#I know it was a figment of my subconscious but

[idletransgenderfication]

t4t lesbian couple seeking grungy punk stoner girl who was our third girlfriend in a dream i had (the dream ended up being about aliens killing us all but that's unrelated) to make the polycule real

#it was funny i remember being semi-lucid in the dream & thinking ''damn i wish this bitch was real'' #& when i described her to my real gf (who was also in the dream & also dating her) she was also like ''damn i wish she was real too'' #she was soooo fun if you're out there..... i know you're not you're a figment of my subconscious but i can dream (literally) #animal.txt

[sinsofsummers]

sensational; part ii

6.8k | joel miller x f!innocent!reader follow-up to sensational

summary: you've tasked joel with teaching you about all of the things you missed. he's back for more...teaching moments. warnings: smut (duh), 18+, mdni. softdom!joel vibes in this one, joel gives reader an anatomy lesson, pet names (lots of dollface) fingering, praise kink to the gods, masturbation (f and brief m), reader gives joel a hand(y), grinding, bit of a corruption kink toward the end, jesus there might need to be a part 3 note: well. look at what you guys did. you went and loved on sensational so much and asked for a part 2 so often that i just had to grant your wishes. i hope you’re fckn happy✌🏼🥹 (this is all jokes i’m so excited to write more of this dynamic teehee)

You'd never counted yourself as a dreamer of any sort; when sleep clouded your brain at night, every thought faded along with it. Aside from the occasional nightmare, reminding you of your parents' absence, you hadn't had an actual dream since you were a kid.

Of course, that night in Joel's house had changed everything, in every possible way. In just an hour or so he had taken your world into his hands, shaped it, flipped it, and returned it to you, unrecognizable. His name was carved into everything you saw and touched, and this included your dreams.

He was everywhere in your head when you slept. So much so that you'd begun to forget which was reality and which was a figment of your imagination, which made your patrols with him all the more humiliating.

Your hands were cold. It was all you could focus on as you followed Joel along your normal patrol route. Just twelve hours had passed since that night in his house, when he'd touched you with rough hands and what taught you what it meant to feel desired. His words still rang clear in your head days later:

Trust me, doll. I've got so much more to teach you.

It sent your head reeling just to think about it now. The memory of his fingertips grazing the side of your face as he'd said it, those brown eyes sparkling with desire for you—a vision of contentment.

You had leaned into his touch subconsciously, reaching a hand up to trace the line of his wrist. His eyes had darted to where your fingers pressed to his skin, a soft grin replacing his satisfied smirk. "I'd better get you home, then," he'd whispered.

It had taken everything in you to ignore the small pang of disappointment that had bloomed in your gut, but it was an easier task when he'd dropped his lips to your forehead.

"No one'll miss me at home," you'd protested quietly, trying not to relish too much in the feeling of his beard scratching at the space between your eyebrows.

This sentiment was true. You still didn't know how things had worked out so well, but after arriving in Jackson, Tommy (the fact that it was Joel's younger brother made this seem all the less coincidental) and Maria had been more than accommodating. They'd offered you your own space, a house to yourself. Granted, it was much smaller than Joel's, but it was your own. It had become home in the four short years you'd lived in Jackson.

No one was waiting for you at home. It was a fact that used to make your throat close up, memories taunting you every moment they could. Now it was a welcomed thought, if it meant that you could remain in the heady presence of Joel Miller.

But he'd only shaken his head, his brown eyes flitting down to your lips before returning to your gaze. "I'm sure they'll notice when you don't come strolling out of your own place in the mornin'," he'd insisted gently. His thumb traced your bottom lip when your shoulders slumped. You hoped you didn't look as pitiful as you felt, your lip threatening to push outward in a pout.

"Might not be able to keep my hands to myself tonight if I let you stay," he'd breathed. You didn't care if he said it as an apology, or if it was actually true.

Because who were you to disagree with him? It was Joel.

So without more than a lingering hand on your wrist, he'd walked you to your door. When you'd teased him for such a chivalrous act, he'd cocked an eyebrow, glancing sideways at you. "Can't just let you walk home alone after that," he'd scoffed, his voice rough again in the outdoors. A few people were still milling about despite it being darker than pitch after nightfall. "M'not a complete scoundrel," he said with a wry grin.

Your front door always looked so inviting, a place for you to take a breath and relax after a long day. In that moment, it was taking everything in you to put one foot in front of the other and return to your own place.

"Scoundrel," you'd mused, hoping the amusement in your voice covered the way you leaned back with every step, as if you could claim one more touch of his body—arm, chest, shoulder—to send you to bed with nothing but him on your mind. "Kind of a big word, wouldn't you say?" you'd teased him, just as he'd done to you. "Sure you know what it means?"

The twitch of his jaw was enough of a reward for your attempt at humor, but your satisfied smirk had been wiped clean off your face when he'd darted a glance around before leaning in, hovering just centimeters from your face.

It occurred to you in that moment that you'd truly only kissed him once. A shame, a voice in your head sighed. His lips were devastatingly plump, even in the darkness.

Joel had stayed there, his eyes tearing down to your mouth before warning you in that deliciously low baritone, "I know what it is. Best get inside," his jaw twitched once more and you caught him clenching and unclenching his fists, "'fore I show you what it means to be a scoundrel."

You'd gone inside with a shaky breath and the return of that familiar pulse that, it seemed, only he knew how to ignite.

—

Joel chose not to look in the mirror when he'd gone home that night. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stand the way his hair was undoubtedly wild, his eyes hard with desire, and his hands still aching with the memory of her squirming body in his lap.

After four years of near silence, this girl had unraveled him. After all those days on patrol with her, nothing to do except look at her when she wouldn't notice, Joel Miller had been undone.

The next day, waking up early with the stiffness in his boxers begging to be dealt with, Joel spit on his palm and wrapped it around his cock, releasing a sigh. Fuck's sake, he thought with a groan. Can't hardly get a full night's sleep anymore.

It should have annoyed him; it was certainly an inconvenience. But if it meant that he'd get to spend more time thinking about her body and her lips and her eyes when she asked those incessant questions, then so be it. He'd never sleep another wink and be glad for it.

It didn't take long for his release to come, not when the memories of her whines were so fresh in his mind. To think that he'd had her on his lap, hips squirming in that way that only she knew...it was enough to make him—"A grown fuckin' man," he reminded himself—spill into his hands and draw ragged breaths into his lungs to recover.

With an arm thrown across his face, he latched onto the image of her in the heat of ecstasy, her eyelids fluttering shut and her lips wet from constantly biting them.

For a moment, he tried to rein himself in. Can't be doin' this, he'd thought while getting ready for patrol that morning. Don't wanna take advantage of her, or fuck her up cause of my inability to control my own desires.

In reality, he'd considered, did she really know what she was getting herself into? With little more knowledge than the mechanics of reproduction, it had been evident with the events of the previous night that she knew nothing of what pleasure could be. Did he really want to be responsible for her discovery of such things?

But when he went to the stables an hour later and saw her standing in the snow with an extra twinge in her grin and her eyes sparkling despite the echoes of fatigue in her irises, every doubt dissipated immediately. He pretended not to notice the way her eyes lingered on his back when they saddled up, heading out of Jackson for the day.

Joel Miller was never one to deny a woman in need. Why should he have stopped now?

—

"How'd you sleep?"

When you looked over at him, almost shocked that he'd broken the silence, your eyebrow quirked up. "Fine," you answered.

It wasn't that this patrol had been disappointing, it was just...ever since you'd left Jackson that morning, you'd been waiting for him to look at you like he had the night before, or to even acknowledge you in the way that you could still remember him doing.

Maybe it was because Tommy was nearby at the time, or maybe he'd changed his mind after all. Maybe you'd overstepped, asking a man so much older than you to teach you all of this. Maybe it hadn't happened at all—your dreams were rather convincing these days.

If it hadn't been for those girls, hell-bent on making you feel ostracized, perhaps you wouldn't have landed yourself in this position. You probably wouldn't have had any reason to be curious about what it all meant, and you could have gone on in comfortable silence with him on your patrols.

With a heavy mind, you blew out a breath. If it hadn't been for those girls, though—you never would have known the creases that sank into the corners of his eyes when he grinned at you.

Beside you, having held back to come up shoulder-to-shoulder, Joel huffed. "Bullshit, darlin'," he scoffed, casting a sideways glance in your direction.

You tightened your hands on the reins. "Excuse me?" you said sharply.

His chuckle was a soft rumble in his chest, and you ached to feel it against your back. "I saw those sleepy eyes at the stables," he crooned, the corners of his eyes crinkling just like you remembered. "Looks like someone didn't get a good night's sleep."

"Oh, and I'm just supposed to believe you slept like a damn baby, then?" You couldn't help the incredulity in your tone, but you blushed when you noticed him smirking, his lips twitching as he fought a smile away.

"'Course not," he shook his head almost dismissively. "Couldn't tell my brain to stop conjurin' pictures of you shakin' in my lap." He adjusted the way he was seated on his horse, and you couldn't help but wonder if he was getting hard at the reminder of the memory.

You, in a similar vein, were trying to ignore the unmistakable feel of heat puddling between your legs. Keeping your eyes forward, you asked, "Is that a good thing?"

Joel nodded. "A very good thing, dollface. You were so good for me last night."

Any air that had been in your lungs left in a rush, and you put a hand to your cheek, warm despite the winter's wind. You thought you heard yourself whine at the sound of the pet name.

Thankfully, he didn't say or do anything to show that he'd noticed. Instead, he tugged his horse to a stop. "Let's get down here," he said. "Walk and talk, yeah?"

The thought of walking beside him after all that had happened the night before was enough to make you freeze in your saddle, suddenly unsure of how to get down. "Yeah," you mumbled, if only to fill the silence.

You could hear the crunch of snow under his boots as he came up beside you, thick gloved hands reaching for your waist. "C'mon, darlin'," he'd insisted, "I won't bite."

There was a note of irony in his tone, and you let him pull you from your saddle, landing in the snow in front of him. Your jacket snagged against his, and you stood there for a moment, letting your frosty wisps of breath coil and furl with his. "What do you mean?" you asked, cursing your ever-present confidence when it came to asking him questions. It seemed that you'd never learn to hold your tongue.

"Hmm?" he hummed in response. "What's what mean?" He stepped away from you to grab the reins in his hand and began to walk forward in the snow.

You shook your head and pushed on, stumbling after him. When did the snow get so deep? "You sounded rather..." you trailed off, searching for the word.

"Oh, here it comes," he mused in that serious tone, hardly covering the teasing lilt that rang clear in his eyes. "Bet you're coming up with a big word right about now, huh?"

You couldn't help it when you rolled your eyes and swatted a hand at the back of his arm. "I was going to say you sounded smug," you finished. "About how you won't bite?"

There it was again. That look of slight surprise at your questions. You waited for a few moments, the two of you trudging along in the snow, before he answered quietly. "We're jumpin' ahead of ourselves, but I s'pose it won't hurt." He shrugged. "Some people like it. Biting."

You furrowed your eyebrows. "Like it?" You looked down at your hands, covered in thick gloves. "Doesn't it hurt?"

Joel smirked. "It can," he considered, "if the person gettin' bitten wants it like that." He brushed your arm with his. "But some people don't like it at all. Just depends."

You braved a look up at his face and swallowed roughly, feeling your core pulse at the sight of his rosy cheeks. "Does it have to hurt?" You didn't mean to sound so desperate; you were just curious. "I mean, is it like...like a real bite?"

It happened so quickly that you hardly had a moment to process. Joel stopped in his tracks, pulled you near, and dipped his head down to your ear. "Don't have to," he murmured, and you were just starting to quiver at the feel of his voice next to your ear when he was brushing your hair from your neck and grazing his teeth against your skin. "Can feel good, if the person doin' the biting knows how."

You couldn't help the hand that shot out to grab his arm, as if it were the only thing that might hold you up. "I'm assuming you know how," you said thickly, eyes wandering on his weathered face. Funny, you thought at the sight of his grin, he looks quite young like this.

Joel shifted his arm so he could squeeze your hand once with his before letting it go. "Don't boost my ego too high, sweetcheeks," he warned, but you could hear the humor in his voice. "Might never let go if you do."

You knew he was kidding, but the prospect that he was being serious made your stomach flutter and forced you to clench your thighs together, bringing the forefront of your attention back to the frustration that was pooling between your legs. "Joel," you muttered in a whine, not quite realizing you'd said it until he was looking at you with a twinge of concern.

"What's up, doll?" he asked, slowing to a stop. "Somethin' wrong?"

A curly tendril of his graying hair was blown into his face with the winter wind, and you wished you could brush it away with your fingers like he'd done just moments ago. "I..." you inhaled deeply, and shifted your weight. "I'm..."

It took him a moment to understand, and when he did, his eyes sparkled. "Oh, doll," he cooed, reaching forward to tug you closer to him. "Need something', huh?"

You leaned your head forward until your forehead rested against him, breathing in the scene of pine and old leather and that heady musk that was utterly Joel. Nodding into his strong chest, you brought your hand up to his wrist and tugged it down, down, down...there.

Joel's large hand cupped the mound between your legs and you swallowed harshly as it pulsed again, begging for the sweet release he'd given you the night before. "Fuck," he breathed, the vibrations of his voice rolling against your skin. "Shoulda told me you were this bothered, baby," he hummed.

You lifted your head. "I've been trying," you said in a pitiful whine, although this wasn't entirely true, and he knew it. "Why does it...why do I ache so bad?"

His smirk quivered, and his pupils were suddenly huge as he withdrew his hand from where it covered your heat, exposing it to the frigid winter air once more. "I think we've gone far enough, don't you?" he winked. "Think we may as well head back."

The implications of what would happen when you got back to Jackson made your head spin. Nodding feverishly, you let go of the twinge of embarrassment at your eagerness. "Yes, please," you hiccuped.

His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. "Good," he murmured.

—

This was the worst possible outcome.

Just when you'd worked up to exactly where you wanted to be with Joel, with his hands on you and his intentions leading you back to his house (and hopefully his couch), Tommy stopped you at the stables.

Well, not you. Not you at all, actually. He stalked up to his older brother and said, Meeting at my place, Joel."

He'd just gotten down from his saddle to help you do the same and was letting his hands linger on your waist when the interruption happened. With his hungry eyes locked on yours, he'd been leaning into your touch and hovering his hands just inches from your heat.

You could have sworn he jumped out of his skin at the sound of Tommy's voice; you just hoped it was because of his infamous hearing loss on his ride side and decidedly not because he'd been caught standing so close to you.

"We just had a meeting last week," he said gruffly, his eyes still searching yours. For what, you weren't sure—but you were quickly growing addicted to finding those rare flecks of gold buried in the espresso brown seas reflected back at you. His hands clenched involuntarily, and given the fact that they were resting around your hips, you got a delicious lick of pleasure that shot through your pelvis at the sensation.

Tommy didn't seem to be in the mood for dawdling. "And now we're having one this week," he insisted. "My place. Maria and the others are waiting."

You lifted your chin to see him close his eyes in annoyance. His mouth opened once; he closed it. When he opened it again, his eyes flashed along with the movement. "Alright, I'll be there in a minute," he said tersely, and you pretended not to notice the way his gloved thumb rubbed a slow circle on your hip. An apology, perhaps.

When he didn't move, you blushed with smug satisfaction. It had never been more clear that he didn't want to move.

"Joel, it's important." Usually, you'd never had an issue with Tommy. Now, of course, the sound of his voice clawed at your every hope for tonight.

With a soft look at your lips, Joel jerked his head to look at his brother. "I said give me a fuckin' minute," he said, his words clipped. "Fuck's sake," he muttered as he turned around. "Just answerin' a goddamn question," he finished, soft enough that you were sure his brother couldn't hear.

Tommy grumbled his fair share of disapproving words, but you couldn't help the grateful bubble that bloomed in your gut when you heard the shuffle of his boots as he left you alone in the stables with Joel.

He waited a moment or two before letting out a soft sigh. You couldn't have known how disappointed he was, but the way he lifted a hand to your cheek was clue enough. "New lesson, dollface," he said.

A pang of regret hit your stomach and you found yourself shaking your head. "Please?" you asked in a quiet voice. "I don't want a new lesson."

Joel grinned and sucked in a sharp breath. "I know, baby, I know." The familiar phrase threw you back to the night before, when he'd had his hands all over you, reassuring you with those exact words. But now, it wasn't a comfort. "But if I'm not around and you need to feel good..." His hand trailed down your cheek, brushed against your chest and returned to its previous spot between your legs. "I want you to practice touchin' yourself, yeah?"

His voice had become a near-painful whisper, just loud enough for you to feel rather than hear his words caress your skin. "This of me all you want, darlin'. God knows I'll be thinkin' of you at this damn...meeting," he practically spat the last word, but it didn't take away from the pressure that was building and causing you to blink rapidly. "Think about me," he repeated, "but I want you to explore this pretty body for me so you can tell me all about it when I get back."

The sound of his voice enveloped you, that heady sensation nearly making your knees give out. With a slow nod, you couldn't see yourself ever disobeying him. Not when he asked such sinful things of you.

"Okay," you whispered. "I'll try."

His mouth was in a hard line, his irritation at Tommy's interruption still prevalent. But it softened for a moment when he slid a gloved thumb over your bottom lip, letting it get pulled from its place before bouncing back. You darted your tongue out, wetting your lip in a desperate attempt to taste his leather on your skin; to taste him.

"Good," he said softly. Something new pulsed at the sound of his praise, but you fought it down. "I'll see you soon, doll."

—

Despite everything you tried when you got home—despite squeezing your eyes shut and picturing that dimple in Joel's cheek when he smirked, or the way his arms felt when wrapped around you—nothing helped. The pressure remained, the ache between your legs was ever-present, and yet...

You couldn't give yourself the release you craved. Not like Joel could.

There was no telling how long you tried, hand shoved down your pants in a sour attempt to replicate the feeling he'd given you. Your fingers were clumsy, untrained, and entirely new to the task, leaving you desperate and unsatisfied. A strangled whine left your throat when your mind flashed with the memory of his face near yours, his lips on your own, and his rough hands rubbing that small bud at your center. It was maddening.

He'd asked you to do this one thing, and you couldn't deliver. Of course, you'd never even realized this was a possibility; you'd only ever heard of men bringing themselves to the plummeting precipice of pleasure. You never considered that you could do the same.

But you didn't want to make yourself feel good. You wanted Joel to do it.

After what felt like hours, stuck in your house alone, Joel nowhere to be found, and with your hopes slipping into despair, you gave up. Your fingers would never be as rough or as thick as his. You didn't know how to explore your body when you couldn't tip yourself over the edge to ecstasy; it was impossible.

Weary and defeated, you went to bed with a groan. Joel still hadn't shown up. Either it was a long meeting, or...you didn't want to entertain the thought that he'd possibly forgotten about you. About your task to be completed.

You actually did drop off into a dreamless sleep, but when you woke to the sound of a knock at your door, you were almost positive the dreams had begun again. Swinging your legs out of bed, you trudged to the door with sleep oozing in every movement. The door opened with a click, and you blinked.

"Sorry I'm late, sweetcheeks," Joel breathed. A distant streetlamp, the only one in Jackson, was the sole source of light that illuminated the edges of his broad body on your porch. He looked near-angelic.

You didn't say anything for a moment, only crossed your arms to keep yourself warm in the face of the wintry outdoors. The relief and anticipation at seeing him here paired with the disappointment and fatigue that it had taken so long warred with each other, creating a dangerous mix as you managed to say, "Are you...hungry? Or something?"

He swallowed, and your head swam with the desire to lay your tongue flat on his neck where his Adam's apple bobbed. "Starving," he groaned, and in one step he was not only in your house but he was all over you, and you were wearing nothing but your thin pajamas.

He'd apparently already taken off his gloves, and when his hand came up to cup your cheek your body registered the chill of his fingers with a shock, despite leaning into his touch all the same. He took a moment to look at you before touching his forehead to yours, pressing his lips to yours gently. You could practically taste the restraint on his mouth, and you wanted nothing more than to beg him for everything.

Something about your face must have given it away when he pulled back because he tapped a finger against your cheek. "You look like you need somethin'." He darted a look down to your legs. "Did you do what I asked?"

You weren't sure what made you lie, but you nodded nonetheless. "Uh-huh."

Even in the dark, he was so close to you that you could see his eyebrow lift in question. You didn't know how he knew, but why wouldn't he? This was Joel. "You didn't come," he concluded, and you ducked your head. "Why not, dollface? I thought I told you to."

The implication that his request was, in fact, a command, didn't slip your mind. Your cheeks burned when you forced yourself to look at him. "I couldn't. I don't know how."

"Sure you do," he whispered. "You did real good last night for me, remember?" His lips ghosted your jaw.

You shook your head. "I don't know how. I've never...made myself come."

When Joel looked at you, you could have sworn his lips twitched, betraying the desire in his movements. "I'm sorry, babydoll," he cooed, bringing his other hand to your cheek. He slotted his lips over yours once more, and it was all you could do not to sink to the floor right there. "We'll have to fix that, won't we?"

You nodded. "Show me? Please?"

Without another word he bent to brush his lips across your hairline—you could have sworn you felt him inhale with his nose in your hair—and murmured, "In the morning, yeah?"

You pulled away to complain but he only gave you a soft smile. It was then that you could see the exhaustion in his face, eyes downturned despite those creases winking at you in the darkness. "But—"

"Told Tommy you need a day off," he clarified. "'Cause you're...sore..." he splayed his hand on your back and tugged you near, voice low. "Ya know, from all that horseback ridin'."

An anticipatory chuckle bubbled from your chest. "No way he bought that," you said breathlessly as he nipped your jawline with his teeth (you were almost sure it was supposed to be a kiss). "I've been patrolling on horseback for years."

Joel shrugged and looked down at you with a smirk. "Who knows? Maybe I should have told him you were waiting for me to come home and make you fall apart on my fingers," he said dismissively, but his tone did nothing to stop your stomach from flipping.

"Oh," you said dumbly, cursing yourself inwardly for how easily you were rendered speechless in his presence. "He'll...he'll really let us take the day off?" Your mind swam with the possibilities of what you could do with an entire day.

He shook his head. "Not us, darlin'. Just you." Tracing the line of your jaw, his lips twisted into a dry smirk. "I'll have to go tomorrow. But," he whispered, squeezing a hand on your hip and cocking an eyebrow at the way your legs wobbled," I'd gladly go every morning all by myself if it meant you were in your bed all day, daydreamin' about me."

It was a heavier confession that you'd expected out of him, and you let out a breathy sigh. "In the morning then," you asked. You swallowed roughly in an attempt to push down the lump of pure need that had risen in your chest, but to no avail.

Joel nodded firmly. "Trust me," he hummed, "in the morning."

So you'd led him to your bed with no more discussion. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not stay the night; he'd come to your place after the meeting like he'd said, and it was the middle of the night. Why wouldn't he have stayed the night?

Despite everything in you fighting to stay awake, the second you returned to your mattress and pulled the covers up, your eyelids drooped. Joel stood at the end of the bed and shed his jacket slowly. "Sleep, doll," he said, his voice echoing in the otherwise silent room as he bent to kick off his boots. "I'll be here when you wake up."

—

Was he getting too close? Was he pushing the boundaries too far, too soon? Probably.

Selfishly, Joel didn't much care.

—

Sure enough—when morning came, when the dull winter sunlight crept into your house and draped the floor in soft yellow, you felt the dip of your mattress beside you and betrayed Joel's presence. He'd stayed. Like he said.

Quite the dedicated teacher, you thought to yourself with a satisfied warmth. You'd felt him climb into bed last night, but despite your every wish for him to press himself to your back and hold you tightly the whole night, he'd kept at least a foot of space between your bodies. Always close enough to touch, but never giving in.

You rolled over and swiped a hand over your face, a few stray strands falling into your eyes. The breath left your chest when you saw him there, eyes open and waiting for you. "Hi," you said, your voice rough with sleep. Again with the monosyllabic responses, you scolded yourself.

Joel hummed, the deep rumble of his voice reverberating through the mattress and into your body. "Looked so sweet like that, darlin'," he mused, his rough hands tucked under his head. He reached one of them toward you and tapped your bottom lip, plump with sheep, with two of his fingertips. "Didn't wanna wake you up."

"You didn't." You weren't sure what made you do it, but you moved closer, shifting your entire body until your nose almost brushed his. Your eyes flitted up to look at the way his graying hair laid messily around the crown of his head, haircuts neglected for who knew how long. "Can we...I want to start now," you mumbled.

His jaw ticked, and he looked like he was swallowing down a grin. "Look at you," he cooed, "so eager. Aren't you hungry, doll?"

You bit your lip and you could have sworn you saw his eyes widen. "Starving," you fumbled over the word, imitating his response to you the night before on your porch.

Joel let go of a chuckle and his eyes danced with mirth. "Always turnin' my words back on me, aren't ya?" When you nodded sheepishly, he slid his hand around to cup the back of your head and he pulled you in, connecting his lips with yours. "Okay, pretty girl," he said. "We'll start. Since you asked so nicely."

His lips were chapped from the cold weather but they were still soft as he pressed them to yours, moving lazily as the two of you blinked away the last clutches of sleep. "Always so soft, these lips," he murmured, and then his hand was moving from your neck to your chest. "Everyone's different, yeah? There's these spots on everyone's body," he said, absentmindedly drawing swirls along the expanse of your chest, making you shiver. "Let's call them...pleasure points."

"Pleasure points," you repeated breathlessly, your stomach fluttering as he rolled a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Is that—"

He grinned with a nod. "Think I just found one of 'em, doll." He rolled you onto your back and bent his head down, his breath fanning over your chest and warming you through your thin pajama shirt. "This is how we get you all ready for me, when the time comes."

You nodded quietly and let out a shaky sigh as his hands wandered. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and you practically preened at the feeling of his lips against your skin while his hands squeezed and caressed your breasts, moving over your stomach. "Joel—"

He paused, hand hovering over the hem of your shirt. "What, babygirl?"

You couldn't help the whine that fought its way out of your throat. "Please," you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut at the pressure that writhed in your core.

Joel's fingers lifted the hem of your shirt, his mouth widening in a grin at the way that your stomach rose and fell in spattered pants. "Come on, darlin'," he crooned, "open those pretty eyes for me. Gotta see you, doll."

It was all you could do not to take his hand in your own and shove it to your core where you needed him desperately, but you did as he asked.

"That's it, baby," he breathed, good girl."

You'd become familiar with the way your stomach clenched at his use of pet names, but this was new. You had done well for him. You wanted to stay that way. "Will you touch me please? I need—"

"So eager," he murmured, leaning in with his lips to your earlobe. "Lemme take my time with you, dollface." And then his lips were wrapping to the soft part of your ear, his teeth grazing at your skin. Paired with this sensation and the heady feeling of his hand on your waistband, fumbling to push his hand beneath it, you arched your back and released a series of high-pitched whines.

"JoelJoelJoelpleasepleaseplease," you were overcome with the pure, unbridled need that was speeding through your body like a tidal wave on a summer day.

"Alright, darlin', alright," he acquiesced, pushing his hand into your waistband and pulling it down over your hips. You didn't even have the mind to be shy about being laid bare to him this way; you just needed him to touch you.

Before you could beg him again, he had his fingertip on your core, sliding it gently through your slick heat. "Oh, baby," he groaned, rutting his hips against your side. His bulge pressed into your hip and you flexed your fingers to reach for it. "M'never gettin' used to how wet you are for me," his voice shook.

One finger became two, and then his fingertips were rubbing sweet circles to your sensitive bud, drawing near pornographic moans to tumble past your lips. "Can I touch you, please?" you begged, your hand fisting your bedsheets. "Wanna touch you, Joel, please."

He hummed against your ear as he swiped another finger against your bud and lifted your hand to his lips. "Sure thing, doll," he said, and placed it in his hair. Your fingers instinctually carded through the coarse strands, and you blushed when his eyes fluttered closed. "Hold on tight if you need to, pretty girl," he grinned, and lemme know if it's too much."

You were going to ask if what was too much, but then he dipped his finger further down your core, notching it at the small opening. You hadn't even thought this far ahead, that things would eventually lead here. Something pulsed and you whined, tugging his hair in your hand.

"Look at you, so ready for me," he murmured against your neck. His tongue swept out to lick a small stripe along the sensitive skin there and when you let out a stuttering breath he chuckled. "You are ready for me, aren't ya, pretty girl?"

You couldn't nod fast enough. "Please," you choked out, and then he was pressing his finger inside you.

It was a small intrusion, but overwhelming all the same. In all your years, you'd never had the thought that it could feel this good to have him close to you like this. He was only as far as the first knuckle, but with the way that his bulge was nudging your hips, he wanted much more. "Good girl," he breathed, "such a good girl, openin' your legs like this."

"Wanna touch you," you whimpered again, vision blurring with the desperation that coursed through your veins. "Please, Joel, let me touch you."

He kissed you, but you could hardly focus enough to move your lips against his. "Already touchin' me," he said. "You want more?"

"Yes," you nodded feverishly, releasing your hand from his hair. "I wanna..." you looked down at his bulge and licked your lips.

Joel's eyes were wide as he whispered, "For fuck's sake, darlin', when you're cryin' about it..." he swiped a thumb across your cheeks, collecting a teardrop you hadn't even known was there. "How could I say no?"

Thankyouthankyouthankyou were the only words in your mind, a jumbled mess as you reached for him. Your finger traced his length and before you knew it, you were reaching inside his boxers to release it from its constraints. "Holy fuck," you whined, bucking your hips into his hand as you saw just how big he was, long and thick and heavy in your hand. "Need it," you found yourself whispering. "Need you."

It was all you could do before he pushed his finger further, then out, and then in, just enough to throw you closer to that addicting edge of ecstasy. Once again, you found yourself enveloped in the thick pressure of pure desire in his arms.

He pressed the pad of his thumb to your bud and swirled circles in your heat, his lips connecting to your ear once more. "Alright, baby. Alright, baby," he practically chanted in a low tone, nibbling on your lobe just hard enough to pinch the skin. "C'mon now, squeeze my finger like that, that's it," he groaned, drawing out the final two syllables, "good girl."

With his hand in the crux of your legs and his mouth connected to your ear, whispering the filthiest things you'd ever heard in your sheltered life, you threw your head back into the pillow and curled your legs toward him, your hand squeezing his cock tightly as you continued your strokes.

The sounds that erupted from your throat as you burst in a state of pure pleasure were the most pitiful (and yet electrifying) noises you'd ever heard yourself make, and you couldn't help but continue rolling your hips into his hands, chasing the feeling until it became more intense and your legs began to twitch again. "Joel," you mewled, voice breaking, "I need you."

A teasing chuckle sounded, and your cheeks warmed as he removed his hand from your slick. "So much you don't know, dollface," he crooned, tracing his index down the line of your nose. He pushed another, shining with your release, into your mouth. The sweetness nearly made you fall apart again. "Don't know if you're ready for that."

Your body was on fire, nearly throbbing with the insatiable need to be wrapped in his arms, with his hands everywhere, his lips anywhere. Your hand had been moving on his shaft, but his hips stuttered with your next words. "I am," you insisted, "I need you, please. I wanna feel you everywhere."

Joel's pupils went wide and he shuddered out a breath, mumbling a string of curses with his eyes shut. He thrusted his hips into your hand and then your skin was sticky and warm with his own release, some of it landing on your stomach where you lay beside him.

"Shit," he groaned with a rueful smirk. "Maybe I'm not ready for that yet." His breath fanned deliciously over your skin as he continued. "Can't hardly last long enough with the thought of stretching you out like that, baby."

You grinned, and you didn't mind the fact that he could definitely see the flush in your cheeks. "No?"

He shook his head. "Fuck no. I don't wanna think about how quickly I'll come if I were to be inside that pretty pussy yet," he said with a short and gentle tap to your mound. When your hips arched off the mattress and you whined at the sensitivity, he cooed apologetically.

"Isn't that a good thing?" you frowned slightly. "I thought I was making you feel good."

"Makin' me feel too good," he mused, bringing his hand up to hold your face toward him once more. He winked. "Can't have me comin' before you do, sweet girl. Not very gentlemanly of me."

You couldn't help the pang of doubt that clouded your face, and it must have been obvious, because then he was cupping the back of your head and pulling you to his chest. Humming into your neck, he smirked. "Besides, I want to be able to take my sweet time with you. To see you squirmin' beneath me like you do, baby? S'enough to make the pope leave the goddamn church."

tysm for reading, i can't believe you guys convinced me to write MORE filth for these two. u made it to the end, lemme know what you thought!

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #pervy!joel #innocent!f!reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller #joel miller tlou #tlou smut #tlou fic #tlou joel fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #the last of us smut #jackson!joel miller #joel miller x innocent!f!reader #fem!reader #joel x fem!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n

[wildestdreamsblog]

Hiraeth IV

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader

Summary: You had always been his, and no one could take you away from him. Idol!AU

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Slight age gap, Murder intention, Mention of death, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: back from the grave :>

Masterlist, Hiraeth III

Seven years ago, United States of America

“You saw him last night,” your therapist repeated gently when you paused to breathe. Your eyes watered, remembering the dream- no, the nightmare you had last night. It had been almost two years since you last saw any of them, since you last saw any remnants of your past.

It had been two years, yet one dream of him managed to shatter your progress. One dream of his sorrowful eyes managed to break you. And you hated it. You hated him. You hated yourself for not being stronger.

He was just a figment of your imagination, memories manifesting themselves through your subconscious- and sadly, that was enough to make you crumble.

You reminded yourself that Seokjin was just that- someone from your past.

“And how did that make you feel?”

You looked up at her with tears in your eyes, “Terrified,” you whispered shakily, wrapping your hands tighter around yourself. “He terrifies me.”

She regarded you over her eyeglasses for a moment, her hands posed to write on her list of all the things that were wrong about you. “You still think he killed your father,” she said with a matter-of-fact tone.

And you answered merely with anger in your eyes.

You ran.

Of course you ran again. You weren’t strong enough to stay, and even if you were, there was no place in your heart for him. Not when it still hurt looking at him. Not when every time you look into his eyes, you were brought back to that day when he died. Not when you were reminded of that day, not when your desperation and misery were resurfacing every time he was near.

Not when a part of you blamed him for the tragedy of the only family you had.

This was exactly why you left.

This was why you ran so far that you left the only home you knew, and why you left him standing there alone with his head bowed down.

“The faster you get the owner to sign, the faster you can return here,” your boss replied from over the video chat, excitement apparent in his voice once you finished your presentation. You included other restaurants that you visited with Jungkook, even going as far as underselling Seokjin’s business. You even didn’t mention that he was the owner, respecting his privacy.

And yet, your boss who wasn’t even paying you enough to face your nightmare, chose his restaurant. It was just your fucking luck, you thought.

“Boss, I really think that the first option is better-“

He squinted his eyes at you as though he was looking right through your bullshits. You knew his restaurants was the best among the choices. Objectively speaking, choosing him would benefit your company the most. Even without his named connected to the store, it was already performing better than the others. You wondered that what height of success it would reached once people knew that the Kim Seokjin owned it? You knew that. Yet, you were only human and as such, you couldn’t help but be affected by your emotions, to be subjective when success was merely one signature away.

“The faster you can return here, the sooner you’ll get your promotion which is already being processed. The only thing missing is my signature. And I did promise you I will sign, the promotion is yours- as soon as you get the owner to sign.”

This was a draining meeting and an even more exhausting day. You didn’t think you slept at all last night, and you left his house early morning like a common thief, moving so quietly and taking the things you considered essential with you. You just really wanted to breathe, to be think without his intoxicating presence clouding your mind.

“I know you can do this. I trust no one but you.”

Of course you knew you could. The question lied whether you would survive this, whether you would survived him.

Those were his parting words before he ended the call. Had this been anyone else, literally anyone else, you would have been on top of this. You were a professional and damn good with your job. This shouldn’t be any different…right?

In fact, this should have been easier because you knew him. You knew Kim Seokjin. Except that you couldn’t be any more wrong. You didn’t know the other half of him, the sinister, selfish and dark side of him.

The coffee shop was now swarming with people as the day approached midmorning. Ever since you left his house, you were here quietly working, doing anything to take your mind off that kiss…off of him. Yet, every time you closed your eyes, your mind went to him. You could still feel his lips on yours, could still feel the warmth of his hands as he cradled you so close to him, could still feel how truly powerless you were when it came to him. If you were going to be completely and utterly honest, you could still feel how hard your heart was beating that moment. He was a force to be reckoned with. He was then, and still was, bigger than life. It was truly unfair how he grew old to be even more perfect and dashing than he was when you were younger. And what you hated the most was how he could still fucking affect you as though you were still that young girl who followed him around. And look what he reduced you to, a coward who ran when he was at his weakest.

You sighed before turning to look at the window to your right, only to be met with who seemed to be the lead rapper and main dancer of the group, Jung Hoseok. He was wearing a disguised, only his eyes could be seen and he was apparently looking at you with urgency in his eyes. His body was huffing in exhaustion as though he had been running around.

He did not waste anymore time as he entered the coffee shop and went to you, his hand immediately encircling your wrist as though to ensure that you could no longer run.

“You have to come with me.”

“What? Why?” Your brows furrowed at the seriousness on his face. You were aware that he was the sunshine of the group, that he was the light of the group. You would be living under a rock if you didn’t know of him. This was the reason why it confused you why he suddenly seemed…angry. Or why he looked to be moving with utmost urgency.

You could feel people looking at you with curiosity, and it wouldn’t be long before someone recognized him. He knew it. And you knew it. Hoseok was taking advantage of the fact that he bet you wouldn’t want to make a scene, and thus he was able to take you in his car without much of a fight.

He maneuvered the car expertly, his eyes focused on road. He was the perfect picture of calmed and composed if not for the way he gripped the steering wheel. Amongst all the members, he was probably the least you had interaction with which was precisely why how he was acting confused the hell out of you. He was acting as though you had personally offended him, as though what you did was close to becoming unforgivable.

Which brought you once again to this question: what did you do to him?

“What is this all about?” You asked him in a barely restrained contempt. You didn’t bode well with being dragged out of an establishment by a man you barely knew, and his silence was not doing him any good but to piss you. It was a good thing you weren’t a sensitive person for how could you grow up to be one when you were being constantly rejected by Seokjin. He was running and pushing you away at least three times a day that you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

But this man beside you was driving you nuts

You thought he wouldn’t answer as he only chuckled without any emotions, his eyes cold as he glanced briefly at you.

“Do you know what you’ve done to him? Do you have any idea what you’re doing to my hyung?” He asked conversationally as if his words weren’t meant to be knives to you.

“Wha-“

“Put on your seatbelt,” he ordered harshly, looking at you with coldness in his eyes. “As much as I hate how you made him a mess, I know you getting hurt would messed him up further.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“You’ll see.”

Hoseok left you with no choice but to follow him, his steps brisk as he entered the Hybe building with obvious familiarity. After numerous turns, he stopped in front of a door. You heard crashes of something heavy and corresponding grunts of men struggling before you even saw him. Hoseok turned to you with coldness in his eyes before he even opened the door. And what you saw was your usually strong Jin reduced to a mess of a man. His eyes were hallow, his hair a mess as he struggled against the hold of Namjoon and Jungkook who were trying their best to contain him. Your mouth hanged agape as you took him in and the chaos that he seemed to have caused to the what you thought was once a pristine room: chair thrown across the room, devices swept off of the table, decorations askew as though they suffered from violence. He still hadn’t looked at you, still hadn’t taken notice of your presence and you didn’t know why you were glad for it.

“Hyung, stop it! You’re hurting yourself!” Jungkook pleaded, yet it was as though he wasn’t heard. Jin’s eyes were unfocused as he struggled with the hold the two men had on him, his eyes determined.

“P-Princess- I have to find her,” he mumbled incoherently as he tried to push them away.

You stepped back albeit unconsciously as though it was your mind telling you to run from this…to run from him. But you didn’t go far. You felt J-hopes hands on your shoulders, effectively preventing you from leaving.

“Where are you going?” He asked with a low voice. “Why can’t you look at what you’ve done to him?”

“I didn’t do anything to him!” You hissed at him, struggling to get away from him, only for it to draw attention to you. Namjoon was the first to notice you and he looked both alarmed and relieved by your presence. “Fix this,” Hoseok ordered you coldly.

He smiled before stepping you near to where Jin was. “I found her, hyung,” he announced gently to the man you almost couldn’t recognized. “You need to calm down now, okay? We still need to go to our shoot, hyung.”

Jin blinked his eyes before he focused on you, his body immediately relaxing upon seeing you. Yet, your eyes weren’t on him. Instead, they focused on the nondescript bottle of medicine beside him. The orange bottle looked to be almost empty. You didn’t know why it seemed to be something important, but you couldn’t help wondering…What was that?

Namjoon’s eyes widened when he saw where your eyes were and in a blink of an eye, he snatched the container and pocketed it away from your prying eyes. However, even Namjoon’s quick reflexes were not able to stop that image from being engraved in your mind. Was Seokjin…sick?

“P-princess?” Seokjin called for you, disbelief evident in his voice. He pushed their hands away from him, his sole focus on you. He stood up immediately, his long limbs carrying him. He looked as disheveled as he felt when he thought you left him again.

You couldn’t moved. It was as though you were rooted to the ground, waiting for the inevitable. You felt his arms wrapped around you like a child scared to part with you, he was trembling as he held you to him. However, his voice was dark as he whispered to you.

“Don’t leave? Please? Never leave me again. Never disappear without saying a word again. Please. I don’t know what I’ll do if you leave.”

“Something is clearly very wrong with that boy,” Seokjin’s father muttered lowly as he watched his only son talked to you in the garden.

It was Jin’s birthday and like every year, the family threw a party for their beloved son. He was perfect, they thought. He got good grades, was sporty, obedient, independent, and showed promising intelligence when it came to their company. See, he was perfect in theory. However, the older Kim couldn’t help but noticed his strange dependence on you. It wasn’t…normal, he thought.

You weren’t supposed to be here. In fact, you had an exam tomorrow and as a fourteen year-old girl, you took your studies seriously. However, Jin didn’t take your absence from his birthday lightly. Upon hearing that you wouldn’t be able to make it, it was as though he lost his smile and what took over was an expressionless face. He didn’t know how, but Seokjin was able to make several calls and lo and behold, your exam was rescheduled.

Even at his age, a ripe eighteen year-old young man, he excluded power and he wasn’t afraid to use it and his charms to get what he wanted.

“Don’t say that, honey,” Mrs. Kim chided him gently, a frown on her face as she watched her son smiled genuinely for the first time tonight. “He’s just…close with her.”

“Honey, he’s eighteen years old now. He shouldn’t act like he did just because she wasn’t near him. You know that,” he said gently, looking into his wife’s eyes with concern. “It’s not normal. His need for her isn’t normal.”

Mrs. Kim placed her tea on the table with a light thud, “Our son is perfect. There’s nothing wrong with him,” she replied in defiance.

Perhaps, if she accepted what was apparent that time, Kim Seokjin wouldn’t turn out to be evil living in the body of an angel.

Tip Jar

Hiraeth V

#kim seokjin #bts fic #yandere bts #bts fanfic #bts yandere #kim seokjin fic #yandere kim seokjin #yandere seokjin #kim seokjin x you #kim seokjin x reader #kim seokjin x y/n #seokjin x reader #seokjin fanfic #seokjin x y/n

[beyondthesefourwalls]

Remember You Even When I Don't (5)

Summary: A training accident, the doctor had told him. A nasty one that led him here, laying in a hospital bed with a splitting headache and an inability to remember the woman sitting beside him. What he did know, though, was that you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and you felt important to him. That, as it turns out, would become an understatement.

Words: 5.4K

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw/Reader (no use of y/n, so can be read as unnamed oc)

Warnings: angst, hospitals, memory loss, language, eventual smut

Notes: The response for this continues to blow me away. Thank you all so much! Hearing your thoughts about these two makes me so happy and is so encouraging to write a little bit faster. Please continue to comment and reblog, and my inbox is always open! I love to talk about these two :)

This was inspired by a one shot by the lovely @roosterforme and would not exist without her assistance. If you haven't read any of her stuff, please check out her masterlist - you won't be disappointed! All of the thanks to her and @mak-32 for being the best cheerleaders and friends I could ask for!

Buckle in, folks!

-----

He spends that first night tossing and turning, fighting to find sleep. It’s hard for him to be down the hall, knowing you were so close, yet so far out of his reach. In only a few days, he had gotten used to falling asleep and waking up with you in the chair beside his bed. The next morning, you somehow look more tired now than you had the whole time he was in the hospital, and he was sure that he was the same. 

Being here was different than he anticipated. Part of him expected to walk into this house and have every memory he’d lost rush back to him in technicolor. He was disappointed when that didn’t happen, and he thinks that even if you won’t say it, you are, too. 

He didn’t remember anything, but his instincts were there. He knew which drawer held the utensils and which cabinet housed plates and bowls and which one had coffee cups. He knew where the two of you kept Florry’s food and that her treats were kept in one of the drawers in the coffee table. It was muscle memory, he supposed. 

But his brain tickled sometimes, like it wanted to remember something but couldn’t. He often felt that frustrating sensation of something being right there on the tip of his tongue, but he’s unable to produce exactly what it is. 

He dreams every night. His subconscious creates scenes of flying and crashing ocean waves, of snow covered streets and twinkle lights. He swears your laughter echoes in his ears when he rouses to consciousness. 

He doesn’t know if they’re memories, or if they’re figments brought on by the yearning he feels toward you the longer he’s around you. Either way, they’re never quite clear enough for him to even ask you about them. But he sneaks into your office one night and swipes a pen and a pad of sticky notes and takes to writing down all the details he can recall when he wakes up. 

Over the first few days of being home, the two of you get into a tentative routine. You somehow wake before he does, and there’s coffee waiting for him when he makes his way downstairs. You’re not much of a breakfast person, but you make him eggs and bacon and toast or whatever he’s in the mood for, even if he insists you don’t have to. You take him to his follow up appointments or evaluations, which takes up his time until the early afternoon. The two of you have taken to grabbing lunch while you’re out everyday, before going back to the home you share and making yourselves busy until dinner.

He finds himself wanting to touch you more. There were no more forehead kisses, but his knee will knock against yours sometimes when the two of you are eating. He always holds the door open for you whenever you two are out, and sometimes you’ll brush against him just so when you’re passing by. When the two of you are walking somewhere, his fingers twitch to hold onto yours. He’s taken to placing his hand near your lower back, not quite touching you, but close enough where he can feel your body heat. 

You like to curl up in the corner of your sectional couch, and he feels like you’re a million miles away when he sits on the other end. 

Getting to know you again is a whirlwind of feelings he doesn’t understand. You’re kind, and beautiful, and you make him laugh. He has near constant butterflies in his stomach whenever you’re around. 

He knows himself well enough to know that he’s developed feelings for you, and the concept makes his head hurt, knowing this isn’t the first time but not remembering it. He doesn’t mention it to you, because he doesn’t know if it would make things better or worse. 

He wants to ask you questions about the two of you, too. You told him how you met, but he wants to know what your first date was like. He wants to know who said I love you first, though he thinks it was him. He wants to know how he proposed after only 4 months of knowing you and he wants to know why you said yes. 

He wants to know everything, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Part of him is scared of the answers.

He’s seen the way you look at him, sometimes. Like it breaks your heart for him to be there with you, even though he knows how relieved you are for him to be. You don’t say anything to him, but he knows that you’re struggling. You do your best to always keep a smile on your face around him, but it’s your eyes that give you away, combined with this deep instinct he seems to have when it comes to you and your emotions.

After dinner every night, you’ve been finding yourselves sitting out on the back porch. The weather has been getting cooler and watching the sun go down with you has become his favorite part of being home. You avoid anything too heavy, too intimate, but you regale him with different tales from the last few years with your friends and your individual careers, or of you before you knew him, but the light in your eye is dim whenever you finish a tale and there’s no recognition in his. 

He’s worried about you, but he doesn’t know if he has the right to tell you that. There’s something of a tension building in the air, and he can’t figure out how to cut through it just yet.  

But he enjoys getting to know you again, and he hangs onto your every word. He loves every single moment the two of you have together and craves more of them. Even the most mundane of things, like when he went with you to the grocery store of all places. Phoenix had loaded their kitchen with essentials, but there was a specific recipe you were wanting to make that you swore he would love but that you needed a few things for. You looked surprised when he had asked if he could go with you, but pleased at the same time. 

He pushed the cart as you checked things off your list and god, he loved watching you. You were looking up and down the aisle you were standing in, seemingly a little puzzled, and he was completely enraptured. 

“I can never remember where the dates are,” you muttered, and he thinks it might have been only to yourself, but he couldn’t help but smirk a little bit. 

“On a calendar?” 

You shot him a look, looking incredulous but amused, and smacked him lightly on the arm with the list you were carrying. The touch sent a shot of electricity through him and he laughed, feeling warm. “Ow.” 

“Okay, you comedian,” you rolled your eyes playfully, “I was going to make you dessert, but maybe I won’t now,” 

“No, come on,” he laughed, pushing the cart forward, nodding his head to the side, “They’re in the next aisle over,” 

You stop walking, and after a second, Bradley does too, realizing what he just said. He turns to you and you’re looking at him with wide, hopeful eyes. He thinks he might see a little bit of pride in them, too. And it’s so silly, getting choked up by instinctively remembering where something is in a grocery store he can never remember being in, but he feels a lump in his throat anyway. He coughs, trying to dislodge the emotion. You don’t say a word, maybe sensing the moment that he’s having, but you squeeze his arm when you pass by him on your way to the aisle he indicated. After a moment, he follows behind you. 

He thinks he would follow you anywhere. 

————

It’s a Friday and he's been home for eight days now. He has a headache when he wakes up that morning, and he can’t remember anything notable from the previous night's dream to write down in his notebook. Part of him wants to go back to sleep and try again, but he pushes himself out of bed anyway. 

Like she had been the last few days, Florry is laying at the guest room door when he opens it. She looks up and meows at him, nuzzling into his hand when he squats down to scratch her head for a moment before she gets up and struts away. He snorts at her, amused at how as soon as she gets what she wants, she moves on to something else. 

He makes his way downstairs slowly, feeling like a drum is pounded right in his ear with every step. There’s a distinct spice in the air as he walks toward the kitchen, and it takes a few sniffs before he places it. 

“Pumpkin?” 

To his surprise, you gasp, and the knife you were holding slips from your grasp and clatters to the granite countertop. You jumped back from it, but your wide eyes were looking straight at him. 

“What did you just call me?”

“What?” 

“You said - you called me Pumpkin.” 

This was one of those significant moments that he was missing. Bradley suddenly felt incredibly awkward, and a little ashamed. A flush crept up his neck to warm his cheeks in the worst way. 

“I uh - I was talking about the smell.”

Watching your face fall cuts him worse than the knife you had been holding ever could. For a brief moment, he saw raw devastation completely overcome you. He starts to say your name, but you cut him off before he can.

“I’m making pumpkin banana pancakes,” you tell him after a moment. You pick the knife back up to continue cutting up the fruit you had on the cutting board. He wants to ask you what had just happened, but bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself. He’s frustrated that he can’t remember, and the hurt in your eyes was making his head pound harder. He hates that he’s putting you through this. 

The two of you eat breakfast together, but it’s quieter than it normally is. The air was awkward, tense, and it seemed that neither one of you really knew what to say. 

The day had only gotten worse from there. He was late for his doctor's appointment because the two of you had gotten stuck in traffic, and there was little he hated more in life than being late. His headache had only gotten worse, and he hadn’t been cleared to drive or go back to any sort of desk duty yet. To top it all off, the two of you had run into someone you knew during a near silent lunch and he had to awkwardly push himself through the conversation while pretending he did, too ashamed to actually say he had no idea who he was. 

By the time you returned back home, he was in a sour mood, and he really wanted to go back to bed. 

“Do you need anything?” you asked softly, hovering between the kitchen and living room as he settled himself on the couch unceremoniously. 

“No,” he said shortly, pulling a blanket over him. 

You sigh, and he’s irritated with himself for making you feel bad, too. 

“I’m going to go up to my office for a bit then, okay?” he doesn’t respond. When you sigh, he’s irritated with himself even more for making you feel bad, too. “You can come up and get me if you need anything.” 

Bradley tries to nap the afternoon away, but it’s more fitful than restful. He tosses and turns on the couch. Florry jumps on him at one point, waking him from one of his dozes. 

He closes his eyes, trying again to find some sort of sleep, but nothing comes for him. His mind was moving a little too quickly now, and the guilt was setting in. He had been short with you almost all day, and even if he was frustrated, you didn’t deserve that. You were frustrated too, even if you wouldn’t say it. 

Sometimes he wishes you would.

Why the hell did this happen to him after everything else in his life?

His dad, and then his mom, and Mav pulling his papers. He still hasn’t brought himself to reach out to the man he had apparently reconciled with, but you’ve mentioned how he’s asked after him whenever the two of you speak, as had the rest of the crew. It’s frustrating, suddenly having all these people in his life who he views as family, only to have no recollection of who they are. Seeing himself in all of these pictures that are throughout the house constantly boggles his mind. He hates being so confused all the time. 

He hates that he can’t remember you, and that you spend all of your days trying to be strong for him. 

He groans, running a hand roughly over his face. After another 45 minutes of staring at the ceiling fan spin, he throws the blanket off of his legs and forces himself up. He couldn’t do much, but he could at least apologize. 

He drags himself up the stairs slowly, trying to figure out exactly what to say. The door to your office is pulled closed for the first time since he’s come home; he tries not to read into that as you wanting him to stay away. He goes to take a step closer and knock, but your voice through the door stops him. 

“The timing is awful, Jake.”

His eyebrows furrowed together. The only Jake he knew was Hangman, and he hasn’t wrapped his mind completely around the fact that he was apparently one of his best friends now. 

“Bringing a baby into this would make everything so much more complicated. He’s struggling enough as it is. You think suddenly becoming a father would make this all better? The test being negative is for the best.” 

He sucks in a breath, feeling like he just got suckerpunched right in the stomach. He braces himself against the hallway wall with one hand, unsure if he heard you correctly. 

“I’m okay,” you say, and he wishes he could hear both sides of the conversation. He feels like he’s going to pass out. “I promise.” 

There’s another pause, and you let out a small laugh, “I might take you up on that, J.” 

Bradley backs away from the door, his mind going a thousand miles a minute as he tries to process what just happened. 

A baby? You were talking about having a baby. You had mentioned a test. Had you taken it recently? Since he had been home? Why hadn’t you told him, if you had? Was this something that had happened before his accident and just another thing that he forgot? 

He’s your husband. He may not remember it, but he was. Didn’t he have a right to know? 

He stews for a while, and that’s his biggest mistake. He’s scared, and bizarrely disappointed, he’s hurt, but most of all he’s angry. He’s angry that you’re talking to other people about something so personal, but not him. And Hangman, of all people. It festers inside of him, and by the time you come back downstairs, he’s sizzling in it.

“How does chicken and asparagus sound for dinner?” You’re smiling as you walk into the room, but it drops when you see the look in his face. “Are you alright?”

“You thought you were pregnant?”

The color drains from your face, and he knows he has his answer. He stands up from the couch to face you, his thoughts jumbled together, fighting for dominance in his head. You had thought you were pregnant. And you didn’t tell him. 

“How did you know that?” 

“I overheard you on the phone with Hangman,” he practically spits the name, feeling his anger swell even more. “When did you take it?” 

“Bradley-” 

“When did you take the test?” 

You let out a long, shaky breath. You’re twisting your ring around your finger again, and your eyes are starting to glass up, but he forces himself not to focus on any of that. “Yesterday,” you admit softly, “I took it yesterday.” 

He groans, running a hand through his hair. You both had been in this house almost all day yesterday. He had been right here. “Why wouldn’t you tell me? I could have been there with you!”

“Bradley-” 

“Why wouldn’t you tell me that we’d been trying to have kids before I got hurt?” 

“Bradley, I really don’t think we should talk about this right now,” you said, trying to remain as calm as possible, but he was already way past that point. 

“Well I want to talk about it,” he snaps, “Why would you keep this from me?”

“I’m not keeping anything from you!” you say, your voice rising to meet his. “We aren’t trying for a baby, Bradley. It was a scare. That’s all.”

“But you still took a test! And you didn’t tell me!” 

“There was nothing to tell,” you try, but Bradley shakes his head as his anger reaches a boiling point. 

“Not to me, apparently. You told fucking Hangman about it, but not me? Aren’t I the one who is supposed to be your husband?”

“Yeah, Bradley. You are,” you finally snap, your voice raising for the first time, “But how the hell was I supposed to tell you when you don’t even remember who I am?” 

It was a low blow, but Bradley has never been one to back down.

“I’m trying!” he yells, and you startle back at just how loud he is, “I’m trying every single day. You think I don’t want to remember you? Someone I apparently almost had a kid with? Someone who I want to care for and protect even though I have no idea why? I know this sucks for you, but think about what I’m going through here.” 

“You think I’m not thinking about you?” you demand, shaking your head, “You’re all I’ve been thinking about, Bradley!” 

“Am I?,” he asks, and your mouth drops at the words, but he keeps going anyway even though every instinct in him is screaming at him to shut up. “I trust you without being able to remember you, but it’s hard to do that if you keep things from me. I have no idea what the fuck is going on the majority of the time and you’re the only one I have who will tell me things. Or don’t you want me to remember?” 

The words came out harsher than he anticipated. The look on your face made him wish that he could take them back. His anger dissipated as he saw the tears that had been welling up in your eyes finally fall. 

Your name left his lips, but you cut him off before an apology could follow behind.

“Of course I do,” you choked out, a sob catching in your throat. It looks like there’s more you want to say, but after a moment, you just shake your head, your breathing labored. “I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

Those weren’t the words he expected. Alarm bells are ringing loudly in his head, demanding he fix what he’s done here. 

“What?”

“I need some air,” you explain, your voice cracking. His heart ached watching you gather your phone and keys. 

He speaks your name again, pleading and reaching out for you as you step toward the front door. To his surprise, you ripped your arm out of his grasp. “You don’t call me that,” you snapped. Bradley’s eyes widened. He watches as you take a deep breath, steadying yourself. 

“I’ll be back in a little bit,” you promise. You don’t look at him as you grab a pair of shoes from the closet by the front door, slipping them on. You don’t slam the door when you leave, but the sound of it closing still echoes like gunfire to him. 

He sinks back onto the couch, his aching head in his hands, wondering what the hell he had just done.

————

An hour has passed and you still weren’t back yet. Bradley has taken to pacing back and forth through the living room, peeking out of the curtains by the front door. He shouldn’t have let you leave when you were that upset. He shouldn’t have made you that upset to begin with. He was out of line.

When he really thinks about it with a clearer mind, he understands to an extent why you didn’t tell him about taking the test. He was virtually a stranger to you right now. There would have been little point to filling him in right now when it would have just panicked and confused him. He knows, deep down, that if the test would have been positive that you would have told him. But he had been so scared at that moment, overhearing you on the phone like that. And if he really admitted it to himself, he was jealous, too. He wanted to be the one you confided in for all of those things, big or small, certainty or uncertainty. But he had done nothing to really earn that. 

It wasn’t fair that he accused you of not thinking about him, either. It was so clear in everything that the two of you did that you were taking him into consideration. You had stayed with him every single day in the hospital. You had taken an impromptu leave of absence from work and drove him to all of his appointments. You cooked all of his meals for him and made sure he took his medicine on time and were readily available if he needed anything. You did everything you could to make him as comfortable as he could possibly be in this impossibly uncomfortable situation. You had sacrificed everything for him, and he was a jerk to you in response. 

He really, really wants you to come home soon. 

He had gotten his phone back, but he hadn’t brought himself around to touching it yet, knowing it would be full of a whole life that he wasn’t ready to face yet. Would you even answer if he called at this point? 

Maybe he could go look for you instead. 

Right when he’s about to grab his shoes, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He heaves a sigh of relief when he sees you climbing the steps to the back porch through the window in the kitchen.

You must have come through the back gate instead. He doesn’t even care if it was because you wanted to avoid running into him immediately, so long as you were safe. 

You don’t unlock the door or move to enter the house. Instead, he watches as you settle into one of the plush chairs you have out there below the window that faces into the yard. Your back is to him now, but he’s breathing easier that you’re in his line of sight; you’re okay. 

He lets you be, for a little while. But after another 20 minutes had passed and the sun started setting without you coming inside, he couldn’t take it anymore. He was vibrating with the need to be near you again, to talk to you and apologize. He didn’t like being on the outs with you like this, and he knew it was mostly his fault. 

Your knees are tucked into your chest and your head leant back, but he could see that your eyes were open. They turned to him when he cracked open the door. 

“Hey,” he said simply. 

“Hey.” Your voice is still thick with the tears you had cried earlier. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, knowing he was the one who caused it. 

“Do you mind if I join you out here?” 

“Sure.” 

He steps out onto the porch, sliding the door shut behind him. You look back out into the orange covering your background as he sinks into the chair next to you. 

“How uh..how was your walk?” 

“It was fine,” you respond, hugging your knees a little bit closer. You go to push a piece of hair behind your ear and your ring glints in the setting sun. 

“I was worried about you,” he whispers, barely loud enough for you to hear him. But you do, turning your head to look at him. For the first time, he can’t quite read the look on your face. He takes a shaky breath, rubbing his palms on his thighs as he tries to figure out his words. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I shouldn’t have kept something that big from you.” 

He shakes his head, because blaming yourself is the last thing he wants for you. “You were looking out for me,” he says, “I understand that now. You…you would have told me, if the results were different. I know that.” 

You nod, not saying anything, and Bradley sighs out your name again. “It wasn’t fair for me to snap at you like that. To yell at you like that. I-I’m so sorry.” 

“You’re going through a lot right now.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but so are you. All of this, me being hurt and not….” he cuts himself off, but by the way you close your eyes and let a tear slip down your cheek, you knew exactly what he was going to say. 

Not remembering us. 

“I’ll never be mad at you for being injured, baby,” you say quietly. The term of endearment takes him by surprise. You were always careful with calling him by his name in an unnecessary effort to make him more comfortable; part of him wondered if you were trying to curb his own guilt. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says back. He desperately wants you to know that. You take a shuddering breath at the words. 

“This isn’t your fault,” you say it like it’s an oath, so much so that he almost believes you. But it was hard to do that when there were tears sliding down your cheeks. 

“Having you here is harder than I thought it would be,” you admitted so quietly that Bradley could barely hear you. “It’s like a part of me is missing, even though you’re right here in front of me. And I know it’s hard for you to not remember anything, and I’m being selfish-“ 

“You aren’t being selfish.”

You chuckle humorlessly, wiping away at your tears. 

“I’m serious,” he says, and his fingers itch to reach for you. “I think you may be the most selfless person I’ve ever met. You’ve done nothing but take care of me the last two weeks, even when I was in the hospital.” 

“I’ll always take care of you,” you promise, “You’re the most important person in the world to me, Bradley.” 

He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that at first, overcome with the emotions that it caused. He thinks that he would do anything for you, too. 

“I want to remember you,” he finds himself saying, and your eyes shoot to him again, startled at the words. He nods. “I’m not-I’m not good at saying how I feel. But I’ve never, ever felt like I do when I’m with you. You give me butterflies. And I have this instinctual urge to protect you and make you happy. Being around you has been the best part of everyday, even if I’m so confused the whole time.” 

You sniffle as more tears fall. 

“You say all those things about me,” he continues, “and how you’ll always take care of me. And I know I would do the same for you. Even now.”

He lets out a shaky breath, ”It’s like I know who you are right here,” he taps his hand against his chest over his heart, and you let out a small sob. He raises his hand to tap his fingers against his forehead, too. “But I think I need your help to remember you here, okay?”

“I can do that,” you hiccup, nodding rapidly. “We can do it together.”

“That sounds nice.” It really, really does. He returns your soft, watery smile, and he revels in how your eyes shine in the moonlight that had appeared, looking at him like he really was something special to you. 

“Can I -” you stop, clearing your throat and shaking your head as if you’re trying to talk yourself out of something. 

“What?” he encourages. 

“Nothing.” 

“No,” he insists, “please. Tell me.” 

“Can I ask you to do something for me?” 

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in his answer; he wants to do whatever he could for you. 

Your breathing is shaky, and your voice is as small as he had heard it since he’d opened his eyes and had no idea who you were to him. Your eyes are bright with tears and dull with heartache all at the same time, but you’re still so heartbreakingly beautiful to him. 

“You tell me everyday. Multiple times most days, and even when you’re deployed, I don’t think you’ve gone this long without saying it somehow. I’ve been wanting to hear it so bad since I got the call you were hurt, because I knew it would mean that you’re okay, and I know you aren’t okay, but you’re here and that’s all that really matters and I-” 

He whispers your name to stop your rambling, worried about how tightly you were wringing your hands together and how quickly your breaths were coming. “What is it?” 

“Can you just…tell me you love me? Please?” 

Tears spring to his eyes this time, hating himself for putting you in this situation where you ever, ever had to ask him for something like this. The him from three weeks ago would hate the him sitting here right now. Hell, current him hates himself a little bit. He pushes that hatred aside, though, because this is something he can do. You’re going through misery because of him and this is the first request you had of him.

He doesn’t stop himself this time from reaching out for you. He drops to his knees in front of the chair you were curled up in, cupping your face in his hands. You gasp softly through your tears, reaching up and gripping his wrists in your own hands. He likes to think it was because you wanted to hold him there against you. Even with your tears splashing against his skin, it feels so right, touching you like this. 

You were breathing the same air as one another. He wipes a tear away when it hit his skin. He waits until your glassy eyes lock with his own to whisper the words: “I love you.” 

And he knows, in the deepest depths of his soul, even after so little time passing since being reintroduced to you, that it’s true. He feels a peace settle over him that hadn’t been there before; a missing piece slotting into place, even if the puzzle is nowhere near complete. Saying it feels so, so right, and he can’t help but close the distance between the two of you. It’s a gentle touch, but your lips are so soft against his that he leans into it. 

There's electricity burning under his skin. 

Something flickers in his mind, like a light struggling to turn on. A burnt orange dress and a Cinderella reference, cobblestone streets and a latte that tastes better on your lips than in the cup. There’s a word right there, and he struggles for a moment to grasp onto it. But when he does, it’s like he’s seeing in color after being in a black and white movie. 

“Pumpkin,” he breathes against your lips, “I call you Pumpkin.” 

You sob, then, nodding your head. You’re so close that he can feel your nose brushing against his. You kiss him again, the salt of your tears mixing with his. Your hands move from where they had been grasping his wrists to wrap around his body and you let yourself fall into him, slipping from the chair to meet him on the ground. 

When you pull away from his kiss, you bury your face in his neck, still crying softly. He holds you against him tightly. 

“I’m right here,” he says into your hair like a promise, pressing his lips wherever he can reach, “we’ll remember everything together.”

----

Part Six :: Series Masterlist :: Main Masterlist

Notes: I hope you liked this one! Would love to hear any thoughts you may have :)

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#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x oc #bradley bradshaw #top gun fanfiction #tgm fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster x reader #Bradley bradshaw fic #alli writes #Bradley bradshaw x female reader #rooster imagine #bradley bradshaw angst #Bradley Bradshaw fanfiction #rooster bradshaw #Bradley Bradshaw x you #rooster x you

[i-think-he-is-adorable-too]

In your dreams

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: You had just gone to sleep, only to find him in your dreams. Could he be real or is he just a figment of your imagination.

A/N: Hello! I have this idea for a series, let me know if you would like to read it and I will keep writing it. I promise! If you like it I will stablish a calendar and post regularly. What do you think? Should I do it? Let me know!

It almost felt like it started out of nowhere, but if you were to really think about it, you would remember how much your soul yearned for it, specially that night.

You had fallen asleep crying into your pillow, muffling the sounds to not wake up anyone. Next thing you know you were standing in a simple motel room with two double beds and a tv. The man sitting on the bed was mumbling to himself while trying to fix the remote control. The moment you set your eyes on him, even from behind, you recognized him. You could have thought about the actor who played him, but somehow you knew. Ultimately it was your dream.

 “Dean?” you wondered out loud. He stood up and turned to face you quickly. “Who are you? What are you doing in my dreams?” He asked. You stared at him confused, “What do you mean? This is my dream.” You clarified. “No, no, sweetheart. This is my dream, I’m really sure about it.” He argued. “Well, we can agree to disagree. Because I’m certain it´s my dream. After all you are fictional.” You responded.

“Woah, whoa. Stop right there. What do you mean fictional?” He demanded. “You are not real, you Dean Winchester are a fictional character from Supernatural, and you are played by Jensen Ackles.” You said exasperated. You had thought this dream would be good, it wasn’t every night you dreamt of your favorite fictional boyfriend, but the conversation was getting ridiculous. You have had crazy dreams, but here you were, explaining to a tv character that he wasn’t real.

He threw his head into his hands and said “Not this again. Are you an angel? Have I been sent into that weird world again where Sam is married to Ruby?”

“What? No, that was just an episode. And that’s actually similar to my world, but you haven’t been sent anywhere, because you are just a figment of my imagination.” You explained. “But that’s just the thing sweetheart, I’m real. You however, I have my doubts, I probably saw you somewhere on the street and my mind is toying with me.” He finished thoughtful. “And anyway, even if you were real, and I was fictional, why would you be dreaming of me?” He asked teasingly.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, and you stopped making eye contact. Great, now your subconscious was embarrassing you. “No reason, you know how dreams can be.” You said downplaying it. He walked towards you. “Sorry to disappoint sweetheart but it won’t be that kind of dream… unless you really want it to be.” He winked, looked at the bed and laughed. “Stop it” You said, blushing.

“So… now that we have stablished that neither of us believes the other one is real, and if you were, you would probably be in love with me. I’d like to know your name.” He expressed. You rolled your eyes, trying to act unaffected. “Y/N” You said. “My name is Y/N”

“Y/N” he tested your name “I like it. It fits you.” He continued while watching you intensely. You felt a little dizzy, probably because you were holding your breath. It felt as if his eyes were really pulling you in. He took another step towards you, and before you could say anything else, you heard your alarm ring and opened your eyes to find yourself back in your bed.

#jensen ackles #dean winchester #spn #supernatural imagine #supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester smut

[shipaxe]

My experience being wrong about multiplicity

Hi. For a year and a few months more, I believed I was a system. Why did I believe this, and what are some reasons I did, as well as how I realized I was wrong? Why I thought I was a system Around September of 2021, I labeled myself as an endogenic median system. Upon finding the system label, I did nowhere near enough research before labeling myself as one. It felt like the non-traumagenic community didn't care; if you thought you were a system, you were one! If you didn't, you weren't. It felt black and white. Eventually, I realised I had trauma I was unaware of, and switched to the label traumagenic. I was no longer median, either. In less than a year, I had 100+ "alters", almost all "fictives". While this can happen, I don't believe I was nearly as stressed as I would have needed to be, and just.. didn't feel right. Other factors that lead me into the belief I have multiple other disorders. Specifically, I suspect I have BPD, and the dissociation, mood swings, sense of emptiness, and identity issues impacted me a lot. I mistook these symptoms for OSDD-1. I subconsciously started sectioning off parts of my identity, and felt more and more separate- hence the switch from median to multiple. I am also fictionkin and polymorph otherkin. Around 20 of my "fictives" ended up being kins. I am also, to put it simply, lonely. I never feel like I fit in. In the system community, sometimes I DID feel like I fit in. When I didn't, someone else was "chilling in cofront". A lot of them were like imaginary friends to make me feel less alone. Those ones don't even feel like a part of me, but they're not separate people, either. They're just.. figments of my own imagination. To be honest, I've felt much lonelier upon learning I am a singlet. How I realized I was wrong Honestly, it was somewhat obvious. Many of my "headmates" felt like they were a part of me, and if we had different bodies, it wouldn't be the same- because they were me. I also subconsciously started to copy symptoms I didn't have, I switched as I wanted, I was fictive heavy- which can happen, but it's rarer than people realise. My trauma was not severe or repetitive. I could go on. A big problem in the system community is the "everyone is valid" mentality; I believe MUCH more research should be done before labeling as a system, and not enough people talk about it. Another issue is that not a lot of people talk about being wrong, and personally, I was terrified to tell people I was wrong. It's fucking difficult. There's too much "you're valid! you're valid! you're valid!" and not enough "hey, it's okay if you're wrong!". When I panicked around the time I realized I was wrong (and denied it for weeks), I never received an "it's okay if you're wrong". All I got was "hey, calm down, you ARE a system". I think the community has a lot to fix. This has fucked up my dissociation issues and identity problems worse than they were before. I wish I had realized I was a singlet sooner or never jumped into this label. Not all of these mean you're a singlet, but if you relate to this, please be open to the idea of being wrong. Thanks for reading this. Please share this- my goal with it is to help others. Have a good day/night, drink some water, and know that it's okay to be wrong. ☆

#did #osdd #osddid #osdd system #did system #traumagenic #endogenic #nontraumagenic #faking #osdd 1b #osdd 1a #median system #multiple system #plural system #polyfragmented #fictive #factive #introject #tags are just for reach

[astralnymphh]

god knows she tried.

ellie williams⊱.

“the monster inside her was baying for blood, it had to come out some day.”

⤹𓍢ִ໋listening to; lacrimosa and sour

𖤐.an; I present to you, my proudest piece. wowowoww I really enjoyed writing an emotional piece like this. I hope it suffices and gets enough recognition cause this surely won't be my last angst piece!! inspired by lacy, oh lacy by @coeurify

𓍢ִ໋-cw; ellie pov focus leaning, large analysis of ellie throughout tlou2, loser-esque jackson ellie, angst, heavy feelings, depictions of death + wanting death + blood + guts + sharp objects + nausea/vomit + self hatred + jealousy + starvation, mild glimpses of happiness, reader replaces dina, reader isn't pregnant, poetic writing

⋆.ೃ;wc; 5k+

masterlist ୨୧

the sun was shrouded in gloom. the water did not glisten, but her tears did. droplets of gray guilt pour in slow motion down her bloodied cheeks. tears glistening with hurt.

washed up like a sea carcass, phantom fingers pounding in pain. made into a husk by her own self-corrosion. her mind would have been bare, except, you're there. a figment of time, standing there, suffocating in your blank stare. why are you staring like that? it's not even you. ellie can't grasp that truth. it's only her subconscious. projecting an apparition of your mortal flesh and briny blood. salty like the sea she's sitting in.

would you echo that figment in real time?

the past figments she saw had character. one shaking their head, one like a beacon of comfort caressing her shoulder, and never dead. you're not dead, why is she crying?

she cries for everything.

her limbs calcified of stone. nothings' moving. lungs that felt dried up from all the tears leaving her eyes. a throat that strains and tugs with each dense swallow, reminding her of the atmosphere that appeared so devoid of air, thinking, how could she breathe right now? the insoluble pain of self-destruction. the hunger for revenge, snuffed like a breeze to flames. it was all in her head. the choking. her lungs begged for air, and she could not breathe it.

ellie cusps the hand that gushes with beady red blood that drips into the dark murky water, pressurizing the exposed throbbing knuckle. it hurt like hell, an unlivable hell. yet, not a wail is heard by the ocean. only the whimpers and sniffles graze the ears of her highness, the sea, the only one physically there to listen.

behind her, feet are hung at head-level. wooden pillars that scarcely mimicked crucifixion. this place was dark, in all dimensions.

just minutes ago, her skin was forming bruises and jaw nearly caved in from the force of abby's struggled hits. knuckles praying to live. not even the mass of a gun tucked in her jeans had her awareness. no, she didn't use it. she wanted to feel abby fucking dying in her hands. her hands that have siphoned the lives of many before. but, when she realized someone was actually dying in her hands, when she could feel that through her skin, it was over. the flashes of joel in her head beckoned her to stop, without uttering any words. the same mental imagery that motioned her to break skin in the first place.

joel was always there.

soaping up the harshly served reality that projected on the foggy thalassic horizon and toxified the surrounding waters, her mind sails to different times. supposed simplistic times that, by fate, turned rotten.

the day you two met. a mere four years ago. the town was a busy winterscape. you both were the golden age of sixteen, well, not that golden admist the post-apocalypse. steady clanking hoofsteps that striked the concrete track streaming into jackson, mounted on your midnight coat steed that trailed behind tommy's. heads turned at the sounds of large rusty hinges twisting, including hers, watching from beyond the stable's fencing.

goddess above and below, you're were so stunning.

she remembers she was gearing up for group patrol that day when you arrived, the saddles' horn nearly slipping from her bay leather grasp. thoughts of interest and curiosity had slowly piled up from that point. her pupils picking up on each hoofprint left as you pass the open paddock and stroll into the connecting stable. her browlines furrowed, wondering if you we're some backpacker hauled over for a spell, or a new resident.

she's lucky it would be the latter.

the veil of frigid air that seeped her skin and snapped her focus out of a daydream by the echo of dina's voice, calling her,

"earth to ellie?"

and it tethers her back on earth, turning her face to dina. she thought back to how her gloved fingers snapped in her face, asking for her focus, there and then.

"sor- um, what were you saying?" her speech was floaty, stacking on each other as she stuttered.

why was her focus glued to you at that moment? you had literally just entered. fucking hell, must have been something intruding the air. it's unlike herself to be so.. enraptured.

and later that evening, after a session of controlled gunshots mowing down the rigid fungoid heads that dared to disrupt their supply run, she was tired. plain tired.

as it turns out, a sturdy bench baring wooden boards as seats was enough comfort after all that shit. legs beat down to drooping over the woods edge, feeling like jelly. her hair bathed in the dining hall's incandescent lights, rendering a mellow orange halo. lips in pure quietude, she sat as a stranger to the conversation had between joel, jesse and dina.

ellie pondered the expedition for guitar strings that happened weeks ago, still processing what joel had told her. 'there was, no cure.' was it fabrication? what really took place in her state of unconsciousness? this was the beginning of a lurk. an unabating, rough gloom that presides under and through the chamber of her stomach, telling her something wasn't right. a thing she can't exactly point a finger to. a gut hunch that anchors her heart tightly. all is not true. she must seek.

blanked inside the home of her mind, only to be yanked by the wisping holler that ran over her head.

"hey! over here!" it was dina, ushering you over with the jerks of her wrist.

you passioned your way through the meal lines, appearing before her. she recalls how you looked, you were perfect. you wore the same ebony winter jacket that gathered dust on the wall-mounted rack of your farmhouse bedroom. it had its wears and tears and excerpts of journies to tell, but it was perfect on you. it's just a plain jacket. but for her, it was the jacket.

"the house up to yer' standards?" joel asked you, the usual mug of piping hot joe whaffed a steam around the aged and cracked skin of his face. tender in the light.

your voice rang through, "yeah, nothing I could ever bargain." and it cleared a trench between her temples. that rough gloom took a rain check instantly.

a fuzzy feeling that fords neither love or hate embraced the nape of her back. she didn't realize it just then, but, between the vault of aching uncertainty in her gut and the day to day neutrality she feels, a blossoming delight would come from your arrival at jackson, should she consume its goodness.

she didn't remember much of that conversation until the spotlight beamed towards her.

"this is ellie, she jus' came back from patrol. she'll show ya how we handle things 'round here." joel had gestured your sights over to her, to consume her first impression, with a smile that would become signature.

her ears tuned to you.

"hi!" you greeted with the softest wisping of your lips. oh, it made her evening that much more animated.

from that day onward, it was like a sweet lullaby of love. waving from across the horizon for weeks, your hand splayed out flat in the air, and hers curled up a bit. another week passes, and she's inviting you to the tipsy bison on her own accord. months pass, and she's constantly slumbering on your sofa over long nights, preferring it over being alone in her garage home. at this position in your shared timeline, ellie has grown distant from joel. you swore she forgot that old mans' bowed and bearded face sometimes.

it stung to relive the memory of pushing joel away. outside that damned hospital. saint marys' piece of shit. yelling, "don't you fucking, touch me!"

the tears were scorching. they were brought up to be. and they burned. the inside of her throat felt sliced up, chewed up, and ran through with barbed wire. swallowing was too much to bear, just how it is now, sitting on that dark beach.

that same day, she returned to find you waiting at her doorstep, box in hand. worry-struck. ellie took off out of the void, it made sense you were distraught. she felt mutually the same, her wrenching heart suffering the aftermath. the dawn of day she assumed would be spent alone, was sat atop her bed. losing herself in the video game you brought in that box, laying on you while she flicks the joysticks and taps the bumpers. it was a sunny yellow haven. a light she found in the darkness, that was you.

a tightly braided friendship.

and her mind lingers on something you once uttered at the crux of night during a sleepover, entailing the words;

"i like moths now, because of you."

that made her flustered across the span of a whole week, even joel questioned why she was blanking out during patrol training.

she was your moon. someone to subdue the spines that pricked your skin every day. sharp edges that tell you, happiness wasn't meant to stay. battle it all you wanted. moons eventually dim and embellish darkness.

two years pass, and she's being led to the center of an ornamental string-lit dance floor during another peak of winter, by none other than dina.

not you. if only it had been you. or else she wouldn't have felt that specter of gloom wrench her gut in disgusting ways later at dusk.

at least her gut didn't feel as it does now. torn open for this sorrowful sea to behold, exposed to a retch colored with regret. ill aversion.

her hands guided to the small of dina's back, draping like a silk curtain. missing a flinch when her arms huddled ellie's shoulders. not a flinch. ellie didn't love dina, but they were close. pinkies-tied close. it's just dina being dina, right?

"every guy in this room is staring at you right now.." her voice croaked in a demure whisper. the blood cells in her being were fluttering, the weight of her position then and there, made her feel lit up inside a dark room. backed into a corner. she was the spotlight once more.

"maybe they're staring at you.."

they would soon.

you never resented ellie for that night. you liked her, yeah, but it wasn't her fault. it only felt like you'd gulped a clump of metal bolts, weighing like a sick burden inside you. cold and rustic. your will of steel didn't let that shatter you completely, though. bottled it up and bluffed your feelings. it was never her fault. sucked down that bitter shot and let it ferment in your sickly gut packed with a stir. a stir of pungent nausea jabbing thorns in your esophagus. it delivers a nasty taste. but you swore, you wouldn't resent ellie.

ellie was unaware of your shared adoration. what seemed like a one-sided crush, was not. nights left off with a friendly hug could have been so much more divinely satiating. she wishes her body wasn't bound to the now, wishing she could back to then. the past, and express her affection. tell you everything.

a wish brewn too late. a drunken kiss to her buds out of wills' reach binds a woolly, empty headed fizzing to her ears. tossed into a stupor. all she could do was stand still like a willow tree in the windless plains. lips unable to jerk away. then it sunk hard. you're there. you're watching. people are peering. you saw.

"fuck." was emphasized in her toneless breath, narrowly letting loose another swear in the flavor of a loud scream.

in that gloomy darkness, she saw you. illuminated like a beacon too. your face plasters an unbothered exterior, but the eyes, the eyes are a glass screen. you can understand the essence fueling a person's emotion with one meager glimpse. a new gag clots her gullet. she can't show it, but she for heaven above and hell below, could fucking feel it.

you virtually felt a crack in your heart. cracks in a porcelain antique. you're sure the two looked similar.

strung between multiple conclusions, you pondered. if ellie liked dina, you'd have to woefully accept it. and if she didn't, then she didn't. what more could you have proposed at that time. life is life.

your feet carried you with a saunter, skirting the doors brinking you from the ghostly streets of a slumbering town of jackson. a jarring contrast from the lively party howling behind you. even for someone who's experiencing confusion, you walked with a gentle gait.

pausing under the descending pearls of frozen water, casting your eyes heavenward into the starry globe above you. the stars twinkled so perfectly on such a gut-wrenching night as this one. it dawns on you. how the celestial bodies of space feel no pain, no heartbreak. how their life is lived without the mortal trials you face. it must be so easy up there, suspended in space, feeling nothing.

as the snow nestled in the beds of your hair, melting on your blue hot face, you claimed a sense of emptiness in your head amidst the vomit begging to unfurl from your throttle. please, let it be a dream.

piercing isolation.

ended suddenly.

the swinging of a door wooshes through your ears, and capers your sights to its source. and there she was. joining you in the twilight snow-shower. ellie.

she trotted up to you, lone in the wintry streets, and harvested the same pellets of opalite snow that decorated the strands of your hair like constellations hovering above. her head, too, snowflakes cling to her russet bang and lashes, framing her eyes so damn right.

oh, snowy fern eyes. the most serenic evergreen rings encapsulated behind gloss. dewey eyes sitting atop red sweltered cheeks. her lids fluttered back the tears, the tears that might wither the snow, and surely wither her soundness of mind. a quiver of the lip, bent over her teeth. frozen fucking wind that chars the lining of her lungs with ice. every single thing fucking wounded her.

you gazed into one another, emotions roaring loud. she could peer right through you. through the glass windows of your eyes. things were felt and not shown, it was evident in your expression. no words were uttered in those seconds before. before the infamous words you spoke. words that forced everything to the shore.

"do you love dina?"

fucking gag. another smother of disgust gurgling in her gut. the sheer assumption that you believed her heart to be penchant for dina, and not you, drowned her guts. a quick spurt of unease penetrates her whole esse.

here went nothing.

"I love you."

whorled away from your envy like whiplash. it added up by that point. she appeared like a puppet to that kiss on the dance floor. you recalled it then. ellie's teeth were never bared in a smile, more so, it was the true one-sided love. now, she is standing in front of you. physical, mortal, and all. retching out that confession like it was stifled beneath a tombstone.

to ellie, that tombstone represented everything she expected to fail. to be dead. a wish foreseen as ash, fled to the gales of something more worthy.

that wish sailed the breeze, and landed at your feet.

you reached that shore too.

"I love you too, ellie."

her name levitating off your tongue with a tone so soothing felt affirming. grounding. this is not a dream.

her eyes transmutated, eclipsed by a sun. what was once dewey, red and puffy, then softened to a set of almonds brazed in sweet syrup. calmer tears that were golden. joyous. lids relax and anchor her brows, straightening out like rows of a poem. after straying so long beneath the falling snow, her nose suffused a red-orangey tint, nostrils even redder.

love passioned its way through the gelid space, accompanied by the humid huffs of your breath. but nothing was as warm, not even a star, as what brought your bodies a few measly steps closer.

a kiss.

huddled in the somber streets was an effigy of igniting amour. two souls stuck together. her arms wrapped around your back like you were the only life she could clutch. reddened knuckles crumpling up the same ebony jacket you attired in the winter, holding you dear. your arms found a natural embrace, cusping her shoulders and marrying fingertips into her coppery mane that tied into her bun.

nothing beats the way you two rolled lips, tasting the skin and smacking slowly. her peachy buds that fit the open groove of your mouth so easily. her lips were formed for you. cells that build her body, are building for you. she existed solely for you. graciously drinking up the kiss like a fucking sweet milkshake.

a taste so addictive, you could die on it.

shit, she's smirking into your lips. ellie, you blasted dork. even the dimples denting her cheeks could poke you back. that's how wide her smile travels from ear to ear, even her cheeks fattened up, creasing those beautiful crinkles at the edges of her eyelines. a true smile.

and once that kiss severed, you saw those bloated, ruddy cheeks plucking the corners of her lips. too fucking adorable.

"well, there's that smile. lost her a while ago, els?" the teaser you were, and the loser she was.

her lips refine into the same toothy, adorable beam. she nearly cringed at your observation. the way you kept notation of how often her midface perks up, it was cute. her flesh bites the bitter cold, and blood that heaped her cheeks burnt so vibrant for you.

she couldn't believe you were true.

"i think you're the only person that makes me smile," she recalled this vividly, trying her darndest to uplift every waking thought about you through a cold shell she fabricated, "fuck, i'm so bad at this.." laugh it off past ellie, laugh it off.

if she pinpoints it correctly, you had said the words "i like bad." jokingly. fashioning the most proud smirk ever. pfft, she giggles every time her brain resurfaces that memory of your snowy brimmed confessions.

"tsskk- u're weird."

"you're a big dork."

"shut up.." her ardent palms pancaked against both of your cheeks, passionately pulling you in for another tangerine sweet kiss.

the ivory supermoon set on a blissful night, luckily enough. ellie ended up fleeing that street, hand in hand mingled with you, towards her home. fuck that dance. fuck those feelings flush of guilt that died right there on that street. being tangled in the sheets with you snuggled in her arms was enough. enough to submerge what galloped through her head.

"i don't need your fucking help joel."

shit.

gods above and below.

what did daylight bring?

bloodshed. blood stains her eyes to this day. she was there. she saw. the blood spilt and it splashed towards her. if joel couldn't reach his torn, bashed and narrowly mutilated hand out to her, his lifeline would. the plasma pumping his heart to sustain life, hurling out like a ribbon of crimson. a downright disrespectful invitation of rememberance abby had chucked to her fucking face.

this memory. this disease, an immoral plague. who the fuck up there in the pristine realms of divinity decides a mortal punishment like this?

that memory, lives on. it weakens the marrow in her bones. turns the tides in her head. she wanted to rip her skin off. her skin that gets to survive. disgust. again. the muscles attached to bone, felt like they didn't belong.

she stopped genuinely breathing after that day.

you saw the will to breathe drain from her eyes. etching into that lodges' oak floors. the first grave she ever dug.

"i'm so sorry, ellie."

was the first swan song she ever heard.

now that rough gloom, plummeted and shapeshifted into a dark cavern of misery. starless, desolate gloom. her room turnt cavernous too. blocking all rays of bright luminosity from injecting a disturbance in her seclusion. era of mental death.

you had been visiting her daily in her time of barren sensitivity, at the least, visiting her door. you uneasily sat on the exterior end of her door. poised aside and smushing your ear into it's solid strength. praying that you might hear any peep of life on the other side, you wait. you miss her bloodcurtiling sobs reserved for nighttime, sowing the conclusion that she, inside, was empty. a husk.

if death is so morbid, why did graves look so peaceful? so prettied up. why are the baby blue hydrangeas sitting atop his freshly cold grave, soft in their glory, delivering such a potent posion. they plant their own seed. clotting ellie's throat with a nest of hydrangeas she'll carry with her forever. roots latched to a deep spring in her spirit that navigates every little emotion. the flowers bulge from her esophagus and cough up in petals of regret, forgiveness, and rejection.

she can't accept that.

she didn't.

she heard the rainy forest calling for her.

seattle is here. seattle is waiting. the old flame lights the new wick, and so it ignites, her immortal foe. revenge.

and she brought you along.

ellie respires every soul set free from mangled bodies she creates. her hands a syphon, the weapon her postman. delivering screaming letters of justice with every pull of her finger on the trigger.

a once starless gloom was snapped in half by her own drive with spheres of guttural fire baying for blood. she wakes up a blood-gutter every sunrise. her face just might fossilize and cherish this total takeover. she was someone new. angled fuming brows, irritable red nostrils flared more than ever, and an awful intensity in her eyes. it made them scintillating, more so, grossly gleaming. irises fern green to hazardous toxin in just a few months.

enemies could read ellie's aura nimbly, if their visions should even grasp it faster than their machetes and hammers meeting a clenched palm. she wasn't just a girl. she was a threat.

miles of blood patterned in her path, splotching the diamond modeled bottoms of her converse like abstract art. she was lost in her own world. driven straight to the goal.

you promised you'd be there every damn sliced throat of the way, no matter what. but this scares you. slowly, the fire burning in her eyes had charred her up till she could barely give anything more.

the fire had only engulfed her when she appeared at the theater's lobby doors, banging the margin of her balled fist on the wood. the fist gloved in crescent scars, peeled cuticles, and raised callouses. when the doors waved open to you, gliding up to her and weaving yourself with her body in a relieved hug, she couldn't do it. it was too much. the torture lingering in her muscle memory stung, frozen hands jittering above the small of your back momentarily.

ellie was enervated.

it took her a second to even hug you back. that was, too kind of you. to embrace her body slathered in the lifeline of someone else. why would you even do that, she thought.

her mind looped on a cycle, processing that damned notion as you pleat the soiled shirt off her back. she couldn't even feel the salient tear in her back, the brutally severed dermis throbbing red, not a whimper soars her gullet when you tend to it. numbness riddled her. stitch her up, and she won't flinch.

then ellie croaked,

"i made her talk."

she was revolted. how could she touch you so tenderly after whacking a metal rod into a beating body 'till they coughed up the words. knackered them up for eternal sleep. the face she just wiped from this earth, blurred. does she even remember what she looked like?

it was your own arm, meshing around her blistered collarbone that prompted her to gauge the value of her life, even just for an iota of solace time.

problem being, she couldn't remain enlightened of her value- without you.

"i don't wanna lose you."

your lips kissed her pain away, pitter by patter along the scruff of her neck to her seared shoulder. every peck embedded with a melodic note that forges a song saying, 'i am here, you won't lose me' without even brushing that past your satiny lips.

won't you seal my hardships with your lips of silk? taint my lips of leather and gums of thorns with your soothing buds?

"you wont."

then that day arrived, when she almost did. a scene depicted by the ten of swords. a major disaster indicated. as the arrow speared the air suddenly, and in no time you could count, it had already paved through the plate of your shoulder and strung out blood to the planks before you. rendering you unconscious.

"please stop!" ellie pleaded, just like she did before. god forbid if she had to witness another loved one being lacerated from life. her limp body prays, prays for your safe survival, and not your safe passage. she wonders if god is even real, if any god is real. do they hear her now? we're they aware when she shrilled for mercy at every red ribbon lashed out from his body? did they welcome him, home?

and right before that cold steel nearly divided your skin, a voice erupted.

"abby!"

thank fuck you hadn't ended up a resemblance of the 'ten of swords' illustration. thank the sun gods that you were able to bask and tan under the light that fondled the rustic farmhouse with her. ellie is so lucky, for someone who doesn't believe in it.

"don't ever let me see you again."

you then retired to that old, rustic farmhouse. aging under the continuous moon phases for two years straight.

it was a strenuous journey getting to where she was supposed to be the happiest. despite all the treasures she owned on that farm property, the lagoon of corn fields and hills of verdancy that sung in spring, mighty splendors anyone might wish for, ellie still lived with a loom. ellie bore tantrums inside the confined loneliness of the farm's supply room, kicking the hilt of a rake as it clatters to the stony ground, yelling, "fuck!" when it startled her badly enough, or when it enraged her ptsd well enough.

reminiscence is woven into the scar risen on your shoulder. it reminds her. every. damn. glance.

every approaching dream was daunting to ellie. she'd wake up. cold beady sweat. go back to sleep, suffocate in her subconscious again, and surface them in a panic once more. not even braving the night with a stroll around the perimeter helped. it only sunk everything deeper.

if she was drunken in her sorrows, would you carry her?

the daylight spent with you was her only source of felicity. the mundane made it feel much more liveable. a day spent baking together, flour dappled on each other's noses, roused as she pushed up behind, and swayed you to the cordial and funky beats thrumming from the viynl player. that day, that simple day made her want to live fully for you. she wanted to be tied to your pinkie with the lusty filaments of love.

and in that humble kitchen laid a promise;

"so- this means you'll marry me?" a stupid smirk muffled ellie's voice out huskily, flowing against the shoreline of your ear.

"can't we just announce ourselves married already?"

"baabeee.." that freckled idiot whined.

"eelllssss.." you rung back.

her arms fastened you tighter, pout puffing on your shoulder, "i wann' make it feel real.." she intoned, inclining up and stuffing her nose into your neck. pretty sure she rubbed all the flour onto you, being the bear hugger she is.

no answer parts your lips.

"babe?"

ellie felt you twirl in her caging arms, perking up to even up with your gaze in curiosity. her brows fumble and arc inwards to visibly show her interest for your next words.

"we're real, els. i don't need a ring or declaration to show that.." your tone caters to her love of soothing sounds, as she breaks into an even toothier smile that trails your words.

"you don't?"

you had leaned in, devoid of words. a quiet kiss to her brows, said so much more than she expected. that inner-loser knocked on the door of her mind and took control. blasted blush coating her cheeks. you really knew how to woo her, cradling her head in your tender cusp.

"i just need you."

"don't go."

the grounding touch of her cheeks held between your hands was not enough. the blank, void, and unnerving night was not enough. nothing was enough to keep her waiting.

what kind of songs do you play when dwindling into internal madness?

her own screams battle the wood boards of that farm too often. her screams synchronize with joels, replaying in her head. scared and unable to hold onto anything. thoughts running amok. she fucking needs you more than she thought.

"ellie- ellie.. I'm here. it's okay."

it's not okay.

it's not okay for her to play pretend and cast an ocean over those feelings 'when she can'. you told her, it's okay. to be broken. but her heart anchors towards an obligation to be picture perfect for you, for anyone. every positive cover-up felt like posion pooling from her mouth. lying til she couldn't feel her lips.

she lied to you once. for someone who despises lies and has been lied to, she lied. that fucking lie hurt. but it was too loud. the gloom that stuck with her for so long has grown into a pounding, jarring sound similar to intense whirring, but echoed. nothing had color at that point. everything was a null void, and every sound was a silence too loud.

a sentence meant to be; "i'm going to find abby." sounded a lot more like,

"i'm so tired, baby." murmured ellie, collapsed flat on the plateau of your chest and drained of energy.

you assumed it was just physical fatigue.

"it's fine, go t'sleep, we can talk later."

ellie's eyes looked so dull, so scarce of humanity. she was tired. each passing day had been vampirically sucking the motivation from her veins. some days, she didn't even catch you calling her name from the farmhouse. earth to ellie, are you still in there?

"I have to finish it." ellie's forehead bent to yours, felt so wrong.

"why didn't you tell me?"

"I can't." her voice nearly shattered into a waterfall of sobbing.

your voice cracked, however, "bullshit, els."

that was the drawing line. she finally breaks and is consumed by that hovering gloom. she lost herself.

ellie dashed every chance of losing you, and yet took it upon herself to leave you, instead.

that fucking thing that leeched off her for so many years is finally getting what it yearns for. greed of revenge to feed the darkness. starving herself as it ingests every fiber barely holding her together.

you spun away with leisure, breaching your hands from her, "I am - not, doing this again."

you couldn't save this. she was leaving. nothing blocks her way.

heart-wrenching silence dawns.

"that's up to you."

her heels unhurriedly turned in an instant, abandoning you, and her dreams born of soft blue dasies. her omens of happiness and trust, becoming a fatuous foreground. the door waving shut behind her would soon come to bite her in the heart.

now she sits. almost dying in that water. the water was her gloom all along. she was the vessel, she paid the price, it's free. now she bleeds into it. red rivers dance and make a mockery of her weeping body.

she tried.

it won.

she tried for the false clone of you haunting her mind. it's the only thing she had left of you.

she tried so hard to be strong. only she and the gods above know that.

you wouldn't though.

coming home to jackson a walking carcass, pinning her hopes on you being there. it was obvious you moved from the farmhouse. why would you live there alone?

so, she stands. inside your old jackson home, to divulge its absence of you. no, you weren't there. you weren't in jackson. all that remains are old memories crammed into boxes. motionless without a requiem.

ellie closes in on one of these.

and what she finds is painful.

that winter jacket.

she clutches it tight to her barren eyes, burrowing the trench of her nose with your lingering scent. the scenes trance her mind. visions of you tackling her in the thick mud puddle on your farm's acres, an enchanting laugh wheezing in your throat. visions of holding your stomach while you scrubbed fine china of its grub and stains, wishing you two had a real family, a child, by some miracle. recollections of you, legs sitting pretty across her lap as she thrashed a controller, casting her evil curse whenever the game ticked her off just enough and how you giggled at her. the everlasting evocation of you two, kissing under that snow-ether night, vowing a love to extend across times bounds.

the jacket smells so fucking good.

"please.." whispered ellie, with a taut countenance, "where are you.."

not a clue of where you went is in those walls.

are you dead? nobody knows.

where she left the farmhouse, you left her entirely. unknowing if it stems from love, hate, or neutrality. the guilt felt disgusting, once more. the pain stung in her lung far harsher. the air siphoning out.

in a room so devoid of air, and you, how could she breathe?

you can't pay in blood and sacrifice. ellie has learned that. she paid in loss of something that didn't have to go.

love was understanding each other's limits, and so was losing each other. she just never realized you had limits plummeting down on you, until the new moon phase had begun, and it was too late.

that figment of you is all she has left.

𓍢ִ໋-likes and reblogs appreciated, bright blessings!

#⋆.ೃ;this hurt to write but it must be done at least once!! #ellie williams #ellie williams oneshot #ellie tlou #ellie williams angst #ellie x reader #ellie williams fanfic #tlou ellie #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams fic #ellie williams x fem!reader #ellie the last of us #ellie williams x reader #ellie x fem reader #lesbian #sapphic #ellie williams x y/n #jackson!ellie #seattle!ellie #farm!ellie #epilogue!ellie

[seethesin]

dreams and desires

pairing: Succubus!Shane McCutcheon x F!Reader

tags/warnings: cursing, sexual content, jealousy/possessiveness, choking/breathplay, edging, begging (mdni, 18+)

a/n: as a horror fanatic, i am doing my civic duty and participating for one (1) day in the haunted hoedown. i randomized the prompts and received the following combination:

au: vampire/supernatural

dialogue: “tell me what you want me to do and i’ll do it, no matter the cost.”

trope: cursed/fuck or die

kink: jealousy/sharing/possessive

prompt: i keep seeing them in my dreams and i wake up with bruises and marks on my skin, it’s definitely just wild dreams, right?

let's see how ridiculous this gets :)

It started about a week ago.

Every night you would go to bed and have the same dream. You were standing in nothingness; a complete void of darkness swallowed you. There was no sound, scent, or feeling you could latch onto to ground yourself in reality. You were alone in a perpetual state of limbo.

Until you weren't.

Like clockwork, a pair of brilliant, emerald eyes cut through the haze like a blade. They move slowly, gleaming as they float towards you. At first, they terrified you. The otherwordly vibe they possessed used to have you backing deeper into empty space. But now? You swarm to them, as they've become your only comfort in this godforsaken place.

"Welcome back, [Y/N]." the familiar, sultry rasp is deafening in the silence.

"Hi." It comes out as a pitiful whisper as finally, the irresistible owner of those eyes emerges from the darkness.

"Hi yourself," she purrs, a smirk stretching across her sharp features. Her teeth are on display. They're jagged, like a shark's.

You want her to devour you.

She always acts first. Her hands are on you, slotted on your hips as she buries your body into hers. Hot, wet lips are dragged down your neck as her teeth mark the base of your throat. You forget how to breathe and instead, hug your arms over her shoulders. A hand snakes into her hair, your firm grip keeping her stationary.

Her chuckle makes your clit throb.

She must know that too because one of her hands withdraws from your hip, only to slip underneath the front of your pants. Her finger pads brush against your clothed cunt and you keen. You're rutting against her hand, stealing as much friction as you can get away with.

Thankfully, she lets you do what you please. In fact, she is all too happy to slide underneath your underwear and plunge two fingers into your weeping pussy. You stumble forward from the sudden intrusion, allowing her to support your body weight as her fingers piston in and out. You feel the heel of her hand grazing your clit and your head jerks back, breath sputtering. You're close.

She drags the flat of her tongue up the column of your neck before nipping at your earlobe. Her lips part and her breath fans against your cheek. Her tongue darts around the shell of your ear; you wish it was on your cunt instead.

"You'll get that tomorrow, honey."

And that's exactly when you wake up: painfully edged, completely horny, and with the sinking feeling of someone sitting on your chest. Every morning presents new bruises and marks for you to find on your body. It's getting harder to cover them up. This isn't normal.

None of this is normal.

But the mystery woman haunting your dreams—she said her name was Shane at some point—was too alluring to ignore. You didn't understand where the amalgamation of her came from; there was no one you knew or knew of that resembled her. Was she some random figment of your subconscious?

No, she felt too real for that.

Maybe you just needed to get laid. In the real world.

And that is exactly what you decide to do tonight. Dressed up in your best outfit and with your friends on speed dial, you go out clubbing. Dancing, drinking, and debauchery ensue, and in the early morning hours, you're saying your goodbyes and bringing a girl back home with you. You don't remember anything about her, but hopefully, she'll help you forget.

You like how she eats pussy. It's slow, deliberate, and patient. Writhing in bed, your thighs clench around the stranger's head as she kitten licks from your slit to your clit. Her hands knead your breasts and a moan bubbles from your throat.

"Sha—" You catch yourself. "Shit."

"This okay?" the girl garbles and you pull your knees in, pushing her face deeper into your pussy. She gets the hint and picks up the pace, twisting your nipples so that you arch off the bed. An electric current ripples through you as you cum in her mouth, panting heavily. It was good, but the rogue thought of Shane doing better runs rampant in your mind.

The girl doesn't stay the night; it's almost as if she knows her role in your fucked up experiment. Once she finally cums, the both of you dress and you walk her out. You close and lock the front door before exhaling a long, heavy sigh. The sex was good, but she wasn't Shane. You were nauseated with yourself, desperately trying to think about anything else but her as you shower. This was sick. Real or not, Shane had you in a chokehold.

You needed sleep—real sleep.

You step out of the shower, dry yourself off, and wrap the towel around yourself. Turning off the lights, you exit the bathroom before stepping into your bedroom.

"Who the fuck was that [Y/N]?"

You knew that voice.

Seated at the foot of your bed was the woman you'd seen in your dreams for the past week. Shane. Except, she didn't look like she usually did.

Far from it.

Ram horns protruded from her head and curled around her pointed ears. Fleshy, batlike wings were tucked into her back, and—what the fuck—was that... a tail swishing behind her? None of these features were visible in your dreams... besides those teeth. You must have been too busy fucking yourself on her fingers to notice.

You open and close your mouth, gaping like a fish as you try to form something coherent.

The chance to is lost. Shoving you into the wall, Shane's fingers are squeezing your throat, and her other hand pins your wrists up. Your towel drops and her tail slips around you, gathering your wrists together to free up her other hand. You don't know if the wetness between your thighs is from your shower or arousal.

"Who is she?" she seethes and you are so overstimulated that you can't even comprehend the question being asked. All you can manage is:

"You're real?"

Wrong answer. Her grip tightens and you choke. The corners of your vision begin to darken. Shane bares her teeth in a grimace and the fact that her fangs are a comfort to you is appalling. You clench your thighs together.

"Of course I'm real," she hisses. Her intense gaze drops from your face to your groin, watching your thighs shuffle. Suddenly, her chokehold loosens and you greedily suck in a much-needed breath. It soon turns into a strangled moan as her free hand shoves at your thighs and cups your cunt. Two fingers slide easily through your velvety folds before she looks back up at you.

"You didn't answer my question."

Shane uses her knuckles to pinch your clit and your hips cant forward. This was real; she was real.

"I don't remember her name," you stammer, writhing against the wall as she stares at you. At this point, you don't even remember what she looked like. Shane pauses for a moment as if she's deliberating with herself. She then nods her head, releasing the oversensitive nub before wiping your slick against your thigh. Something possesses you to speak again.

"Shane, are you jealous?" There's a smile in your voice, even when you're the one pinned between her and the wall. Her gaze snaps back up at you and she scowls. Your eyes are gleaming with the realization and you can't stop your dopey grin.

"You are so jealous."

"And you like being manhandled," she quips, causing you to clam up and flush. The pressure on your neck returns and you wheeze, shuddering against the wall. Shane watches you intently, a permanent smirk growing across her face.

"Sue me," you rasp, eliciting a genuine laugh from Shane.

Suddenly, her hand releases your throat. As you cough, you feel both of her hands now on the backs of your thighs, pushing you farther up the wall. Your pussy is at Shane's eye level and she examines your swollen lips intently.

"No human has satisfied me like you have."

You observe her as she dissociates into your cunt, noting the way her fingers bury into the corners of your inner thighs. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, slipping through the top row of her spiky teeth. Shane knows you're watching her and her green gaze flickers back to your face. Her tail slithers up your back.

"But," you begin, furrowing your brows. "You've never let me—"

"I feed off your sexual energy," she states mundanely, as if the two of you were discussing the weather. The tip of her tail slides over your shoulder and begins to wrap itself around your neck. Shane's legs shift and the tail squeezes gently around your throat. You twitch, swallowing a moan. She turns back to watch your pussy as it involuntarily contracts.

"Your pleasure is my sustenance." Shane's face sinks further between your legs as her tail is taut around your neck. "Even if I don't make you cum."

The thought of this encounter playing exactly as your dreams do elicits a frustrated but garbled growl from your lips. Your fingers are threaded in the brunette's hair, death grip tight. It served as a warning with the limited power you had in this situation; Shane was going to finish what she started.

"I like edging you, [Y/N]," she whispers, her teeth gliding across the soft skin of your thigh. "It reminds you how much you still need me."

She snickers at your impatience.

Just like now, the sentence dies on her tongue and reverberates throughout your head. Her mouth envelops your cunt and you gasp, arching into the wall. Shane is everywhere all at once. Her tongue slips through your folds, flicks your clit, and burrows itself inside of you. Her thumbs pull back your labia for better access and you buck your hips as far forward as you can. You yank Shane's head forward and her tail squeezes your neck. Your exhale comes out as a croak and you blink back tears.

"Shane," you warn hoarsely, canting forward desperately. You weren't going to last much longer at this rate.

So she completely recedes. Her lips pull away, but you can feel her breath dissipate on your pussy. The grip on your neck completely loosens; her tail is now draped across your shoulders. Gulping in a ragged breath, you groan.

"Shane!"

She doesn't react.

"Shane, please." You can't believe yourself. You were going to beg a literal demon to make you cum. If you weren't so hyperfocused on your own pleasure, you would have cackled at the absurdity.

But the begging does something to Shane. Her ears twitch and she perks up, staring at you through her lashes.

"Please what?" she simpers, watching you squirm. She bites the flesh of your pubic bone and you yelp. "Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it, no matter the cost."

Your mouth goes dry.

"Please," you begin again, chest heaving. "Please don't stop; Shane, I'm so close."

"Yeah? You want to cum for me?" You nod frantically, shifting your legs as her tongue drags across the bruise already forming.

"Yes, for you." A primal switch flips inside Shane and she halts entirely. Her fingers grope your thighs and she allows you to vice her head back between them.

Only for you.

It's exactly what Shane needs to hear before devouring you entirely.

#hauntedhoedown #shane mccutcheon #shane mccutcheon imagine #shane mccutcheon x reader #the l word #the l word imagine #tlw #tlw fandom #smut #fanfiction #fanfic #wlw

[wisteria-blooms]

sunburns & dragons (charlie weasley & reader) (5/??)

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

TAGLIST: @badgerqueen07 @superduckmilkshake @k-k-merlin @kisskittenn @pluiesdefleurs@lilianelena39 @bathwater101 @evilunicorns4minions @noah-uhhh-what (Let me know if I missed you, or if you want to be added!) A/N: Thank you guys for the sweet comments! I love reading them and they make me write faster, apparently, haha. Let me know if you have any predictions! I'm super curious. ;)

CHAPTER 5: You get a lot more than you bargained for when Charlie shows up at dinner. For one, how does he manage to make politics, sexy? (4.7k words)

CHAPTER 5: ELECTRIC POLITICS

You were cloaked in warm and well slept-in sheets. You nestled yourself in that comfort for another moment before turning onto your back and cracking an eye open. Above you was a familiar tall and white ceiling. Yep, you were definitely back in your bed. It was always in the earliest of mornings that for the briefest of moments, your mind was inclined to forget what had happened the night before. As your lucidity grew, figments of last night came to you slowly. 

You were at a bar with Charlie, talking about plans…

…That he shredded.

Right, that happened.

But had it all been a dream? Maybe it was still the morning after that disastrous dinner and your subconscious had plotted out the past couple of “days”. 

You pulled your covers off and stared at your naked kneecap. There was a light bruise, a pale spot of red, from when Charlie was trying to ‘gauge’ your limits or whatever he’d called it.  To think he’d left a mark by just casually holding your knee in his hand, not even intently putting pressure on it. To think if he’d done anything with intent… 

“Get a grip on yourself,” you chastised, fanning away thoughts that were too lewd for the morning. You were growing annoyed with yourself after losing every shroud of strong-headedness you had. Charlie was just attractive and confident. But so were thousands of other men in the world, so why did he get to control your narrative last night?

You exhaled, resolving to think about it later, then walked over to the closet to dress for the day. 

Narcissa was the only one in the sunroom when you arrived. It looked like your father and Draco had already had breakfast and gone off to do whatever the day asked of them. 

“Good morning,” you greeted, slipping into your chair.

“You got in late last night,” Narcissa responded.

You shrugged. “It was Friday, and I’m young.”

There was a wrinkle of disapproval on her mouth. By now, Lucius would’ve told her about Charlie and about your little scene last weekend at the cafe, and she would’ve filled in your whereabouts last night with that information.

She looked out the garden and then back at you. “What does your schedule look like in a month’s time? Say, the second Sunday of October?”

“I imagine it’s free.”

“You best keep it open, then,” Narcissa continued. “My monthly book club is inviting a prolific author for tea. I would like you to join us.”

“Oh?” She’d certainly piqued your interest. “Who?”

“Madame Millicent,” she said. “She’s been praised as the face of female empowerment in the literary world.”

Female empowerment. This was exactly what you needed after you let Charlie throw you around like a rag doll, falling docile to his every touch and word. Hm, maybe having tea with this Madame Millicent wouldn’t be so bad.

The problem was that you hadn’t even heard of her. “What should I read to prepare?”

 “That’s up to you,” Narcissa advised. “Choose a title of hers that interests you. She has three titles out now. I have everything in the study.”

You nodded. You had about a month which gave you more than a week to clear each book. 

You had your coffee and pastry with a side of small talk, chatting with your mother about mundane topics like what her book club was reading this week and what she was doing this weekend.

Before you knew it, it was Friday afternoon, the day before the dinner. This day in particular, you found comfort in sitting on the couch in Fred and George’s flat with free use of their owl, writing letters to Charlie. This old rickety couch was now your favourite creative outlet, you supposed.

You hoped Charlie wasn’t fickle in his decisions, so you had to confirm he would be present tomorrow. 

Hi, Charlie We’re still on for tomorrow? 

Of course. 

What are you wearing

Just then, a loud explosion sounded outside. Your jerky response drew out the 'g' in your sentence. You set the quill down on the coffee table, walked to the main door, opened it, and looked to the room adjacent to the flat. 

“Are you alright?” you called out into the abyss.

You saw a thumbs up against a plum of black smoke, so you retreated back to the couch. When you returned, the letter was gone along with the owl. Minutes later, the owl returned with another letter. 

I don’t have to tell you how improper that sounds, (Y/N). I’m saving this letter for a later date. 

You wrote back with a reddening face.

You know I mean for this Saturday. And burn it, please.

The same old thing I always do. Is that okay?

An attire of a jean jacket thrown over a comfortably worn t-shirt would make your classist father curl with rage. It was perfect. 

Of course. Remember, we’re at 8 Estates Lane and dinner starts at 6 p.m. If you end up at 6 Estates Lane, you may encounter Cecile, a widow, who’s just getting over her late husband. She’s still healing, so best to leave her alone. 

Got it. See you at six tomorrow, (Y/N) darling.

In the time it took to read Charlie’s letter, Fred had tiptoed in and peered over your shoulder. 

“Why don’t you just talk to him in person?”

“Because,” you sighed, turning around to poke him in the face with a quill, “You make fun of me when I come over now, and Charlie doesn’t seem to like to play by the books.”

“What do you mean?”

“He shredded my script last Friday.” 

‘And touched me in places he shouldn’t have, and nearly kissed me, and made a fool of me in retrospect,’ you thought. But you wouldn’t tell Fred that was why you were nervous to see Charlie in person: because of whatever spell he’d put on you last time. 

“It wasn’t good anyway,” Fred remarked honestly. 

You furrowed your brows. You poured your heart and mind into that thing! “What do you mean?”

“You were writing lullabies. I almost fell asleep listening to them.”

“This is the least I can do to ensure some consistency,” you argued. “I won’t convince anyone at dinner if I act just as shocked as my parents.”

“Charlie isn’t going to be boxed in by whatever the rules are. He just does what feels right to him at the time, and his intuition is often correct.” Fred threw his arms up in defence after seeing your increasingly perturbed expression. “But don’t ask me, Bill knows him way better.”

“I’m sure, seeing they’re, what, two years apart?”

“They’ll tell each other everything, anything,” Fred added. “Actually, you should ask Bill if you need any blackmail material to keep Charlie in line.”

You were about to agree, but that thought was interrupted by an owl flying into the open window and pecking at you. You stared at the animal quizzically. Unless Charlie was continuing your pretty much finished conversation, then who was this for? You slit the ribbon and unfurled the parchment. Immediately, you noticed the penmanship was different. Neater. Crisper. Like it was written by someone who needed their numbers and figures written crystal clear, say, someone whose profession might be that of a bank official…

(Y/N), Charlie is wearing a black sweater and grey sweatpants. I heard you were curious as per your last letter.  Sincerely,  Bill Weasley

Noticing your mortified expression, Fred was quick to snatch the letter out of your hands. Immediately, his braying laughter filled the room.

“I told you they tell each other everything!” he boasted. 

For the third time this week, you were sure you were parading about a sinking ship.

Tick, tick.

5:58 p.m. on Saturday evening, Lucius crossed one leg over the other, looking expectedly at the circular driveway that wrapped around a marble fountain outside the main entrance. He set his cane aside and adjusted his tie, a black piece in his suit of all black.

5:59 p.m., Narcissa tapped her fingers on her stocking-clad legs. She, too, took to a dress of all black. The only colour on her body was an emerald brooch.

6:00 p.m., a wave of nausea overtook you. You fiddled with a button on your white textured cardigan that you slipped over a black pleated dress.

6:01 p.m., Draco, dressed like his father, let out a scoff at your expense. Pitiful was the sound and wounded was your ego.

“So,” Lucius’s voice cut through the tense air. “Where is Charlie?”

You blanched, at a loss for an explanation. He’d promised you he was going to be here. You had written proof, but it would have no standing in your father’s court of law. 

“Well?” he urged.

“Probably weaving his way through the forest,” you excused with as most conviction as you could muster. “It’s not easy to find such a remote location, especially a mansion on Estates Lane.”

Draco looked at his silver watch on his wrist and let out a sound of competent. “He’s already five minutes late. But I wasn’t expecting anything more from a Weasley, anyway.” Then, he suggested something you didn’t want to hear. “Father, how much longer should we wait before we call off this dinner? You and I have more important things to deal with anyway.”

“I’ll give it—”

Lucius was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. A few seconds later, Dobby came running.

“Who is it, Dobby?” Narcissa asked, standing up. 

“It’s Ms. Cromwell and Mr. Weasley.”

“Ms. Cromwell?” Lucius repeated. 

The four of you, Malfoys and all, shared the same confusion as you scurried to meet your guest—plural, you corrected, guests.

At the entrance of the door, Cecile Cromwell stood with Charlie. She was the heiress you mentioned in your letter. The grieving heiress you warned him not to bother. Her late husband, Chuck Cromwell, held a large fortune in his name before passing last month. Cecile looked polished as always, layers of diamonds and silver looped around her twill dress. Wrapped in her shawl, she looked like the face of elegance and especially juxtaposed to Charlie…

Charlie, who was not wearing what he said he was going to. In fact, he complemented Cecile perfectly. 

He’d slicked his hair back and tied the longer strands up. His blouse boasted some frilly lace that looked like it belonged on Genevieve’s wedding dress rather than his broad chest. The blouse sleeves were long, and the same frilly material poked out at his wrists. He wore a red undercoat that clashed heavily with his purple overcoat which was embroidered with gold stitches. Perhaps the most terrible thing was that his pants cut off past his knees. But his legs weren’t bare, absolutely not. He chose some sort of silk stocking to run down his legs before they were swallowed by his buckled shoes. 

“My apologies for the delay, Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy,” Charlie said. “And to you, my lovely (Y/N).”

You were relieved that Lucius and Narcissa’s gazes were so zoned in on Charlie that they couldn’t even spare you a glance. Because your face was a clear tell that you weren’t expecting this at all. Whatever happened to his promise of a jean jacket and slacks? 

“I’d expected him to dress like this, something reflective of his character,” Draco whispered from beside you. “A circus act.”

“Bugger off,” you warned, giving him a push away.

“It was a rather circuitous route through the dense forest and trees,” Charlie explained, dusting off a twig that was stuck in the loopy lace of his blouse. You wanted to scream. “Luckily, I had Ms. Cromwell to guide me to safety.”

“Cecile is more than fine, Charles,” Cecile assured, smoothing out his suit for him. “As we discussed on the way here.”

“And Charlie is fine, as we discussed,” he added. 

“You didn’t have to walk all the way here, Ms. Cromwell,” Lucius said rather hastily. “It’s rather chilly. Let me have the house elf escort you back.”

“Nonsense,” she deflected, only giving Lucius a moment of her time before fixing a strand of Charlie’s hair that a branch must’ve unstuck. “Walking keeps me youthful in my old age. And meeting Charles, I mean Charlie here, was the sunshine to my gloomy day.”

“I couldn’t have assumed you were over fifty,” Charlie commented.

“Oh, you,” Cecile said with a loud giggle. You’d never seen the heiress act like a fifteen-year old.  “You remind me of my late husband so very much. Same name, just as handsome, and you’re dressed like him when we met as teenagers. Any lady would be lucky to have you.”

Well, at least someone in the room thought he looked charming in those dated robes.

“Men these days don’t possess that same sense of charming style. It’s always the same shades of black and white.”

Lucius and Draco both silently peered down at their suit of all black before Lucius said: “I fear that a storm could break any moment now, you best get going,” he insisted, nudging Dobby to take the heiress’s hand.

“I’m happy to provide direction anytime, Charlie,” Cecile reminded as Dobby guided—very gently pulled—her to the door. She shot him a wink. “You know where I live.”

Charlie stepped forward. “Of course, Cecile. Have a pleasant evening.”

Then, the door shut leaving the five of you in silence. 

“How nice it is to be able to meet your neighbours, Mr. Malfoy, despite the circumstances of my delayed arrival,” Charlie said. “It doesn’t impress well upon me. I hope I can be forgiven for the gaffe.”

It took Lucius longer than usual to register Charlie’s words. It was apparent he was embarrassed that Cecile Cromwell was cognizant that Charlie Weasley was invited to his mansion for dinner. And was dating his daughter.

“Of course,” Narcissa answered in lieu of her frozen husband. “Shall we proceed to the dining room?”

She took Lucius’s hand and gave him a less-than-gentle nudge towards the hall. Lucius walked like the troll that had somehow stormed its way into Hogwarts in your third year. Still unable to speak, he walked along with Narcissa. Draco scampered behind your parents. All you could do was stare at the chaos Charlie caused by merely arriving. 

“Come on then,” Charlie spoke in a low tone next to you. He took you by the hand as well.

“Where did you get these robes?” you asked, referring to his costume.

“It was my great-aunt’s father’s, or something of that sort. Mum wasn’t clear. It really was stowed away in the attic, and I wore it against better advice.”

“Why?”

“I’m a classy man,” Charlie boasted. “What more can I say?”

Dobby rushed back just in time to pour the wine. You were seated next to Charlie, Draco in front of you, and your parents on each side of the table. 

“How is work, Mr. Malfoy?” Charlie asked through a polite sip of red when it settled.

“It’s been keeping me busy,” Lucius responded almost robotically. 

“September is never a quiet time for the Ministry, as both my brothers and father say.”

Lucius was half-focused on conversation. He’d recovered from the Cecile incident, but there was another enemy: he couldn’t keep his eyes off Charlie’s hand that was doting touches on your arm and waist. Truthfully, neither could you. Charlie’s fingers squeezed sporadically and you thanked the wine glass for absorbing your squeal. 

“Of course not, which is why we look forward to the summer. Speaking of, where will you summer?” Lucius asked. You nearly rolled your eyes at the uppity way he worded the question. Arthur had once asked you the same, but in a direct way: ‘Where are you going this summer?’

“We spend a day or two at some of the beach resorts in Romania, or dip into Greece, but there is one spot I’ve been dying to visit,” Charlie said.

“Where is that?” Lucius pressed. 

“Your brother Theodore’s new estate in Paris.”

Lucius mouth paused mid-retort. Narcissa’s red lip was stuck, pressed against the wine glass.

You, on the other hand, had to fight the thunderous laugh rising in your chest. 

“I’m sorry,” Lucius said, shaking his head with a slight laugh of disbelief. “I didn’t catch that. Where is this?”

“(Y/N) was telling me about how tremendous your brother’s Parisian estate was,” Charlie clarified, his words full of air and cheer. “I can imagine how big it is compared to this mansion. And I hear he hosts a wickedly good game of golf, which I’d be happy to partake in.”

“It’s good enough for Paris,” Lucius said. “But—”

“See, you and I are similar in that regard,” Charlie interrupted, raising a finger. Lucius’s frown grew steeper at how Charlie was now lumping them in the same bracket. “Living in the shadows of our perfect older brothers and being constantly compared to them.”

Lucius scoffed. “My parents knew better than to do that.”

‘Yeah, right,’ you thought. Your grandfather, Abraxas, loved to pit his two sons together, like they were animals in a ring. And like an unbreakable tradition, Lucius imposed that on you and Draco, and you knew you weren’t as wonderful as the perfect little Malfoy next to you. 

“I would be pleased to meet your brother one day,” Charlie said. “Maybe next summer. After all, (Y/N) has met most of my extended family and there’s nothing that ties a partnership like family.”

“We’ll see what our plans are for next summer,” Lucius said. “It’s a little premature to be thinking of that already.”

“Of course,” Charlie conceded. “My apologies for being so rash.”

“Will you be returning to Romania?” Lucius asked. “Is it possible for you to have time off during summer with your job, anyway,?” 

“It’s hard to be thinking about the summer already,” Charlie repeated with a smile, taking Lucius’s line and stuffing it back in his own mouth.

“So, what will you and (Y/N) do to see each other?” Narcissa quickly piped in with a wife’s intuition that her husband was going to cause a scene about the manner of Charlie’s response.

“Well, I’ll try my very best to make it back to England when I can for the holidays,” Charlie promised. “But (Y/N) is also intent on visiting Romania for weeks on end if there are time constraints.”

Narcissa was startled. “And she’ll travel herself?” 

“Yes, I will,” you confirmed. Charlie glanced at over you, his expression proud and thoroughly impressed at your improvisation. You gave a small smile back. 

“All that travelling does take a toll on the body, especially that of a young woman,” Narcissa warned. You redirected your attention to your wine, evading her glance over. 

‘Oh, mother, thank you for always being so cognizant of the state of my reproductive organs,’ you thought.

Narcissa dug further into Charlie. “Have you considered settling down in one place?”

“Not in the next couple of years,” Charlie said. He was so convincing that you could see your future reflected in the polished glass in front of you, full of Romanian castles and mountains. “Nothing like travelling when we’re young, right, (Y/N)?”

You nodded. “Absolutely. We should take all the time we need.”

“Have you thought about marriage? Children? Wouldn’t it better for a family to remain in one place, too?” Narcissa asked, oblivious to Lucius’s eye that had just twitched. The thought of you and Charlie producing off-spring might’ve been revolting for him to forget about dinner altogether. 

Charlie looked solemn. “That might not be in the picture.”

You quickly looked over. This was far from what you would’ve wanted him to say, but Charlie squeezed your knee to silence you. You almost kicked up at the table. 

“It’s a shared decision, is it not?” Narcissa asked.

“Yes, of course,” you added breathlessly. Best to just play along with Charlie. “And I think, I think… the same.”

“We’ll re-evaluate in ten years,” Charlie assured.

“Ten—!” Lucius finally spoke for his wife, before cutting himself off.  “And you’ll be how old then, Charles?”

“Thirty-nine,” Charlie responded. Rubbing salt on the wound, he reminded your parents: “And (Y/N) will be thirty-three.”

Now it was Narcissa’s turn to look as white as a spirit. She had you when she was twenty-four, and Draco at twenty-six. Comparatively, thirty-three was geriatric. 

You bit down to quell the laugh that was trying to escape your lips. Charlie knew how to make your parents tick and hit each box perfectly, like he was scoring points on the Quidditch field in his prime years. In your little ‘lullaby’, you and Charlie were having ten kids, but having none was clearly the better option. You did prefer your mother over your father and hated to make her upset, but the constant reminder on you and never Draco to be married, to bear children, to be a mother yourself, was a lot. 

“Draco will obviously carry on the family name should my decision remain unchanged.” You nudged Draco with your foot. Your tone was devilish; it was time for Draco to bear the burden of everything. “Won’t you?”

Draco growled back. You both loved offloading familial duties onto each other.

“What is your reason, Charles, if you don’t mind me asking?” Narcissa asked. 

“Seeing how much my parents had to sacrifice and give up for themselves,” Charlie responded, a tinge of sadness coating his voice. 

Again, if Charlie Weasley needed a second career, acting wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility. 

“Well, when you make the decision to have more children than you can afford, that seems like an unavoidable issue,” Lucius said hotly. 

“They struggled, but I wouldn’t trade any of my siblings for anything in the world.”

The air of the room was clouded with confusion. Lucius was set out to hate Charlie, but Charlie was acting the part of a perfect, coiffed gentleman (save for the remarks about Uncle Theo’s bigger estate and inviting himself over). Narcissa, though milder than Lucius, would’ve preferred a different man for you than Charlie Weasley, but she was upset you weren’t set out to have her grandchild(ren) anytime soon. Draco, always in the mood for a snarky comment, didn’t know whether to laugh or continue to live through the horror of a conversation your parents were actually invested in. 

“Very well,” Lucius said, leaning back. “It’s a shame Kingsley’s new policies have made it harder for the working class to have children.”

You groaned internally. Even Draco, who was always on his father’s side, rolled his eyes at Lucius’s favourite topic: blaming every bad thing in the world on the current Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. It was easier for him to have sway over his predecessor, Cornelius Fudge. Well, before Fudge was forced to resign over some controversies in his office. 

“Undoubtedly,” Charlie backed him up with a nod. Lucius looked at him with surprise; he hadn’t expected him to agree. But you didn’t think Charlie was going to, based on the crafty smirk on his face. “It’ll take decades to undo the damage Fudge put forth in his years in office, draining funding from things like childcare and parental leave and putting that money in the pockets of his friends instead.”

There it was. 

Shadows appeared on Lucius’s countenance. “Fudge did no such thing.”

Draco slammed his face into his hands. 

Lucius continued. “He’s only ever introduced good policies, like the potential reintroduction of dragon domestication.” 

“Having spent a decade near them, I can say they’re absolutely not suitable for domestication,” Charlie pointed out. 

“The earliest of Malfoys have been domesticators of dragons,” Lucius stated. “And they did very well, before the Ministers of Magic intervened.”

It was a touchy topic for your father indeed. Centuries ago, Malfoys did the unfathomable: they domesticated dragons and the only way to do that was to really hurt the beasts. And hunted them for sport. The same terrible creatures that had power to burn down cities, the same creatures that people staked their lives to tame. But ethics and politics shook down on the practice, and dragon domestication reflected once again in a bad light. 

Or that was what you’d read. Lucius preferred to say that those in power were gleeful to finally shake down on Malfoys. Maybe it was just transgenerational shame. You knew Malfoys hated being told what to do. 

“For good reason. The fatality rate of those trying to domesticate dragons was beyond any acceptable threshold, and vice versa.” Charlie’s voice was now lower, more serious than you’d ever heard him. His lovely bass notes reverberated in your ear and sent a chill down your spine.

“So, what exactly is the point of your job?” Lucius asked hotly. “Don’t you, on a technicality, domesticate them?”

“I study and work with them, Mr. Malfoy,” Charlie corrected. In a battle for authority, Charlie was winning. “You can call it taming, if you’d like, so they’re less destructive to the environment and wizardkind. I can make them pliable for transport as well.”

Your eyes darted back and forth between Lucius and Charlie. 

Behind Charlie’s cool and collected demeanour, you had to wonder if he was affected by your father’s words. You knew he cared deeply about dragons, never even taking more than a week off them in the past decade. He wouldn’t ever fathom hurting them for personal gain.

“Let’s have some dinner, shall we?” Narcissa said quickly. No one wanted to see Lucius riled up over politics.

The rest of dinner proceeded without a hitch, in your eyes at least. In between courses, Charlie pulled you close and whispered in your ears. You were sure this was for show because you didn’t understand anything he was saying, or maybe it was because you were too busy gazing into his deep blue eyes and studying every freckle on his cheek.

When the clock struck nine, and the last drop of coffee was had, Charlie excused himself to leave.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy for such a delightful evening,” Charlie remarked at the door. “And for such an insightful discussion on dragon domestication, Mr. Malfoy.”

Charlie was tempting war.

“I would be happy to discuss this topic anytime, Charles,” Lucius responded icily. 

Charlie hummed in agreement. “Of course.” Then, he turned to you. 

In a flash, all you could see was a mouthy smirk that had definitely sunk ships in past lifetimes. 

His right arm reached out to take you by the waist to spin you around. You expected him to only bid you goodnight but you were way off the mark. His lips remained silent. His left hand did all the talking by climbing to the back of your neck to position you how he wanted. He tilted your head back and inched closer and then—

His lips landed on yours. 

You might’ve been flustered or pushed him away under normal circumstances, but this was no normal circumstance. Unsure of what to do, you lay immobile in his arms, like that rag doll you promised you weren’t going to be. Except you were, again. He was playing you like a marionette puppet and his hands were the strings. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of the dress until you could feel each one. His lips stuck on yours like honey, like a fruit lolly from Honeydukes on a hot summer day. His eyelashes brushed against your eyelids as he tilted your head down further to deepen the kiss.

Patches of muscled torso pressed against the front of your body. Warmth seeped from his hand to the back of your neck as his palm caressed your skin while his fingers tangled themselves in your hair.

He deepened the kiss once more before pulling away. 

You stumbled upwards as he withdrew himself. Your fingers ghosted over your flushed lips in disbelief, but again, no one saw. In this moment, no one cared about you. 

When the stars faded and vision came to be, the first thing you saw were the agape mouths of your parents. But they weren’t going to chastise Charlie over the improper way he said goodbye; there were no words to be had.

“Have yourself a wonderful evening,” Charlie said in a manner so unaffected that you didn’t understand. He had just given you the most electric kiss you’ve ever had, and in front of your parents and brother. “And many thanks again for having me.”

NEXT CHAPTER>>

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

#charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasley x oc #charlie weasley x you #charlie weasley fic #charlie weasley imagine

[sunonyoreface]

He Knows - Simon “Ghost” Riley Pt. 17

An: Hello again! Enjoy a sprinkle of fluff (always with some angst of course) Thanks for reading :)

Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.

Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.

Word count: 2700

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

I try and mimic the silence of his footsteps. The smoothness of his movements is almost inhuman. Like he isn’t truly in front of me but is rather a figment of my subconscious. Part of me refuses to believe that he is real. But I feel how the air whirls behind his broad frame. How the metallic scent of gunpowder trails behind him no matter the setting. War follows him. I follow him.

Ghost stops in front of a door at the end of a long hallway. To the West, a red exit sign illuminates the otherwise dim corridor with a red glow. Not another soul is present.

The sound of the lock echoes off the cement walls as Ghost slides the key card back into his pocket, pulls the handle down, and holds the door open, waiting for me to walk ahead. After an almost sleepless night, too much caffeine, and the constant feeling of being watched, even my bones feel skittish.

As I step inside, I realize this room isn’t an office or conference area. It’s not a supply closet or interview space filled with intimidating tools. Like my own, this room is filled with a bed, dresser, and small washroom.

I asked him for somewhere safe to talk and he brought me to his room. Something in my heart clenches. This isn’t a part of him I’d ever expected to see.

I know it’s not really his. That it belongs to the task force and isn’t a true reflection of his character. But entering the space – his space – feels intimate. This isn’t something others get to see. Ghost doesn’t just invite people back to his room. Bringing me here is intentional. He wants, no, needs me to know that no one can get me here. No one will even know where I am.

“Is this your room?” I ask as the door locks behind him. Ghost crosses and then uncrosses his arms as he stands at the edge of the room, not sure about the best position to take. His goal isn’t to come off as intimidating, but even with innocent intentions, it somehow just happens.

“It is,” he sighs, considering his next words. “Y/n if I’m going to help, you have to stop hiding from me.”

“I’m trying,” although, I’m not sure that’s the truth. I see how closely Ghost’s eyes watch me. How his trigger finger twitches at his side when he’s stressed. How he clenches and unclenches his hand in a fist to try and get it to stop. I see how much he is holding himself back right now in an effort to make me feel safe.

“When did the Ultranationalist make contact?” Ghost asks quietly, maintaining the stillness of the room.

“Last night.”

“Was that the first time?” his dark eyes follow as I start to pace between the twin bed and dresser.

“Yes,” I pause. “Since the prisoner.”

“It was just the one?”

“Yeah, but Ghost,” I feel that all too familiar strain in my throat. “There’s more than one.”

“He said that?”

“He said ‘we are plenty and we are strong’,” I hear his words ring between my ears. We are plenty and we are strong. How many is plenty? How many of them have infiltrated 141? I see those same questions and more floating around behind the skull mask.

“Did you recognize him?” urgency creeps its way back into his voice.

“He was wearing a mask,” I start.

“But did you recognize him?”

“I think so,” I know so, but telling him could do more harm than good. Not that I have much of a choice.

“Who?” he urges. Ghost’s feet shift closer and his shoulders lean forward. I see the reminder flash behind his eyes to pull back, to restrain the fury boiling under his skin. If I were brave enough to reach out and touch him I’d only scold the tender flesh of my palms.

“Do you remember that day on the van when we were being transported between bases? I sat between you and Soap?”

“Affirmative,” his response is immediate.

“There was a man, I couldn’t see his face, but he was making jokes about me and soap babysitting until you told him to stand down,” I recall the event in my head and how uncomfortable it was.

“I did.”

“Yesterday the same guy confronted Soap and me in the hall. He said that Friday shouldn’t have gone down like that. That’s why I ran off and Soap did whatever he did,” he intently holds my gaze, clinging to every word. “I don’t know his name. But I know it was him.”

“Bennett, that fucking bastard,” Ghost lowly hisses. He fists his hands as he starts to pace near the door. I watch a variety of horrific torture methods flash through his mind. “I’ll fucking kill him,” his voice is coated with a fatal venom. The kind that burns through its victims' veins. The kind that slowly paralyzes its prey, leaving them to watch themselves be devoured whole in absolute horror.

“Don’t,” the choked word barely escapes my mouth.

“He won’t live to see fucking daylight, y/n,”

“Ghost,” I try again, but see his thoughts running wild. His chest heaves and his pace quickens. If I don’t step in now, he’ll be out the door on a flaming path of vengeance. If I don’t stop him and the Ultranationalists find out that we know who one of their moles is, they will kill even more people.

I take a brave step forward, but it’s like he doesn’t even notice. His eyes are focused on a path beyond my sight. I try again, this time stepping directly in his way.

“Damnit, y/n,” he mutters.

“Simon, you need to listen to me,” my hand reaches for his arm, landing gently, but firmly on his bicep. Searing heat pours from his skin into my own. Finally, he falters, coming to a stop. “Please?” I feel the heat start to disperse as his eyes glance down at the contact. His sleeve is a rough canvas material and I can’t help but long for the smooth texture of his skin gliding against my own.

“He said that they have men tracking five people I care about back home in New York. That my father provided the information and that if anyone finds out their identity, they will kill them. You can’t hurt him. He can’t even know that you know,” the pleading is evident in my voice. I have no reason to hide my desperation from him, yet I hate how weak it makes me feel. How I’ve been stripped of any power I had. How the sanctity of my life and so many others lies in the hands of all these different men who can’t even begin to comprehend the value of such a thing.

My own emotions are so heightened it makes it difficult to tell what Ghost is feeling. His arms are tense with anger, but there’s so much more to him. Part of me wonders if he feels the same type of fear that I do, but his emotions don’t control him the same way mine control me. They don’t manifest in the same way. It’s hard to understand his desires and actions when his mind operates so differently than the average person’s. But Ghost also isn’t immune to the occasional slip-up. Ringing the alarm right now would be exactly that. Unless in his mind it wouldn’t be. Because Ghost doesn’t value the people in my life the same way I do. His job is to bring an end to the Ultranationalists, not keep my people safe.

And that thought is enough to set me even more on edge. Because ultimately, our goals are not the same.

“What do they want you to do?” his sharp eyes drag down my face and I feel myself squirm under the sensation.

“They already suspect a trap, they’re counting on it. And they want me to tell them all the details of how Price plans the exchange,” my voice is low and urgent as my heart thrums against my ribs.

“So they can plan another ambush,” Ghost fills in the blanks.

“He said he’ll stop by my room again,” I whisper. The confession almost feels shameful.

“When?” Ghost’s hands rest on top of my shoulders, his grip stays light but the weight isn’t reassuring.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But he has a key card.”

“That fucker,” he mumbles. I step away from Ghost and pace the room once before sitting on the edge of his perfectly made bed. Stormy eyes closely follow my every move. Part of me just wants to be alone. The other part wants to sink into his chest as his strong arms pull me in deeper until I disappear completely. All I want is to disappear.

Ghost crosses the room to the dresser before reaching in and pulling out a small tin that he slips into a pocket on his vest. Then he carefully approaches the bed. His steps are silent across the cement floor like he’s gliding across a sheet of ice. His shoulders have sunk a little and his hands are no longer in fists. His trigger finger doesn’t twitch at his side. He’s reeled in those dangerous emotions, contained them for now.

Ghost comes to a stop between my legs. An ungloved hand reaches out to grasp a strand of my hair. He gently rolls it between his fingers. I’ve come to notice how often his fingers wind themselves through my hair. It brings out the softer side of him. One more akin to Simon than Ghost.

My eyes lock onto his and follow them as Simon sinks to his knees in front of me. Here he kneels on the floor, his chest resting between my legs as I sit on the edge of his bed. Now, our eyes are finally even. My stomach flutters from our position. Both of his hands come to rest on the outside of my thighs. His thumbs rub in reassuring circles around the fabric of my pants.

“Did he do anything else?” his voice is barely audible. Simon won’t dare say it, but I know where his thoughts have wandered. His eyes are both hard and soft. There’s an everlasting ambiguity about him. He blames himself for letting this happen.

“No,” I match his hushed volume. I think back to the feeling of the knife tracing down my shirt and while the implication was there, ultimately nothing happened.

The comforting heat of his arms seeps into my thighs. Simon’s head tilts ever so slightly as he tries to see where my thoughts went to. But he doesn’t push it.

“Just this?” his hand reaches up to the cut at the base of my neck as the back of his index finger traces the thin line.

“Just this,” I confirm although my neck will hardly be the only scar I have if I walk away from this nightmare alive.

Simon reaches into one of many pockets and pulls out the tin from earlier. He pops the lid off. Inside looks to be half filled with a type of salve. “This’ll help it heal,” he scoops up a small amount with his middle finger.

One hand pulls my shirt down to expose more of the cut while the other rests against my collarbone and lightly applies the salve. My mind drifts to all the times he’s done the same with his own scars. How many times has he sat in this very spot, gently dabbing the tincture on his wounds? Or does he even care about himself enough to try?

I revel in our closeness. How the sides of his stomach and ribcage brush against my inner thighs. The pressure of his hand resting against my collarbone. How the hand once grasping my shirt now lightly holds my hip as he steadies himself. And how the thumb of that hand gently rubs back and forth along my pliable flesh. Simon’s eyes intently watch his middle finger as he dabs the salve on the cut. I want to pull him on top of me, feel his full weight press me further into the mattress.

Even after he’s finished applying the salve, Simon’s hand lingers. Like he isn’t ready to pull away. Like he’ll miss the heat of my skin almost as much as I’ll miss his. Maybe more.

When he finally looks up, I have trouble breathing. There’s something about his eyes that is just so beautiful. Beautiful and heartbreaking. They pull me into an unbreakable trance. All the white noise, all my troubling thoughts, just disappear. Neither of us dares to speak.

I reach up to grasp his hand and place it on my cheek. There it finds its natural place, cupping my soft skin against his rough callouses. Acting so gently, so tenderly, so against the merciless inclinations that have been beaten into him since birth.

Here is a man whose cruelty has defined his identity. Who has racked up a kill count too high to keep track of. Who the enemy tells ghost stories about to scare their recruits. Who is so notorious, yet so illusive, he is no more real to them than the legends that echo the halls. And here he rests in front of me, on his knees.

I lean into his touch. Warmth spreads throughout my body stemming from his hand. It feels like sunbathing on a Sunday morning. The kind of warmth that makes the bad things disappear for just a little while.

“Keep the salve. Apply some more before bed,” Simon whispers. And there he goes and ruins it. Because now I’m thinking about my bed and my room and the impending intruder who’s made a promise of returning.

“Don’t make me go back,” my throat tightens. I know it’s no use.

“You have to be there when he returns,” his soothing thumb brushes along my cheek.

“Let me stay,” I murmur.

A deep sigh is pushed from far within his lungs. It’s the kind of sigh that is paired with a fair bit of deliberation. The kind that says he’s going to act against his better instincts.

“Just until dinner,” Simon responds.

“Will you stay?” I ask.

“Negative,” and he’s already shifting away from me. The warmth slipping away with him. I reach forward and grab both his arms just hard enough to stop him from leaving. His eyes latch onto mine once more. They soften ever so slightly. He wants to stay. God does he want to stay. But he’s already been gone too long. People will start to notice.

“Thank you, Simon,” I mean it. So much so that I could say the words one hundred times over and they’d mean no less. But he’ll never understand that.

“Don’t,” his low voice warns. I second-guess how my hands wrap around his forearms for just a second. But I don’t move. Not now. Not after everything.

“No. I mean it,” I say. “Thank you.”

He stands and breaks away from my grasp, but doesn’t move away. Two large hands cup both sides of my face and urge me to stand.

“You can’t say that,” his voice is dead serious. “Not when this is my fault.”

“Well I’m going to,” he tenses when I wrap my arms around him. I’ve gathered he’s not used to affection. Not from friends. Not from family. And certainly not out here. But that doesn’t matter. I need to touch him. Feel him. Know that he’s real and he’s here.

Another deep sigh escapes his chest. And then something unexpected happens.

I feel Simon’s lips press a tender kiss to my forehead. I don’t know when he rolled up his mask and I don’t dare break away to look. Instead, I bask in the small, yet significant action. I breathe in his familiar scent and let the moment drag on as long as possible. I take note of how he’s shaved since returning from the cabin. How much smoother his skin feels.

His hands move to my hair. His fingers lace through the soft strands and linger there for quite some time. I don’t know how long. But even after he pulls away they’re still there.

“You still have that knife I gave you?” his breath brushes against my face.

“It’s under my pillow,”

“Good,” Simon says, although I feel him slipping away already. “You’re going to need it."

PT 18:

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley fluff #ghost imagine #ghost fanfiction #cod ghost #cod fanfic #cod imagine #cod #cod mw x reader #ghost mwii #call of duty mwii #mw2 imagine #mw2 fanfic #cod ghost fluff #simon riley x you #ghost x you #he knows

[cuubism]

A heist for a crown for a king? 🤔👑

yes. dream deserves a crown. dream insists he doesn't need a crown, everybody knows he is king. also he has his helm. hob says how many times i gotta tell you it's not about NEEDING it. it's about how fucking sexy you'll look. that's the priority. also you deserve it. dream is still flummoxed.

may i propose a DREAM heist for a DREAM crown.

--

Hob was... definitely going to get in trouble for this.

"We're definitely going to get in trouble for this," said Matthew, perched on his shoulder. He tittered nervously. And Matthew was one of the most ride-or-die people-- birds?-- Hob had ever met, so this was not a good sign. "Like. Getting my wings cut off trouble."

"He's not going to cut your fucking wings off, Jesus Christ," said Hob. He crept through the dreamspace, keeping to the shadows so as to try to avoid alerting the dream itself to their presence. "Drawing and quartering is a lot more entertaining."

"HOB. What the fuck." Matthew's claws dug into his skin like he really did mean to separate Hob's arm from his shoulder.

Hob shrugged. "Didn't live through 'ye olde medieval times,' as you put it, for nothing."

"I didn't call it that."

"Yeah, you did. That's what I get for agreeing to watch A Knight's Tale, I suppose."

Matthew squawked. "It's a good movie!"

"It was a good movie right up until it managed to convince you that "We Will Rock You" was actually sung at jousts," said Hob.

"In my defense--" started Matthew, then clacked his beak shut. "Nah, actually, I don't have a defense for that. I must have been totally sloshed."

Hob snorted. "Oh, you were."

"Well, who decided it was a good idea to feed Bailey's to a raven?"

"There was no point at which I thought it was a good decision," said Hob. He couldn't help his grin. "I just don't mind making a bad one."

"And here I thought we were friends."

Hob slipped through a doorway, ducking around the next corner. The dream castle was significantly more winding than a real one. It was slow going.

He started humming to himself, an incongruously jaunty old execution ballad. "His quarters stand not all together, But ye mai hap to ring them thether..."

"I'm begging you to stop," said Matthew. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a serious problem?"

Hob laughed. "Many times."

A small group of people -- figments of the dreamscape -- strode around the corner. Hob ducked into a tiny alcove, one which hadn't been there before he'd thought of needing it. He was gradually getting better at manipulating the Dreaming.

And his heart was hammering. Dream theft or not, it was thrilling.

"Never thought I'd be part of fucking Inception," grumbled Matthew, peering to see if it was all clear.

Hob crept back out into the hall and up a spiral staircase. "This is way more fun than Inception."

"And way more dangerous."

"You loved the last outing!"

"Yeah, that one didn't involve sneaking around in my boss's subconscious."

Hob rolled his eyes. "It's not Dream's subconscious." Finally at the center of the absolute maze that was the castle, he spied his prize, and slipped right through the bulletproof glass to get at it. On a stand at the center of the room sat the most gorgeous tiara, a winding thing of diamond leaves and ruby berries. He grinned. "It's the Princess's."

He swiped the thing from its stand, leaving a weight in its place for the pressured alarm he was sure still existed even in a dream.

"Dream is the Dreaming, dude. We're gonna get caught."

"Well, that's why you're here, isn't it? It's normal for you to be in dreams, it's not for me. You're my cover. You'll make it way less likely for Dream to--"

And they were yanked from the dream.

"Drawn and quartered!" Matthew squeaked, and then they were standing in the throne room.

Dream was, of course, standing a few steps up on the grand staircase, glaring at them. Glaring at Hob, really. Matthew squawked again in fright, puffing up his feathers. Hob just grinned back at Dream.

"When I gave you free run of the Dreaming," Dream started, some of the menace Hob had heard him use with rogue nightmares on display, "this was not what I meant."

Hob wasn't afraid of Dream, though. Never had been. "Don't take it out on Matthew," he said. "Wasn't his idea."

Dream's stormy gaze flickered over to Matthew. "Matthew, you are dismissed. I will deal with you later."

Matthew didn't need to be told twice. He winged away out of the throne room, calling back, "Good luck with getting drawn and quartered, Hob!"

Dream raised an eyebrow. He still looked dreadfully unamused. "Drawn and quartered?"

"We've watched too many medieval movies," Hob explained.

"Ah." His gaze found the tiara clasped in Hob's hand. "What, exactly, is that?"

He obviously knew. It was made of dream stuff, after all. Still, Hob knelt and held it out to him. "For my liege."

Dream strode down the few steps separating them, fluid as water streaming over a fall, his long cloak trailing behind him. Majestic creature. Majestic king. Did he really expect Hob to be at all normal about it?

Dream plucked the tiara from Hob's hands. He tilted it back and forth. The light through the stained glass illuminated it in every color imaginable and cast refracted rainbows on his face. "You stole it from a dream."

Hob flashed him a crooked grin. "Guilty."

Dream tipped his head up with one fingertip under his chin, until Hob's neck was craned back and he was meeting his gaze. "That," he drawled, his eyes flashing dark, "is very disrespectful."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes." Dream didn't release Hob's chin; if anything, he leaned closer so Hob had to look up even further. "Did you think you would not be caught? Creeping around in my halls?"

"We'll, I'm very good," Hob said. This was hardly the first thing he'd stolen for Dream, though it was the first one he'd attempted in the Dreaming.

"Or perhaps," continued Dream, and the darkness in his eyes looked hungry, now, though no less dangerous. "Perhaps, you wanted to be caught."

Hob winked at him, cheeks heating. "Well. I may be good, but I could hardly expect you not to feel it when it's your skirts I was rustling under."

"Is that what you were doing?" Dream swept his thumb along Hob's lip, dipping into his mouth. "Fiending for punishment?"

"Just trying to please my lord. Are you pleased, my love?"

"That is not quite the word I would use, dearest one." A sharp smile was creeping its way onto his lips, eyes burning with a dark warmth, like smoldering coals.

He placed the tiara on Hob's head.

Shadows dripped from it, falling over Hob's shoulders and back. Dream's hands lingered at Hob's temples, stroking his hair back behind his ears.

"Devoted one." His voice rumbled pleasantly through Hob's body, and Hob shivered. "Mischievous one. What am I to do with you?"

"Only whatever you want," said Hob, leaning into his touch. "As usual."

"Hmm. I think..."

Shadows fell around the throne room, dropped from the ceiling like banners and speckled like blackened stars. Hob knew those shadows, knew the way they were meant to intimidate though they did nothing but make him want more, make him hungrier, make him want to hold Dream close in every meaning of the word.

And he knew that bright darkness in his lover's eyes, too. The sky during an eclipse.

Dream drew him back to his feet. Hob stumbled in so they were a breath apart.

"Whatever prize you were seeking when you embarked on this foolhardy task?" Dream hummed, just before pulling Hob in to meet his lips. "I think you should claim it."

#this got slightly kinkier than intended #that seems to happen a lot with these two #actually not even slightly. it's a LOT kinkier than intended #bandit hob / lord dream dynamic #which i am increasingly weak for #tfw ur lover is super dangerous actually but u love it #monsterfucker hob #the execution ballad hob's singing is a real thing btw XD #dreamling #dreamling fic #ask #magnusbae #hob gadling #dream of the endless #my writing #alcohol cw

[distort-opia]

This might sound silly and i know bruce is bisexual and all but from a queer standpoint, the scene where he proposes to selina feels a lot like compulsory heterosexuality. "I love you. I HAVE to love you."

And considering the timeline, joker was HIDDEN INSIDE BRUCE'S BASEMENT my god the implications, the metaphor....

Yeah, the whole thing is... [clears throat] very interesting. These two panels, which happen relatively close in time, put it into perspective:

Batman (2016) #32 // Dark Days: The Casting

However, to be entirely honest, I don't think Bruce proposing to Selina, and that whole arc... can be boiled down to just compulsory heterosexuality. It's more complicated than that. Bruce is doing this after interacting with the Batman of Flashpoint, his own father, who begs him to try and be happy. And Bruce's idea of happiness, very much inspired by Thomas', is settling down with a woman and having a family. Gaining peace.

Tom King is the one who wrote the wedding arc, and the whole thing is permeated by this... typically masculine, American idealization of women as this isle of peace that a tortured man yearns for, but can never fully choose. I'm sure there's names for this trope or stereotype, but I'm too lazy to look this up. Think Michael Mann movies, think James Bond movies, think stories about criminals and agents and soldiers leading a dark violent life aspiring to put down arms, and the whole dream being entangled with a woman. A female character who usually isn't fleshed out beyond the representation of leaving a life of violence behind, having a nice wife and nice children in a nice house with a nice white picket fence. Tbh it's not surprising to me that King ended up writing Bruce and Selina with these undertones, because of King's infamous background with the CIA before he became a comic book writer.

And thing is, I don't think it's inaccurate to portray Bruce this way. Bruce has lead a long life of violence, and he wants to want to stop. He wishes it didn't define him as much as it does, he wishes there was another path for him-- and this wish drives his attempt to settle down with Selina. "I have to love you" is less about "you're a woman and I should marry a woman", it's more about "if I love you I am more of a human being, and I need that." Yes, it's compulsory heterosexuality too, in the sense that Bruce is drawing from the heteronormative idea that happiness can only be achieved through normality, and normality = wife and retirement. But it's also a sad, desperate attempt at salvaging himself through Selina, whom he does love... but the things he loves about her are less about her, and more about himself. In the end, his own subconscious acknowledges all of it, during the Knightmares arc:

Batman (2016) #69

[sigh] It's all quite sad. And I've said it in a different post, but this is partly why -- in a seemingly paradoxical way -- a relationship with Joker has the potential to work. "You can't love anyone but the Vow, but the Bat," Selina (a figment of his own mind) tells Bruce. And Joker is part of the Vow. In many ways, over the decades, Joker has become the endgame of the Vow, the incarnation of all the things the Bat is supposed to defeat. It's fucked up and makes me want to chew on glass, but the Bat could allow loving Joker, because loving Joker would be a part of the Mission.

Anyway, I went on a bit of an unncessary tangent, but yeah! I do agree, Anon. So many implications.

#asks #batman #bruce wayne #bruce wayne meta #batjokes #batcat

[thefrontofmymind]

Me & You Together (Joseph Quinn x gn!Reader)

an; hiya! here's my first drabble for this blog! a little nervous so any feedback would be great (positive and negative i'm a people pleaser lol)

SYNOPSIS: Joe and reader haven't been together all that long, but reader has a dream of their future with Joe and tells him all about it (loosely based on one line in the song, Me & You Together Song by The 1975)

WARNINGS: nothing other than mentions of having kids which some people might not want! otherwise just some fluff!

When you and Joseph were together–which was a large majority of your time these days–the world seemed to stop. There was no noise from outside your window, no anxiety of what people would think of you two, just the two of you. Alone.

It was times like these, when it was quiet, that your brain could finally reflect on the man laying in front of you; hair beginning to grow longer than he’d like, showing just how fuzzy his curls could get, a hint of sleep in his eyes that was just about visible in the early morning sun peeking through the curtains, an air of calm around him as he looked right back at you.

There was almost no need to speak. The chirps of the birds–pretty much the only noise you could comprehend this early in the morning–filled the silence very nicely. Though there was a thread going around your mind that you just had the urge to pull and you couldn’t stop it.

“I had a dream last night,” you started, not really sure where the rest of your sentence would be going. Joe let out a ‘hmm’, almost as a question of ‘what was it?’. “I had a dream of me and you together. We were old, like all grey and wrinkly, and we were having this big family lunch and we had kids and grandkids and all that.”

It didn’t dawn on you as much as it should have that the future of your relationship could be a sensitive topic for Joe, his career was just about to skyrocket and you’d only been seeing each other for a few months–you’d only met his parents a couple weeks beforehand, for goodness’ sake. But you just couldn’t shake the feeling that it was right. There wasn’t the first few nervous dates like normal, waiting for the red flags seemed inevitable at first–at least that’s what was expected–but they just never appeared. Everything was easy.

A small smirk began to pull at Joe’s lips, his eyes still full of the admiration he’d been holding for you for at least the past twenty minutes after you both woke up, not wanting to get out of bed yet.

“And how many kids did we have, darling?” he asked, his voice still a little bit scratchy.

You thought for a moment, trying to recall. “Three. A boy and then two girls.” Joe chuckled, pulling you towards him and into his arms–a bear hug.

“And the grandkids?” he continued. You could no longer see his face–the hug caused you to nuzzle into his neck–which still smelt a little like the cologne he used the night before–but you could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke.

“We had an army of them,” you answered. “‘m pretty sure even they lost count of how many of them there were.”

Joe stayed silent for a moment, just revelling in the comfort he felt with you in his hold. “So when are we starting the brood then, eh?”

You were almost taken aback by how forward he was. Of course, you’d thought about what it would be like to settle down, have a family–and of course, since meeting Joseph, you’d thought about what he’d be like going along with you, but there was an expectation still, it was early. You’d barely gotten to know the ins and outs of each other.

But there was a relief when Joe was the one to bring it up first, at least not just as a random figment of your subconscious imagination.

You thought for a moment before answering. You pulled away from his neck to look him in the eyes–those gorgeous dark eyes.

“I’ll need a ring first.” Joe just laughed, and everything felt the best anything had felt in a while for you, in the tranquillity under your sheets on that early morning as the sun rose.

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn imagine #joseph quinn drabble #joseph quinn blurb #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn fluff #joseph quinn fic #joseph quinn fanfiction

[half-dead-ham]

Ch. 3 Hysteria

Chapter 3 of Dead men's Deals, courtesy of the DPxDC ship week! Day 1? Arranged marriages ofc ;). I thought it was a little ironic that I started this just before this was announced, but here we are!

Here's; [Ao3], [ch. 1 & prompt], [ch. 2]

The rest of Damian's patrol was maddeningly quiet, which of course meant that he had to run around with his siblings incessant prattling along the comm line. It seemed as though his half an hour of silence had caused quite the stir, and Richard was halfway to Gotham thanks to his silence.

  Joy.

  “Robin, you can’t be mad at me for worrying after you went quiet.” Richard huffed into the comm over the wind. “Forty-five minutes is a long time, and things could happen.”

  “I am fine, Nightwing. As I stated previously, an informant approached me about a private case that needed my attention. I did not realize he had a signal jammer on his person until he had left.” Damian snapped back as he reached the cave, pushing down most of his ire at his siblings' insistent mother-henning. He did not like being coddled when he was young, and he certainly did not like being coddled as an adult, it was demeaning to his skills.

  “You’re still getting checked for mental manipulation, Dami,” Timothy called from behind him, peeling his mask off and pushing his hair from his face. “No amount of treats will get you out of it tonight. Better safe than sorry, right?”

  And Damian wanted to argue, he really did. But then he remembered and felt that strange energy now nestled snugly in his chest next to his heart. It was cold, but not overly so. When he was not focusing on it he could almost make himself believe that that whole interaction was a hallucination, a figment of his overly stressed subconscious acting out to help him destress from something he couldn’t control. But then he would think about it again, and that cold something would move, reminding him that this was his reality.

  Something in him whispered about the absurdity of his life, another replied that this wasn’t even the strangest thing he’d experienced.

  “Fine, Drake. I’ll subject myself to your pointless tests, but only after I remove my gear.” Timothy almost looked surprised at how easily Damian agreed to the tests, he didn't know how easily he had swayed to please the being he had met now mere hours ago. How easily he wished to comply with the sense of trust that wasn’t his own. He felt it would be necessary to comply with the routine, no matter how tedious it was.

  They both made their way to the changerooms in silence after that, Timothy most likely deep in thought as to whether Damian’s new agreeableness was something to be celebrated or feared and Damian finally starting to tire after needlessly pushing himself for the first part of his patrol.

  It was reckless, now that the weight of so many uncertainties wasn’t nipping at the back of his mind like some sort of rabid animal. To exert himself in an attempt to outrun what he couldn’t control was pointless, and now he was paying the price for it in lead lined limbs. Nothing he needed to worry his siblings over, of course, that would only make him more suspicious. But he was finding the prospect of his soft, encompassing bed very inviting at this point.

  Damian had already taken his mask and cape off, and shucked one glove into his locker before he froze, thumb hooked under the lip of his remaining left glove.

  The mark.

  It would be visible to everyone once he took his glove off. Then he would need to explain Danny and the contract and the letter from his mother and then he would have to withstand Richards' whining. He could not let anyone see the mark.

  “Damian? You okay?” Timothy looked over, noticing his hesitancy and that he was still mostly in uniform. He did not like to linger in the changerooms and Timothy knew that. Even with his family and the years he’d spent in the manor he felt needlessly exposed being among others in a state of undress. Usually he would be changing as quickly and efficiently as possible to avoid being needlessly exposed for longer than needed be, but now… Damian moved his hand from the glove to his suit instead, intending to keep the glove on until the last possible moment.

  “How many times must I tell you that I am fine for you to accept it, Drake?” He snapped again without the heat, his mind elsewhere. Timothy simply huffed as he pulled on an old button down, then slipped back out into the cave to wait.

  There was no longer a reason for Damian to hesitate. Not that he was hesitating. Pointless hesitation was still a weakness Damian wouldn’t tolerate from himself even now. He slipped out of the rest of his suit and pulled his sweatpants on before focusing back on his still gloved left hand.

  Slowly, he pulled it off, revealing the black snowflake with the stylized D resting just above his third knuckle and the band circling his middle finger. He stared at it, examining the minute fractals the tattoo branched into, eyes trailing the feather light lines that connected the D to the rest of the shape, turning his hand to better inspect the black ring now imprinted onto his digit.

  Danny had said he wished to annul the contract that had forced this mark onto his hand. Although Damian had threatened violence, there was no grand battle. Their interaction was brief but not unpalatable. And Danny…

  Exhaustion made his thoughts swirl through his head, making thoughts connect for a fraction of a second before breaking apart leaving him confused. Slipping his shirt on, he frowned. After all this time, he thought he was able to understand his own emotions better than this, after all this time, after all the talks he had had with his two eldest brothers. Damian had thought he would know how to feel after he had met the Lord of Death, but their interaction just left him lost.

  He hated how little control he had over the situation.

  He walked out of the changeroom toward his brother, hoping a good sleep and the answers from tomorrow night would help his tumultuous feelings.

~~~~~

      “Father,” Damian called after the head of the house as he headed to his office after breakfast. Bruce turned, one eyebrow raised in curiosity as his youngest strode to catch up.

  “What’s up, chum?” He asked as he resumed his cant, keeping pace with his son.

  “I have… Information on the private case we discussed previously,” Damian confessed. His father raised an eyebrow at his words, confused.

  "The letter, father," he pressed, unconsciously clenching his left hand into a fist.

  His eyes widened in realization before the mask of the Bat settled on his father's face, expression hard and calculative. He nodded, then ever so slightly sped up his pace to the office.

  They walked in, and as soon as Bruce shut the door behind them he turned to Damian. “Did Talia send someone? Did you see her? Does it have anything to do with you comm going offline last night?”

  Damian took his place in one of the plush armchairs before replying with a heavy sigh. “Mother has not contacted me since she sent the letter father, I would have informed you otherwise and you know this.”

  Sitting down himself, Batman narrowed his eyes. “But this is related to why your comm went down last night?”

  Glancing to his hand, Damian nodded. Batman followed his gaze, but like Timothy the night previous, did not react to the black mark that now adorned Damian’s hand. It seemed, until proven otherwise at least, that no one but Damian and the Lord of Death could see their binding mark. Damian was both relieved that he didn’t need to explain the mark to his family, and frustrated that this was just one more thing he couldn’t validate were he to try.

  Huffing, Damian lifted his gaze back to his father. “I met my betrothed last night,” he stated flatly.

  Instantly tension gathered in his fathers frame, posed to react. From where Damian sat he could almost see the gears in Batman’s head working on plans and contingencies to keep his son safe from whatever monster that might wish to take him from them.

  He supposed that he wouldn’t be the only one getting shocked by his encounter.

  “Were you hurt?” Batman asked, his voice dropping to the tone he uses when asking for a mission report.

  “He did not hurt me,” he replied just as flatly as before. It was true, Danny had not harmed him in any lasting physical way. The jury is still out on any other way until tonight.

  Batman recognized all the things he didn’t say with his answer, narrowing his gaze as he studied his son. There were no doubt things he would be wanting to ask by what they meant, about how he may have harmed him in those forty-five minutes. Knowing they would get nowhere if they stayed on this topic, Damian pushed ahead, “He asked to meet again tonight so that he may explain more about our… arrangement.”

  “No,” Batman immediately states, much to Damian’s annoyance. “You aren’t going to meet a dangerous being we know nothing about.”

  “But father, he has answers,” Damian retorts emphatically. “Answers about this whole mess that Mother has dropped on us.”

  “Damian,” Batman glared at Damian, willing him to back down on this. Unfortunately, Damian has learned from his siblings to take that glare as a challenge. Neither backed down for what seemed like hours, Damian knew that if he were to look away it would be taken as a sign of weakness.

  Finally, Batman leaned back in his chair, tension slowly leaking out of his frame until only Bruce was left, sighing in only a way a tired father could. “You know I can’t let you do this alone, right?”

  Damian gave a sharp nod, “I know what risks could come with this. That is why I came to you, father, as no one else as of yet knows of my situation.”

  Bruce nodded, his expression shifting to something less tired and more thoughtful. His stance was firm about letting the rest of the family know about the contract, they were all gossip mongers and as soon as one of them knew the news would spread like wildfire. He would not be able to stop the comments from his siblings, and Richard’s planner must stay hidden at all costs now that he was staying in the manor for the near future. Cassandra might be an exception to that statement, she knew how to keep things hidden when they were important, but the rest he wouldn’t trust as far as he could throw them.

  His father would hopefully take their family's nature into account in his planning.

  “Well then, I suppose I’ll have Dick take over my patrol route for tonight,” Bruce decided with a nod. He moved to get up, but Damian stopped him.

  “Father, what do you mean?” He asked, “Why would you require Richard to take your route?”

  Bruce chuckled as he strode to the door, “Well, chum, I’d need to have him take over if I’m joining you.” And then he left, much to his son's bafflement.

~~~~~

      Flying in big cities was always something Danny could use to relax. Being so high up with all the glittering lights below him gave him a sense of peace he couldn’t get in his regular day to day life. He hadn’t really done it since coming here, what with his marriage manhunt, but now that Danny found the guy, he could finally appreciate the city for the beauty it had.

  Ignoring all the sounds of gunshots and the stench, the place really was a gothic marvel. All gray stone buildings and gargoyles; Sam would love it here.

  Of course, he did have a destination for his flight. Tonight he needed to pick his partner in magic matrimony up so that they could have a proper conversation back at his apartment. Robin… Danny wasn’t going to lie, he had a crush on the vigilante, but right now voiding the contract was more important than trying to get to know the guy.

  The sun had set a few hours ago by now, prime time for the criminals to skitter out of their hiding places and the vigilantes to start herding them like cats playing with their prey. Perfect hours to go and get his birdy.

  Danny followed the pull at his core as he flew invisibly through the city, trying to remember what he had looked up throughout the day. The city’s vigilantes were something of a band of cryptids, as Danny found out. Seen when needed, but mysterious enough that no one could land any solid information about them. Even the knowledge people had on them was speculative at best, and any concrete evidence was locked behind a firewall so strong it would make Technus and Tucker both drool.

  He couldn’t find much on Robin, other than the odd theory thread talking about how many different kids might have taken up the mantle before the most recent one. Saying that it would've had to have been different kids because they all had different fighting styles, there were periods of time in between sightings sometimes where people think the kids have switched, and that their heights and ages had stayed relatively the same until the latest one.

  The latest one has apparently been around the longest, but out of the supposed others he’s the least well liked. Danny figured that was probably due to the whole ‘assassin family’ thing so he wasn’t about to argue. His own amazing media coverage gave him a better understanding of how people liked to portray people who did things differently. From what he noticed last night the guy was rough, sure, but he did his job and did it well, so what if the criminals got a few extra scrapes?

  This Robin has been around for a while now, and has actually aged. He was probably around the same age as Danny… hopefully. Ancients, he really hoped he wasn’t secretly a lot older or younger than him, that would be really awkward.

  Danny had to shake himself of his thoughts as the pull on his core grew stronger, telling him he was near his… mate? Ancients no, that was gross. His fiancé? That's closer, but it's not like he and Robin wanted this. Partner in a magically binding contract? Partner might be simplest in this case.

  He was coming up to the roof his partner was standing on, talking with someone over the comm in his ear.

  Hm…

  Danny really shouldn’t try to piss the guy off more than he probably already has, but what was a ghost king if he didn’t pull a prank every now and again? Really, Robin was in the perfect position for a harmless prank, where he knew what Danny was but wasn’t desensitized to his antics.

  Mind made up, Danny descended to the rooftop below with an unseen cheshire grin.

~~~~~

      Damian was in the middle of explaining what had happened on his last patrol in length to Batman when his comm gave out in a hiss of static. He hastily yanked it from his ear, wondering irately how he hadn’t noticed the disruption the first time he had met the Lord of Death. Scanning the rooftop around him, he narrowed his gaze as he realized there was no one else here.

  Except there was.

  The cold thing in the center of his chest was reacting to something, writhing in its space and giving off more feelings that weren’t his. They were weak, giving him ample ability to resist succumbing to them, but that it was giving off anything at all meant one thing; the Lord of Death was close.

  A breath of frost across the back of his neck had him spinning, birdarang in hand. There was no one behind him. A whisper of a chuckle form his left and he was repositioning, searching the shadows for any presence. Nothing. He kept his stance for a few moments longer, seeing nothing but feeling a chill crawl up his spine.

  “Boo.”

  Damian spun, throwing the birdarang in the direction of the voice as he rolled to avoid whatever possible attack might happen in that second. The birdarang clanged against an air conditioning unit and stuck, its target missed completely.

  Or so he thought, until a laugh echoed out from a few feet in front of him.

  The Lord of Death melted into view, clutching his stomach as he curled in on himself in laughter.

  “Oh- oh my Ancients!” He wheezed through gasps. “You should’ve seen your face. Oh man,” his laughter started dying out as he uncurled, wiping a fake tear from his waterline with a finger. “I really needed that. How many people in this city can say they’ve surprised one of the Bats?”

  “That was unnecessary,” Damian sneered at the being across from him as he reluctantly dropped his stance.

  “It really wasn’t,” Danny countered, walking over to pick the discarded birdarang out of the aluminum siding of the conditioning unit. “I find it's best to have a bit of humor before you start talking about heavy topics.”

  Damian crossed his arms as Danny turned back to him. “There is nothing humorous about someone sneaking up on me only to pull such a childish prank.”

  The Lord of Death just shrugged, “Was funny for me. Anyway,” he made his way back across the roof to stand in front of Damian, his expression melting into something more muted as he started playing with the blade. “You ready to get a better picture of just how badly our ancestors screwed us over?”

  Damian canted his hips, silently asking himself if he was really going to ask this instead of just allowing his father to tail them. They had made a plan; Damian would go with the Lord while Batman followed behind, and should something happen to Damian he would whistle to alert his father who would then race to aid him.

  Only, with a better view of Danny’s disappearance and subsequent reappearance, he had to wonder how well their plan would work. Were Danny to disappear with him, there would be little chance for his father to find them, since the signal jammer that killed his comm had also killed his tracker upon review. Would he either ask an embarrassing question, or risk needless danger? The answer was easy.

  “I have a condition for going with you,” Damian asserted, to the Lord’s curiosity.

  “Oh?”

  “I wish to bring someone along with us, so I am not being led into a trap alone.” The offer was simple, yet Damian still prepared himself in case the being before him did not like what was given.

  The Lord of Death nodded thoughtfully, to Damian’s utter confusion. “Yeah, that’s totally valid reasoning.” Danny conceded, “I don’t mind if you bring someone. It's the person on the other roof, right?”

  What?

  Danny turned to face the adjacent building on which Batman had chosen to keep watch of their interaction, though he was out of sight. How was he able to tell where Father had hidden himself?

  Damian resisted a sigh as he watched the other wave where he approximated his father was, hidden in the shadow of the taller office building on the other side. There were no differences in the shadows from where he stood, and Danny wasn’t in any better position to see. It must be another ability of his, he supposed, as Danny turned back to him.

  “You wanna call them over then?” Danny asked him innocently, as though he hadn’t just given Damian permission for backup to face a potentially extremely dangerous situation. This man was truly either brave or foolish.

  Still, with a curt nod Damian whistled thrice, once long and two short; their signal for regrouping. Even with Father not expecting the change in plans it took no time for him to appear out of the shadows and join them on the roof. Damian watched as Danny tracked his father's path, never failing or backtracking to re-catch sight of the Dark Knight amongst the pitch black.

  “Robin,” Batman intoned as he came upon them, keeping his gaze on target as he asked his not-question. Damian just cocked his head to the side in a silent ‘well?’ to their mysterious informant, breaking him out of the near awed stare he dawned upon seeing his father in the light.

  Danny cleared his throat before giving a smile. “Well, since your wish has been fulfilled you think we could get going now?” He crooked his thumb over his shoulder, “We’re burning moonlight afterall…”

  Damian rolled his eyes behind his mask but nodded, preparing himself for the journey by shifting his feet, getting ready to run. Only, as soon as he got confrontation the Lord of Death’s smile grew impossibly wide and lunged, grabbing onto both vigilantes with deceptively strong hands and pulling them with him into a swirling green tear. Neither could free themselves in time, and so they fell in after the Lord of Death.

tagged peeps: @mnemovoid

#DPxDCshipweek #DPxDCshipweek2023 #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #ghost king danny #danny x damian #danny fenton #damian wayne #damian wayne x danny fenton #arranged marriage #but like #they're getting through it? #let's start as friends #my writing #Ham's fics #dp fic #dp x dc fanfic #dp x dc #danny phantom

[theicarusconstellation]

jegulus microfic day 11 from @jegulus-microfic

prompt: ghost // words: 823 // content warnings: none

James sees the younger Black brother in the house sometimes.

He never tells a soul, and he never makes eye contact, but he sees him.

It started by accident. James had popped into Grimmauld Place to pick up an old book from the family library that Sirius asked for, only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of a slim figure slipping into the kitchen. Intrigued and, he will admit, mildly bewitched, he returned the next night to catch a glimpse of that same boy.

He realized it was Regulus on night three.

The boy looks like a dream, with misty gray eyes and dark velvet curls and skin so pale James can see right through him to the other side of the room. Though that might be due to the undead nature of his spirit.

Regulus Black is supposed to be dead. Not alive, not halfway dead, just dead. All the way dead. He died in 1979. It’s 1982 now. He is supposed to be dead.

No one else sees him either. Only James, and only when Grimmauld Place is dark and silent aside from the creaking of the old floorboards settling in the wind.

Tonight, though, James is going to confront the boy. He is going to find out once and for all if this spectre is a figment of his imagination or if, somewhere between life and death, Regulus Black started wandering.

It could very well be his imagination. His house is lonely now with Sirius and Remus on their own and Harry living with Mary and Lily fifty-percent of the time. It wouldn’t surprise him if one day, James’ subconscious decided to make a ghost.

A ghost of Regulus Black, though…that seems less plausible.

He had planned to walk into Grimmauld Place and demand that Regulus Black show himself. He had. It’s just…James has never been one for confrontation.

So, when he reaches the old house, with its dark walls and beheaded House Elves lining the corridors, James freezes. He stands in the front entryway, and he freezes.

Am I really here to chase a ghost?

The last thing he is expecting is for Regulus Black to come down the stairs right in front of him.

It seems like the other man wasn’t expecting it either, for he goes stiller than a statue, and it could be just James’ eyes playing tricks on him, but he thinks he sees Regulus pale.

“Black?”

“Potter.”

“You’re — but you’re dead.”

The young Black brother, the dead Black brother, laughs at him.

“Don’t pretend you’ve just noticed me. You’ve been unnecessarily puttering around this place for months.”

James swallows a very large lump in his throat and forces himself to look the man in the eyes. It’s the first time he’s ever done so; he’s only caught the reflection of those eyes in mirrors around the house. Staring into them head-on is like trying to withstand a torrential rainstorm, like standing firm in the face of hurricane-force winds.

“You’re dead,” he mumbles again, feeling rather stupid.

“Do I look dead?” Regulus asks. He leans languidly up against the stairway railing. One of his perfectly sculpted eyebrows is raised in critical analysis of the man in front of him.

“Well…you don’t look real,” James whispers without thinking. Regulus’ shoulders shake as he releases a soft, amused scoff.

“Why are you here, Potter? Why have you continuously been here, invading my private residence? Does Sirius know you come here every night to stare at his dead brother?”

Instead of answering, James takes a step closer, and when Regulus doesn’t back away, he moves closer still.

“If you’re still alive, why have you let everyone believe you were dead for the past three years?” James asks, fighting the urge to reach out and touch Regulus, to really feel whether or not he is a hallucination.

Regulus’ lips curl up in a knowing smile.

“Don’t demand information you haven’t earned yet,” he snaps, though there is a distinct lack of malice in his tone. “Come back tomorrow night, and maybe I’ll tell you. If you earn it.”

James’ breath catches in odd excitement he has no explanation for.

“Tomorrow night?” The words are coated in hope.

“Show up. Or don’t. I don’t care. Now get the fuck out of my house, James Potter, or I’ll sic Kreacher on you.” Regulus glares at him so intensely that James knows he’s not joking. James’ entire body itches with restlessness as he backs up and leaves Grimmauld, already wishing that time would speed up and bring him to twenty-four hours from now.

He should tell Sirius. He really, really should.

But.

Shouldn’t he have all the information first? Telling Sirius, “Hey, your dead brother is back,” with no explanation might come off as a sick prank. No, James won’t tell. Not yet, anyway. First, he’ll gather the facts.

Which means meeting Regulus as many times as it takes.

#hm i wonder what james will have to do to earn it #😏😏 #regulus black #marauders #jegulus #starchaser #james potter #ao3 writer #sunseeker #writing #jegulus fic #jegulus microfic #jeggy

[indestructibleheart]

Happy Wednesday! Thank you to @kiwiana-writes and @wordsofhoneydew for the tags. ❤️

I have not done as much writing as I would've liked to this week because I work in Marketing and my company's Black Friday plans have been a goddamn shit-show, BUT I'm happy to share a little snippet from the AU I talked about on Sunday:

“Nora,” Alex says slowly. “Odds that I’m dreaming right now?” She chews thoughtfully for a moment. “Ninety percent probability that you’re unconscious somewhere.” Alex feels the sharp end of a corn chip drag all the way down his throat when he swallows. “And the other ten percent?” “You’re already dead.” June lets out an entirely undignified and entirely un-June-like squawk. “Nora!” “What? He asked.” She tilts her head before reaching across the counter to dip a chip into the guacamole. “On the bright side, if he is dead and we’re here, there’s a pretty good likelihood that we’re dead too.” Alex blinks at her. “That’s the bright side?” She pops the chip into her mouth, then licks some roaming guac from her thumb. “I mean, would you rather be here alone?” Nora asks, which earns a thoughtful shrug. “Besides, odds are still real good that you’re just unconscious or in a coma or something.” “You’re definitely just sleeping,” June insists. “There’s no way we wouldn’t know we were dead, first of all, and… If there is an afterlife, there’s also no way we’re just… in the lake house for all of eternity.” Nora points to her with the business end of a chip. “That’s a solid point,” she says, “but… I’ll take that and raise you: If we aren’t dead, and Alex is just lucid dreaming, how are we also lucid dreaming within his dream? Feels kinda more like a group experience here.” “I mean, do dream figments usually know they’re dream figments?” June volleys. “Like, if we’re just in Alex’s dream, technically, Alex is making us up, and we can be as lucid or as useless as he wants — we’re just, like, extensions of his subconscious.” Alex huffs. “Yo — Socrates, Plato — can we stop turning my potential death into a philosophical debate?” “Hey, it’s our potential death, too!” Nora says, at the same time June says, “You’re not dead.”

Tuesday is almost over, oop, so I think most people have already been tagged, but I am still specifically calling out @stereopticons and literally whoever wants to jump in!

#m:wip #wip:snippet #fic: pcsfoptp