in usual situations."

You giggled and nodded. He isn't wrong. You are surprised yourself. Everyone told you that you would die sooner or later yet you're still living and breathing. Not even most men could survive on their own. You have always been impressed with yourself and your survival skills.

"No offense taken. I am surprised myself. I think it's mainly because I've stayed out of the action. I've really managed to stay stealthy and not in a lot of sticky situations, you know?" "Opposite of me. I was always getting caught up in some kind of bullshit." Joel laughed, crossing his arms. You nodded. "Sounds like you." You are just happy he's okay. You can't believe this. This is a once in a lifetime experience.

"I guess I never clarified how I found out about this place and about you." You stated. Joel nodded, "Yeah, I hadn't really thought 'bout it. I'm still starstruck if I'm being honest." "I was out on raid, looking for a random stuff when I saw your brother. The man nearly fucking killed me but we managed to realize who one another was. I asked him to take me here so I could see you." "I'm surprised he took you, he's always nervous about lettin' people in."

"He seemed a little off but I'm pretty sure he trusts me, and he should, I mean no harm. I only wanted to see you and I planned to go on my way." Joel raised his eyebrow. You didn't know why. "Go on your way?" "Yeah. I guess I just planned on saying hi to you, catching up with you, then leaving." Joel chuckled and shook his head. "I'll talk to Tommy about getting you a place here."

That surprised you. That's such a sweet thing to do. It would be nice to have a place to call home. You haven't had anywhere in so long. Being able to live in the same vicinity as Joel would be amazing. "You don't have to do that." "I want to." Joel spoke in a low tone. You didn't try fighting back. You know how that will go. "It seems we've had a pretty fucked up lives ever since everything went down, huh?" You huffed out. "For sure." Joel laughed. Both of you seem to laugh this stuff off, despite it killing the both of you on the inside.

"I always hoped we meet again." Joel admitted. It's true. He thought about you a lot. He's told everyone about you, at least those close to him. "I did as well. When I heard about you in the QZ I was in, I had faith." "I'm glad ya did." Joel muttered. "Can I ask you something?" "Yeah. Shoot." "Who is Ellie? Maria brought her up and I saw her for a brief moment at the bar in town." Joel's face went soft entirely when you brought her up.

"I'll tell you more later but just know, and I don't mean to sound like an idiot, but she saved my life." You smiled. You found that sweet. It's kind of predictable. He sees Sarah in Ellie and has clearly been able to heal because of that. You are glad he's been able to find someone. "You don't sound like an idiot. Is she under your guardianship?" "She is. A lot of people think she's my biological daughter." Joel cackled. "Do you treat her as if she's your daughter?" "I'm definitely paternal towards her but she is her own person." You nodded, you get what he means.

Ellie saved him. You can tell. The way he talks about her. You'd like to know more about the two of them. Maybe I'll get to meet her officially.

You sighed deeply and stood up. Joel's eyes followed your figure. "You alright?" "Yes. I'm just a little winded by all of this, that's all." "You hungry?" "Definitely." You snickered. Joel also stood up and nudged his head towards his front door. "Let's go get lunch. We can catch up more then." "Food sounds amazing right now. We can." Joel gazed at you and smiled. "Let's head out then. Just follow me." The two of you then exited his home, and had a great lunch together where the two of you continued to catch up.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fanfiction #our future days fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tumblr fyp

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nineparlor69 · 20 hours ago

Text

Oh, boy...

I made a Sonic creepypasta. Please, do not unfollow. I finally built the courage to do this, so bear with me for a bit. Okay? Okay.

Behold, Sonic Mortem.

Sonic Mortem, part one.

It was a pretty fucking boring night as usual. I was just browsing through some cheesy horror games on a site I was on, none of them really catching my eye. I don't know if it was how bad it looked, or if it was something else, but a certain .exe game managed to catch my eye. The title: Sonek EXE. I don't know what it was about this specific shit heap of a game, but it seemed more interesting than others. By the looks of the screenshots, it was probably another bloody jumpscare-fest. But what the hell. I was really bored and needed something to do. So, I decided to download it. After it finished installing, I opened the game and gave it a try. It of course had stolen sprites from the original Sonic.exe game, and the gameplay was no different. Well, until I got to the part where you were supposed to play as Knuckles. For some reason, I was still stuck with Tails. Maybe the dev was too lazy to put in the other characters. I brushed it off as simple slacking, and continued playing. As I kept trying to get Tails to run to the right, I realized that this had been going on for a while without even getting anywhere. He was just running, and running, and running. I took my finger off of the key, but Tails wasn't stopping. Maybe the key was stuck. I tried pressing it a few times to get it to work again, but it didn't fix anything. I watched as Tails ran before he finally came to the end of the level. Tails stopped moving entirely. All of a sudden, my disc drive opened. It had a disc in it, which was weird because I didn't put a disc in it. Maybe my little sister Abby was messing around in my room again? I thought that was the case until I got a good look at the disc. Sonic the Hedgehog 2. I didn't own that game. Not physically, at least. What the hell was a disc of it doing in my house? It was all scratched up, though, so it wasn't like I could play it. I decided to look back at my monitor to see if anything had changed, and I really regretted doing so. On my screen was Tails, face pressed up against the screen and breathing like he was running out of air in his lungs. He had this look in his eye… Like he was watching me, like he knew me. If it was a simple trick the developer of the game put in to scare a player like me, I would have just seen it as a petty scare and moved on. But I couldn't explain the disc it somehow put in my drive. I glanced at the disc of Sonic 2 in my hands, looking at the scratches. They looked like claw marks, similar to a wild animal. Like a fox… I looked back at the monitor after hearing a loud thud, and Tails was gone. Instead, I was greeted by the bloody blue bastard just leaning against one of the tree sprites. I decided to try pressing a few keys like the space bar or arrows, but they did nothing. All I heard were the in-game footsteps or jumping noise. Like there was something invisible. I felt a shiver run down my spine as I got the sinking feeling that someone, or something was watching me. I looked around my room, panicking as I felt like I couldn't recognize my surroundings. Vibrant colors and dim furniture blurred into one as I took in my familiar bedroom's layout for the last time. I looked back at the computer once more, seeing words in red on the screen. "I SEE YOU, ALEX. JOIN ME." And it all went to black. Now I wait. I wait for someone else to find me and set me free. Won't you come let me out, dear reader?

Sonic Mortem, Part two.

(Trigger Warning for gore!)

It was a pretty great day. Things were finally looking up for me. I got a sweet new house that had tons of room, and there was even a fully furnished gaming room.

I decided to unwind after all of the unpacking I did a few days prior by playing some video games from that old room, ready to play something really good. But, there wasn't much of anything. It was mostly some old retro games like Sonic or Metroid. Sure, they were good, but not quite what I was looking for.

I hopped on the old computer in the room, taking a look through all the old games on it. There were tons I really loved playing, and even a few others I've never played before.

I noticed a really odd game, a game called "Sonic Mortem". Probably an old STH2 ROM hack. I booted it up, met with a kick-ass title sequence. It didn't say who the devs were, though... The game started, and I realized that this was just another cheesy .exe game. But hey, maybe it wasn't going to be so bad.

Of course, I got through the classic Tails bit, getting that shithead fox killed and moving on to the real good stuff with Knuckles. But... Knuckles wasn't there. It was Tails. Again.

I kept playing, thinking that maybe the game would get better. I wasn't paying attention, and I soon realized that Tails was moving at break-neck speeds. I didn't see much from how fast Tails was going, but he seemed to have ran over and crushed something red. Oh, no. I went towards the right, shocked to see blood, bone, and brain splattered all across the floor. And there, laying in a big puddle of blood, was the headless corpse of Knuckles the Echidna. It looked so real, too...

A pop up appeared on screen, Tail's smirking mug plastered on it. I heard a voice. It wasn't demonic and low, though. It was synthetic and high. And what it said shook me.

"I'll be straightforward with you. I'm no god or spirit. I AM THE GAME. But I'm also the player. Do you know why, Tray? It's because I played YOU. And I'm going to keep toying with you for as long as you live. But of course you'd want to know why. Why I killed Knuckles. Why I'll never leave you be. Because it's FUN. And it was fun with that coward Alex, as well. I'll see you soon..."

the screen turned off, and the disc drive opened. Instead of a disc there, there was a newspaper. I picked it up, and immediately recognized it. It was the article about a boy about my age who went missing a while ago. Was this a threat?

I tried to go to bed, to forget what just happened, but it wouldn't let me sleep. It STILL won't let me sleep. I can hear something under the floorboards, scratching and scratching nonstop.

scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching

To be continued...

#nine spaghetti #nine's shit #sonic the hedgehog #sonic.exe #< kinda #this took me two hours in total

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weptsorrow · 1 day ago

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he fully expected till to push him away or tell him to get lost, but the lack of a reaction was as unexpected as it was relieving. ivan was happy to be able to share this one last moment with his friend, before his life would be at the segyeins' mercy.

the following words managed to quirk his lips upwards, however.

“ i don't doubt that, ” he hummed out, voice nearly sing-songy. ah till. if only you knew what i was planning. we'll sing— and you'll win. i'll make sure of it. ivan took till's words to heart— perhaps too literally, not reading between the lines. this had only solidified that what he'd been brewing in his mind was the right thing to do. that this was what till wanted anyway.

and while till had headed for the stage, ivan went towards his own, blue-hued observation pod. everytime he entered, he wondered what made them associate this color with him; everyone's was different. such a trivial thought that was quickly dismissed, when the large stage itself came into his view— immediatelly, his eyes focused onto the boy with his alien guitar.

the initial notes of the song were familiar— so that was what...

“ ...?! ” ivan's eyes widened the moment the intrusive, aggressive strum of guitar rang through the entire hall. this... wasn't how the melody went— he remembered. gaze shifted sideways, looking for whatever security was on standby— they... weren't going to allow this, were they? his heartrate picked up; it only ever did when till was somehow in trouble. they weren't going to kill him off prematurely for not following the music sheet he was given, were they? when he spotted no laser sights, he turned back to the stage. in his initial panic, he didn't register the few initial lyrics— but he did notice it was solely till's voice reverberating through the entire stadium. his opponent had no chance of fighting back.

well if anything, ivan was surprised till got the staff to cooperate with him on this. had he threatened them? likely. why else would they have agreed to a human's insistence to play something else than what was predetermined? but when nothing of consequence had immediatelly happened... ivan simply crossed his arms, and kept watching. listening.

it didn't take him long to figure out just what the song was about. who for. typical... predictable, even. ivan still liked it though; not only did he like everything that till would produce, but he could appreciate a good song when he heard one. off-handedly, he wondered just how long he'd been working on this— and planning this whole shock of a performance. his eyes turned to the score board, brows lifting faintly when he saw the overwhelming number with which till was currently winning. all the way over 150... impressive.

it's then that the lights suddenly turn red, with a loud screeching sound, and ivan— and the many others —are a witness to murder. it didn't exactly resonate with the dark-haired man at all, but he couldn't help the faint widening of his eyes in surprise. till really went all out on this one, hadn't he? in the end, ivan frowned, but it was to be expected that once the segyein had enough of this ( and it was no wonder that murder of their own kind was the tipping point ) they'd act. still, he despised to see his friend bound and beaten, blood flowing from his forehead, as he was stuffed into his pod, consciousness fading.

“ ... ” he supposed till wasn't going to listen to ivan's song next.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ready to storm off, his only delay is ivan — not on live stage though, like that made a difference. he’d be singing a new song, sure, but that was a surprise for everyone, the competition included. he'd be in trouble for it undoubtedly, punished, forced deeper into their control, their disdain. but he’s sure they won’t kill him, not if he gets the votes. that doesn’t stop the nerves, though; doesn’t help with the disgust that settled beneath his skin like tar. his song was for mizi, everyone else could drop dead; he doesn’t want them to hear it. he hates singing at parties, hates performing for teachers, hates the way the stage swallows him whole and spits out a hollowed version of himself. this stage won’t be anything different — each and every segyein can drop dead.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎❛❛ yeah. ❜❜ he agrees, words sharp, jagged, ready to spew more before a hand in his hair silences him. ivan's touch feels so nice, as if he were an anchor in his storm of unspoken fury. it’s the first connection he’s had since the songs were revealed, taken out of the garden almost immediately by urak. sharp features remain etched with defiance, but he’s rooted him to the spot. teal hues glued to ivan as he removes dark gloves, bringing his hand to till's cheek. it's terribly pleasant for a fist that usually hits hard.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎his brows furrow. ❛❛ i'm kicking ass in round six, so it better be you I’m beating. ❜❜ comes his final remark, a parting shot that’s more bravado than truth, only escaping bitten lips as ivan walks away. till quick to turn himself, vanishing along with acorn before anything more can be retorted. he knows the outcome already. mizi will win — himself and ivan will die, but it’s whatever. he’ll freak out if his thoughts on that linger. best not to think. just sing.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎the hallway stretches before them, dimly lit, with the kind of silence that makes the skin crawl. there’s a small platform at the end. standing on it, till can hear the crowd, louder than the quiet buzzing in his ear that counts down. drowning out everything else but the rush of blood in his ears. twenty seconds, he’s attached to a new leash, one connected to the stadium’s roof. fifteen seconds, freddie's cords are untangled; acorn shifts nervously, feet shuffling, having heard all of the silver-haired man’s confidence. till doesn’t care. ten seconds, the platform starts to rise. nine, eight, seven, six, five — he can already see the blinding lights — four, three, two, one. he steps forward into the roar of chaos.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎they’re on a long platform in the middle of the crowd, unlike mizi and sua, who were in front. the music is playing, the crowd is shrieking, a cacophony of madness and anticipation. the pair stand together, and as his earpiece indicates the first lyric, he strums his guitar instead. suddenly, the backtrack stutters before being replaced by a completely different sound. walking past the brown-haired man and to the stage’s apex, his expression blank, shouting a 'come on!'. there’s a challenge in his voice, a dare flung into the abyss. take that, you pricks. ivan isn’t the only one who can spot cameras and avoid them. shouldn’t have taken your eyes off of me.

the first words cut through the chaos. nothings' my everything, was empty until your melody, it’s you, alright.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎he ignores acorn, the man he’s actively killing, a sacrifice to his unrelenting need, his obsession. he doesn’t care. that anxiety from only moments ago drowned by the noise, his voice reaching the furthest corners of the audience. their shock fuels him, a wave of euphoria crashes over his fear and pulls him deeper into the moment. everyone looks surprised, he keeps singing, wishing there was a way his melody could kill.

I don't care if my world turns upside down — the edelweiss of my feelings that blossomed because of you.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎his guitar strums are getting sloppy, but no one will notice. they’re still almost perfect; even through the sudden joy rush, he keeps his hands steady. it’s crazy, fuck, he knows that. he knows how fleeting this moment is, how it will burn out just as fast as it ignited. maybe next round they’ll rig it, so till will lose. maybe they’ll kill him right now and give the victory to acorn. who cares ? so long as she listens, looks. so long as mizi is there, even for a flicker of time, the rest can rot. only a second of mizi's attention, he won’t ask for anything else, doesn’t deserve anything more than that. fuck. he’d kill himself on this stage if she said the word. he’d laugh while he did it. focus. keep singing.

cause you baby still it's not enough, how dare you think this time's enough ? ain't nobody but you're the one that i'm feeling it's love.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎his face feels numb, but he keeps pushing, the audacity of the audience to look happy stirs him on. until another voice joins his — her — song. focus. teal hues snap to his left, seeing acorn try to grasp a chance at victory, and without a thought, he lifts freddie up. he hated this god-awful gift from urak the moment he got it. a mockery of an instrument. a segyein with two children. he couldn’t care less for it, for anything but her. killing the thing is so easy; he knows he’s officially done himself in, watching its insides spill out. the strings snap, the body cracks, and for a moment, it feels like unfiltered victory. grinning, he looks up, the crowd filled with disgust. he relishes their horror. that’s what you get for looking so intrigued a second ago; he isn’t a tame pet. they shouldn’t have believed he’d behave and be good little entertainment.

won't stop until i overdose.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎the microphone is dulled, but he manages to sing a few more lines, the world around him turning a harsh red. crimson may be his last act of defiance. acorn and freddie are already dead on stage when till is pinned down, the camera shutting off as his skull smashes on the bloodied ground, proudly displaying his grin.

#( ✧˖*°࿐ interactions.#( ✧˖*°࿐ verse / alnst.#sleeplesswork #// the way i nearly squealed when till had such a positive reaction to ivan touching him.........#// i wish they'd stop being so stupiddddd #// jkdfjkgkjf whatever........#// i actually wonder if mizi was coherent enough to even process till's song tbh...... considering she literally... just lost sua...#// ALSO UHHH i didn't know if i should've moved it onto ivan's song already cause.... till is fucking Out but then also my reply was #// already long so didn't want to write too much... sjkjkfg but i can add it!!

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