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thesightstoshowyou · 12 days

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Generosity

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: The Ghoul has never been one to refuse a lady in distress.

Warnings: Discussions of past domestic and sexual abuse, dacryphilia, dubious consent, biting, use of “daddy,” dirty talk

Everyone go bow down to @lilkrissmuffet and her delicious prompt idea

Gif by @melodyoffire

The Ghoul ought to thank you. You’re an easy bounty to track. In your obnoxious blue and yellow jumpsuit, you stick out like a sore thumb among all the lifeless tans and browns of the wasteland. Shivering and scared, you’re a prey animal in a foreign land inhabited by predators, and you just ran headfirst into the worst of them.

Despite the split lip and jaundiced bruise over your eye, you’re a pretty little thing. Stupid too; you turn and bolt like a startled whitetail when you spot his twisted face and the hand cannon nestled in its holster. The Ghoul doesn’t blame you, though. If he were in your shoes, he’d run too.

The lasso hooks you around an ankle and yanks your feet out from under you. You crash to the ground in a flurry of sand and flailing limbs. A few, quick tugs and you’re thrashing and wailing at his feet. A knife to the throat and a whispered threat to cut out your tongue and fry it up for lunch quiets you down in a hurry.

“P-Please, please, no, I c-can’t go back, please, you don’t know what they do to us down there!” They always beg. Though, none of them beg quite as sweet as you.

The Ghoul turns his apathetic gaze to your watery eyes. Your lips are chapped, the bottom one trembling as you struggle to keep your blubbering contained. Tears streak through the dust that has collected on your sunburned cheeks. Before now, you probably never went a day without a shower.

“Honey, you got no idea what I know.”

On the horizon, thunderheads build. The ominous rumbling and static that fills the air tell the Ghoul it will soon be too dangerous for you to travel. The muscles in his face flex as he works his lower jaw back and forth. If it’s not one fucking thing, it’s another.

Rain pummels the ancient shingles of the ramshackle house, your temporary accommodations for the evening. In the corner, you sit huddled and trembling, your sniveling audible in the lulls between cracking thunder. Flashes of lightening glint off his blade as it slides across a whetstone.

From under the brim of his hat, the Ghoul watches you square your shoulders and inhale a fortifying breath. Here comes the bargaining.

“Excuse me, Mr…?” He says nothing in response to your timid question. A head tilt and a quirked brow are the only indications he gives that he’s listening. Voice quivering, you try again, “Um, I-I know there’s probably a reward for…for bringing me back—

“Yer husband’s offerin’ a handsome sum of caps for yer safe return. So, unless ya’ got double that stashed in that lil’ uniform a’ yers, ya’ can shut yer trap.” The Ghoul sees the tears welling up in your eyes from across the room. Now the sob story….

“Please! Please just listen. They…we’re used like chattel down there! He, my-my husband…” you spit out the word like it’s poison, “…hurts me. Hurts me all the time. I’m not the only one, there are other wives, others he hurts. I’ll-I’ll do anything not to go back, please. I don’t have any caps, but I’ll do…I’ll do anything.”

The promise of that last word hangs in the air, thick and heavy like the humidity from the thunderstorm. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand what you’re offering. If he were a weaker man, or if he cared even a little for your predicament, perhaps he’d take you up on your “generosity,” but pussy doesn’t pay for chems.

“That’s mighty generous of you, sweetheart, takin’ pity on a lowly Wastelander like myself.” The Ghoul’s tone drips with sarcasm. He revels in the way you stumble over your apologies, your ‘No-that’s-not-what-I-meants.’

Casually, he adjusts his position, the hand holding the knife draping across his bent knee so he can more comfortably observe your floundering. Admittedly, the desperate tears pouring down your face are beginning to stir something deep in his belly. It’s too easy to imagine how you’d look under that vault suit: So much supple, unmarred skin begging to be bruised….

You’d offered, the Ghoul supposes. He isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, what the fuck else is there to do around here?

How you ended up beneath him, nearly bent in half and taking him up to the hilt is all a bit of a blur, but it’s too late now to question things. You’re wet and mostly willing, gripping him so tight it almost hurts. You were a fantastic little actress—probably have to be with your home life being what it is—mewling like a kitten just how most men would adore, but the Ghoul isn’t most men. A “performance” isn’t what he had in mind.

Now, you scream for real. Your nails dig into the gnarled flesh of his shoulders and fresh tears wet your face as the Ghoul grips you behind the knees and jackhammers into your suckling hole. “That’s more like it, sweetie,” he urges, his voice clipped and hoarse. “Keep cryin’ for me.”

His teeth find the soft skin of your neck and the urge to sink them in deep and tear your throat out pulls a growl from his chest. However, you’re worth a lot more alive. The Ghoul settles for sucking a purple bruise onto your flesh instead. You taste like salty sweat with barest hint of familiar floral perfume.

“Oh—god, god, D-Daddy don’t stop—

You choke on your words when you realize what you said. He chuckles low in his throat when he feels the embarrassed heat rushing to your face. “Now who told ya’ t’call me that?” he teases.

Furiously, you shake your head and stammer, “I’m-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—

“No, no, baby, I never said I didn’t like it. Let’s hear it again. Tell Daddy how good that lil’ pussy’s feelin’.” Your needy whine makes him groan and renews his desire to fuck orgasms out of you until you pass out.

He does, almost. He fucks you until the downpour outside tapers off into a light sprinkle, until you’re sore and drooling into the dirt. He fucks you until dark bruises in the shape of his fingers bloom along your hips and your blood dries on his lips because he couldn’t help but have a taste of your sweet skin. He fucks you until he has no choice but to pull out and paint your inner thighs with spend; he’d pump you full but he has no desire to share his last bag of Radaway.

Sated and feeling merciful, the Ghoul lets you sleep off your fucked-out stupor until afternoon the next day. He spends the morning resting and refueling and sucking down Jet while you doze, oblivious. Golden rays of sun pour in through the holes in the rickety house frame and illuminate the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders. The word “peaceful” comes to mind as he notes the way your worried frown has smoothed out in slumber.

But, all good things….

The Ghoul stands with a groan and a long stretch before he slings the saddle bag over his shoulder. He nudges you with the toe of his boot and rouses you with an energetic, “Rise and shine, sleepin’ beauty!” You roll over and blink up at him, bleary-eyed and befuddled.

“Wha…?”

“Got a lot of ground to cover today. Make yerself decent.”

“What…what are you talking about? Where are we going?” Your confusion would be endearing if he didn’t already know what comes next.

“Well, sugar, I got a bounty to cash in on. Now, are ya’ gonna behave or am I gonna have to drag ya’, kickin’ and screamin’ through the dirt?”

“But-but last night…!”

“Last night was real sweet, darlin’, but Daddy’s got bills t’pay.”

Most men would be moved or even ashamed by the look of betrayal and rage etched in every inch of your expression.

But the Ghoul isn’t most men.

#cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul #the ghoul fallout #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #fallout #fallout show #fallout 2024 #thesightstoshowyou

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johnwickb1tsch · 2 months

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bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 29 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

-You dare not put it down on the big tablet on your easel where John will see, but you can’t stop yourself from drawing it out in your smaller sketchbook-journal that is easier to squirrel away under clutter, putting down marks like you mean to exorcise her from your memory. You draw her like a ghost in her field of happy white flowers, and write in the margins in your looping script, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make him forgive you. You want me to save him but I don’t know how. I don’t fucking know how.

Maybe she’ll actually hear your plea and do something useful about it, like haunt John’s dreams instead of yours.

Maybe you’re losing your damn mind.

You find that either way, you’re not brave enough to mention her to your captor again.

She becomes an obsession, and you keep drawing her in your little sketchbook. You’ve only ever seen one picture of her. It was in the den, but has since disappeared. Still, you feel you know the lines of her face, the brightness of her eyes. You go back to your old fixation with the ladies of Mucha, sketching her out as the Lady of the Daisies with flowing auburn hair surrounded by her stylized flowers and flowing lines.

You strive to cover your true fixation by putting down anything as quickly as you can on the easel, knowing your captor will be by for inspection. You draw sunflowers, your favorite summer bloom, something fun but you can do with your eyes closed with colorful, juicy strokes of oil pastels. You hope to keep John off the scent of the book that holds your heartfelt neuroses that you bury under piles of all your new art supplies and anything else you can find.

It was stupid, of course, to think you could really hide anything from him.

One day you find him in the chair with his legs crossed, perusing your sketch journal with one of those magnificent thunderheads of a frown.

You are certain you are fucked, when he asks, “Is this your idea of a joke?”

Trembling as you imagine what he’s going to do to you for this infraction, you answer truthfully, “No.”

He closes the book with a snap, crossing the floor to stand before you, his powerful body moving deceptively slow, the way a tiger appears slothful in the jungle.

You know he can snap you up with one bite.

You cannot stop shaking, as he peers down that straight nose at you, pinning you with black eyes that somehow burn. He does not touch you, but God. He sees everything. You just know that he sees everything, and you find you are terrified of how he’ll react.

“Have you been snooping through my things?”

“No.” The irony of him holding your sketch diary is not lost on you, but wisely you hold your tongue.

“How did you know what she looked like?”

“You had a picture out of her, ages ago.” At least, it felt like a like a lifetime ago.

“How did you know about the daisies?”

Now you know he’s going to flip his shit. It sounds fucking absurd, even to you. Your voice can barely rasp past what feels like dried twigs in your throat to whisper, “I saw them in a dream.”

You expect him to scoff and call you a liar. But he just searches your face, his eyes a little too wild for your liking. Here we go. He’d been damn near stable the past few days, but surely this will set him off.

You close your eyes, unable to watch the unfolding of your doom. This is it. He’s going to lock you up forever. You’ll never see the light of day again. The trembling in your frame kicks up to ten, and you hug yourself just to have something to hold on to.

When his next question comes, he could push you over with a feather.

“What does she say?”

You shake your head, realizing your cheeks are wet with tears.

“Nothing. She just…offers me the flower.” Going for broke you add, “She looks so sad.”

It is the sound of tearing paper that opens your eyes; with horror you find John making confetti of your art nouveau sketch that took hours to do. However, any protest dies on your lips—if destroying the drawing appeases him, maybe he won’t take it out on you.

Without another word, just a hard look, he stalks from the room.

Only when the sound of his footsteps fade down the hall do you let out the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your knees quivering like leaves in a storm.

However, you are not foolish enough to believe you’re in the clear just yet.

-Later, there is no dinner. You find the kitchen cold and empty. Not sure what to make of this, you graze in the fridge, before returning to your bedroom. Not sure where John has gotten off to, you shower, then go to bed, finding yourself lying awake in the dark without him beside you, almost itchy without his steady presence in the evening at your side.

Part of it might be that you fear something is brewing, and you can’t stand the waiting…but part of it might simply be that you miss him, as fucked up as that is.

In the end, against your better judgement, you go looking.

You search the house, until the only room that is left is the garage. Silently you open the door, slipping through without a sound. You too are learning how to move quiet as a wraith. The smell of rubber and oil assaults your nostrils. Classic rock is playing low on the radio. In the far bay, the hood of the Mustang is open, and John is bent over inside, wrenching on something and muttering to himself. There is a partially empty bottle of Blanton’s Bourbon on the workbench behind him, and an empty glass.

Unable to stop yourself from committing what perhaps might prove to be suicide, you creep to the other side of the Land Rover, using it as cover as you eavesdrop on this man grumbling to the ghost of his deceased wife.

“What do you want from me? I loved you. I loved you with every fucking fiber of my being, but you left me. I died with you the day you left me, and she is the only thing that makes me feel alive again. I need her, and she never would have come to me on her own. She never would have stayed. She never would have stayed.”

He says this to himself over and over, and it wrenches your heart, because you know it isn’t true.

You think you manage to creep back out again without him noticing, Led Zeppelin on the radio disguising the sound of the door.

When at last he comes to bed and wraps you in his arms, holding you too hard for comfort, you feign sleep, smelling the bourbon fumes on his breath. You can’t help but tense, wondering if he will forget his promise this deep in his cups.

But he just sighs into your hair, crushing you as he pulls you even closer, and you don’t know why it breaks your heart all over again.

#heyyyy it happened!#bittersweet john wick imagine #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick fic #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #yandere john wick

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starrylothcat · 11 months

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Quiet Love

Crosshair x Gender Neutral!Reader One-Shot

Summary: Crosshair pops the question 💍

Warnings: None? Feelings, some angst, sappiness. Softy soft Crosshair. Some kissy. Reader not described. AU Crosshair is on Pabu and wants to marry you. He deserves it. In the context of my fic a cycle = a year. 1200 words

Author’s Note: Idk I just have Crosshair feels. Song inspo when I was writing this: Eric’s Song by Vienna Teng 🫶

Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! Also we need happier Crosshair gifs 😭😂

Strange how I fit into you // There's a distance erased with the greatest of ease // Strange how you fit into me // A gentle warmth filling the deepest of needs

The sun was sinking below the horizon, scattering magnificent hues of purples, pinks, and reds over the ocean. A slight breeze carried the smell of salty air and distant rain. Puffy thunderheads were forming high in the atmosphere, promising tropical showers.

You and Crosshair were sitting quietly, watching the sun disappear as stars blinked into existence above.

You were good at this, embracing stillness, savoring one another’s quiet presence.

After so long being at war, living in a Galaxy that was torn apart and was still being pieced back together, quiet is now calm.

Quiet is peace.

Quiet is love.

Four cycles have passed since you first saw Crosshair on the island.

Four cycles of being drawn to one another by an invisible force, filling the holes in your hearts that you never thought would close. Finding solace in one another’s company, finding forgiveness where you thought there was none.

He was afraid at first, when he realized his feelings for you. Frightened if he let you get close, his darkness and fears would spread like a disease and corrupt you. He was a broken man, his past still weighing heavy on his soul, even after the forgiveness of his family.

Slowly, the gracious and patient light that radiated from you burned through his shadows and he let you in. You both tread carefully at first, but as time went on, and more of his walls came down, the more he let himself fall for you.

Your love was a quiet one, but it was strong. It didn’t need to be loud.

Whether it was his hand on the small of your back when you were in public, or having a cup of caf ready for you in the morning exactly how you liked. How he’d worship your body behind closed doors, confessing his desires and need for you, quiet admissions from his heart, trusting you with his most vulnerable self.

Crosshair felt at his pocket as you sat, you not noticing as you watched the sunset. A ring was hidden in his pocket, something that he’s had for some time.

You held his heart and entire being in your hands. He knew you didn’t need a ring from him to realize his devotion to you. He didn’t either.

But you were willing to accept and help heal the heavy burden that was his heart and his love.

It was all he could do to let you know that you were his forever.

If you said yes.

A dark part of him wondered if this was all a dream, too good to be true. How could someone want to be with him, after all that he’s done? He wasn’t the best with words, but he was trying. He hoped it was enough.

You felt Crosshair’s arm snake around your shoulder, pulling you closer into him. He usually saved acts of affection like this when you were truly alone, but the veranda you had found was tucked away. You wouldn’t be bothered any time soon.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, your shoulders pressed together, the sun slowly fading in the distance. You looked at him, giving him a soft smile.

“It’s beautiful.” You uttered, bringing your hand over his that was draped over your shoulder.

“Hm.” Crosshair grunted in agreement, glancing down at you, the dimming sunlight casting a warm glow over your skin. You brushed your lips against his, content in this moment. Crosshair accepted your kiss, deepening it by leaning more toward you.

His hand that was free secretly slipped down to his side to his pocket. You didn’t notice what he was doing, too lost in his kiss. Crosshair pulled away from you, knowing it was now or never. His arm left your shoulder, leaning away from you slightly. That’s when you noticed he was holding something out to you in his hand.

You stared, taking a moment to realize what he was holding. It was small and shiny. You focused your eyes and realized it was a ring.

You gawked, trying to process what he was offering to you, and why.

The gears turned in your head, your mouth opening and closing, at a loss for words.

Was he…was this?

“C-Crosshair?” You whispered, your voice shaking, looking between him and the ring. “What…what is this?”

He didn’t say anything as you continued to gaze at the ring, not wanting to misinterpret the gesture.

“I’m not getting down on one knee if that’s what you’re expecting.” He grumbled, shifting in his seated position, waiting for your answer.

Tears filled the sides of your eyes, his words solidifying exactly what he was asking you.

And he was doing it in the most Crosshair way possible.

“Crosshair, are you asking me to marry you?” Your voice was hoarse, your heart pounding in your chest.

Crosshair rolled his eyes, yet his expression was soft.

“Yes, why else would I be giving this to you?”

He held the ring out further, gesturing for you to take it.

You gently took the ring from his hands, turning it in your fingers.

Embedded in the band was a jewel in your favorite color, catching the light of the setting sun.

“How long have you…?”

“Are you saying yes or not?”

You looked at him, seeing him intensely waiting, his eyes locked on yours. Was there a hint of nervousness deep in his eyes?

You gripped the ring in your hand, knowing your answer without a second thought. You slung your arms around his neck, pulling him into a flaming kiss.

“Yes! Crosshair, yes!” You gasped against his lips as his moved just as passionately against yours. You could swear you felt a weight lift off his shoulders, his body relaxing.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks as you kissed, his arms wrapping around you. Begrudgingly, you pulled away after what seemed like hours, realizing you were still grasping the ring in your hand.

“I love you.” You whispered as your lips left his. He squeezed you tighter. “I know.” You released him from your embrace, looking at the ring again in your hand, and looking back at him. You couldn’t help the wide smile on your face, though tears were still wetting your cheeks.

“Don’t get sappy on me.” He whispered, bringing a hand to wipe the tears from your face.

You huffed, grinning. “You’re calling me sappy?”

Crosshair chuckled, a rare small smile gracing his face, his sharp features softening momentarily.

“Well, are you going to put it on me properly?” You asked. Crosshair’s smile turned signature sly smirk as he took the ring from you.

With a gentleness only he could show you, Crosshair took your hand, sliding the ring on your finger.

It fit perfectly.

“Does anyone know?” You wondered, admiring how it looked, happiness flooding your entire being.

“Wrecker knows. Which means everyone does since he can’t keep a secret.”

You laughed as you leaned against him, both of you looking back at the sky, the sun now almost completely set. You placed your newly ringed hand on his thigh, his own hand covering yours.

You continued to sit silently, the last rays of light fading beyond the horizon. Nothing more needed to be said.

Quiet is peace.

Quiet is love.

@wanderer-six @pb-jellybeans

#Crosshair #crosshair tbb #crosshair x reader #crosshair tbb x reader #crosshair x you #starrycatwrites #the bad batch #The bad batch x reader #The bad batch fanfiction

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sednonamoris · 6 months

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thunderstruck

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: A storm brews over your journey with John to meet an old friend and make a profit on the Braithwaite horses. What will happen when lightning strikes?

Warnings: Jealousy, emotional constipation, past relationships, strong language, love confessions, handjobs, penetrative sex, spit as lube (smut easily avoided if you want to skip over it)

Word count: 4,418

A/N: whew!! twenty-three chapters later these two finally got together - i hope you all have enjoyed the ride, and look forward to the rest as much as i do!! let me know what you think <3

Series masterlist • AO3

—

Thunderhead Gulch is an average plains town situated, as the name might suggest, over a gulch where a violent stream rumbles through otherwise quiet countryside. The rockiness of the area lends itself to pastureland and little else; herds of cattle roam and graze, and farmers with rough hands and kind eyes tend their flocks. The town’s storefronts are simple but well-kept, very much like the people who run them. It’s a place for good, honest people looking for good, honest work.

And it’s exactly where a perfect criminal lives.

Half a week’s worth of travel brought you here, all the while John asking questions you’ve done your best to avoid answering. An old friend from Tumbleweed, is all you’ve told him about the forger you’re meeting. Just a quick reunion and a job done right and we’re out of there. There’s no one else you’d trust to do this job right, but it’s been a long time. You can’t entirely blame John for the skeptical scowl on his face.

The curio shop you hitch your horses in front of is nestled into Thunderhead’s downtown like it’s been there forever, fit to burst with every secondhand oddity imaginable. Broken clocks and one-eyed dolls and discontinued dime novel serials line the front windows. Inside, a narrow and winding footpath from front to back is all that remains to customers. Every other square inch has been claimed by stacks upon stacks upon stacks of the curiosities this shop is named for.

You and John squeeze your way through the door to the cheerful tinkle of bells. Behind the counter lies a precarious stack of antique bear traps. There’s not a shopkeep in sight.

“Hello?” John calls out.

“In the back!” a muffled voice replies.

You smile in recognition. John’s expression is entirely mystified, but he takes the look on your face as his go-ahead to forge a path through, weaving around cracked China displays and rusted revolvers and moth-eaten wedding gowns.

Past all that, between stacks of other men’s trash and lost treasures, sits Lottie Reed.

Surprise colors her sharp, angular face the moment she looks up from the faded throw pillow she’s mending, and though time has wrought its changes you still recognize the wild spirit you met once upon a childhood ago in the depths of her seafoam eyes.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a Ghost?” she asks. Her face is still surprised, still cautious, but a smile threatens the severity of her shock.

“I’m afraid your shop is terribly haunted, Miss,” you grin.

Just like that her needle and thread are thrown aside as she rushes in for a hug. Her wiry frame curls around you in a vice grip, stood on her tip-toes and clinging like if she holds tight enough you won’t be able to fade away like lost memory. You laugh and hug back warmly. It’s been too long.

John coughs uncomfortably after a moment.

“Oh, I clean forgot my manners,” you say, extricating yourself from Lottie’s embrace and taking a step back. “Lottie Reed, this is John Marston.” John gives a lukewarm smile. “John Marston, this is my old friend Lottie Reed. We grew up together.” Lottie extends her hand to shake.

“Good to meet you,” John says past his stiff shoulders and wary stare. “Ghost never mentioned much of you before.”

“We lost touch for a spell once I married and moved up here,” Lottie says. John raises his brows. You clear your throat. “Back in the day I earned a cut off stolen horseflesh for forging papers, but Melvin didn’t like me being a part of that life.”

As you recall, he didn’t like you being a part of Lottie’s life. The two of you lived fast and free before he came into the picture, a perfect suitor picked by her parents. Settled, property-owning, and respectable, Melvin was everything Lottie’s family ever imagined for their lettered daughter. You, a cast off orphan with nothing to your name but a government arrest warrant, were not.

“Wherever is Mr. Reed?”

“Dead. The fever got him two years ago.” Lottie smiles wistfully. “I wrote, but I don’t imagine you ever got the letter.”

“I’m… real sorry.” You’re not sure if you’re apologizing because he’s dead or for a letter you never read. Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t try to get in touch until now. You never liked Melvin much, but you and Lottie... Well. It’s all in the past now, where things get twisted and lost and can’t ever change.

“Any chance you’re still in the paper fixin’ business?” John asks. Tension looses from your shoulders at the change in topic. “Ghost and I got a couple horses that need buyers, and from what I understand they’d go for a prettier penny with your help.”

Lottie stands up straighter, businesslike, when she says yes.

“Melvin left me everything, but as you can see,” she gestures to the worthless paraphernalia surrounding you, “it isn’t much. Why don’t you stay by the house tonight while I fix up those papers? It’s been a sight too empty for too long. I’d like the company.”

“We’ll be there,” you promise, clasping her hand before stepping away.

It’s been too long since you’ve slept in a proper bed with a roof over your head, and longer still since you’ve caught up with an old friend. John’s mouth tightens when you say it, maybe because you agreed without asking, but you can’t imagine why a hot meal and some company would bother him. It never has before.

—

Dinner proves an awkward affair.

By the time you and John broke camp and herded your stolen horses to the property, twilight had already painted the house and neighboring barn in dreamy purples and golds. John bitched the whole time you put the horses up, set off by something he refused to tell you about. Then when Lottie met you at the front door in a pretty green dress with her dark curls pulled up it only got worse. She ushered you both into her humbly lit dining room, where a wonderful meal awaited. He glared through the whole affair, despite the warmth of the fire and the kindness piled on every plate. You asked for seconds. He asked to be excused.

Now he’s off sulking somewhere while you show Lottie the horses down at the barn. So long as he doesn’t scare any buyers away you just have to trust that this mood of his will pass with time.

Old Father Time nickers you back to the present, begging for a treat that Lottie offers up gladly. She giggles at the tickle of his whiskers when he takes it from her outstretched palm. His dark coat gleams even in the nighttime. Autocrat paws and tosses his dappled head. Cerberus whickers for his own share of attention, earning an affectionate scratch behind the ear. As you introduce each stallion and his accomplishments Lottie hums thoughtfully, mentions a few adjustments she’d like to make on their papers accordingly. It’s nice to work with a professional. You’d almost forgotten what the luxury of forged papers felt like, so long spent with unlettered outlaws and people otherwise uninterested in the horse business.

“They’re fine animals,” Lottie says, then gestures to Old Boy and Moonshine. “What about these two?”

“I found Old Boy there skinny and abandoned. Perfect timing that John needed a new horse. He put the weight back on him and has him trained up nice.”

“And the roan?”

“A friend died and left this beast behind,” you say with an affectionate pat to Moonshine’s silver-blue neck over the stall door. He rolls an ornery eye at you, but doesn’t offer a bite like he might have just a few months ago. “He’s mean, but he’s mine.”

Lottie laughs. “Like your cowboy, then.”

“He ain’t—we’re not—” you fumble, “I don’t—”

“The outlaw doth protest too much, methinks,” she cuts you off gently, with that smile full of home and heartbreak. The quote scratches at almost-lost memory in the back of your mind. Summers spent sneaking into a family home through the second story bedroom window. A warm hand in yours. Her familiar voice reciting Shakespeare while you pretended to understand the lines you parroted back.

“The outlaw protests just enough,” you frown. “He ain’t mine, though I will apologize on his behalf for the way he acted at dinner. John’s plenty mean, but not like that. Not usually, anyway.”

“He’s jealous,” she says like it’s obvious. “I can hardly blame him.”

“If he wants you, I ain’t standin’ in the way, Miss High-and-Mighty,” you laugh, caught off guard by the sudden turn in conversation. It’s a high-up, nervous sound.

“Miss Nothing-to-him,” she corrects. “Can’t you see? That man only has eyes for you.”

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted to hear and you’re not quite sure what to say. Emotions flash through you like lightning and brush fire, electric scorches of surprise and denial and self-deprecation. Longing. Hope.

“You think?” is all you manage to muster.

Lottie’s eyes are far too sympathetic. “I know.”

“And you don’t… mind?” Your shoulders cringe even as you ask it. Some things are just worth checking.

She sighs, turns to face you fully, and takes your hands in hers. “I loved after you for a long time. The idea of you, really. A dashing outlaw and a horseback rescue from the life I didn’t want.” She offers a wry smile as she continues, “I only heard that you took Daddy’s money and ran long after the wedding was over.” You start to apologize, but she cuts you off before it ever leaves your mouth. “It’s done, now. I don’t think either of us would go back and change it if we could. I’m happy here, now, and you have your cowboy. Your John. It’s time you let yourself be happy, too.”

“Funny enough, you’re not the first person who’s said that to me.” You drop your chin and try to stop the burn of tears that threatens your composure as you squeeze her bookish hands with your calloused ones. “Thank you, Lottie.”

She squeezes back and smiles. “You’re welcome.”

When she says your name, you feel a little less like a ghost.

—

On the walk back up to the house you spy movement in an upstairs window. Just a blur by candlelight.

You wonder how much John saw from up there. If jealousy burns his eyes and the back of his throat the way it used to for you, watching him and Abigail together. It lights a spark of something low in your belly, hope or want or vindication. A grim, simmering promise of things to come.

—

The next morning greets you sunshine-bright and singing. The grasses sway gently with the breeze. The birds flit from leafy tree limbs outstretched in the sky’s great blue embrace. Lottie insists on giving you not only the agreed-upon papers, but breakfast for the road as well. The fistfull of cash you fetch from your saddlebag is more than she asked for, but when she protests you push her hands back gently. After everything, it’s fitting payment.

“Ride safe, now,” she tells you, shielding the sun from her greenglass eyes to look up at your mounted form. “It’s nice now, but a storm’s brewing. Can you smell it on the breeze?”

You can. Sunshine undercut with petrichor and the buzzing, electric promise of lightning. “We will. Thank you again, Lottie. For everything.” Live well.

“The same to you, old friend,” she smiles your way, then turns to John. “Keep an eye on this one, will you?”

“Always do.” His voice is curt, and his eyes are sharp and unkind when he says it.

Mean, you think as you sneak a look at his striking profile. But mine.

You wave one last goodbye before riding off, stolen horses in tow, false paperwork tucked into your breast pocket. The pair of you make for the horizon line and don’t look back.

—

John is quiet in the coming days. Uncharacteristically so. You catch him staring at you when he thinks you don’t see; eyeing the length of your neck as you drink from your canteen, memorizing the planes of your face lit by campfire, burning a hole in your back as you ride ahead. All the ways you’ve watched him since you were young and scared and barely knew what to call the ache in your chest and the scorch of your want. That anguish which even now you refuse to name; you know what it is.

Maybe Lottie was right.

Maybe John knows it too.

—

As you ride toward the next town, and the next one, and the next, the sky darkens from shades of blue to grey to not-quite-black. The storm hasn’t hit yet, but rain heralds its coming on the wind. In the hoofbeats of the horses you hear thunder.

—

A man in tweed with a curled mustache buys Cerberus behind a saloon in Split River. John orders you both a round of drinks to celebrate. His fingers brush against yours when you toast your glasses together. It tastes of wildfire. Stings the whole way down.

You’re forced to leave when he almost takes a man’s head off for asking you to share a dance shortly after. The jaunty fiddle tune haunts your steps into the lamplit streets as you beat your hasty retreat, John’s shoulder clasped tight beneath your burnt whiskey fingertips.

—

In Steelhead, a farmer with a nose for a pedigree takes Autocrat off your hands. That night he puts the pair of you up with his other farmhands to get you out of the nighttime chill. It’s a kindness you hadn’t counted on, but it feels cruel the moment you see a man, broad and strong with eyes the same shade as yours, agree to light John’s cigarette. Across the room they lean in close. Closer. The butts of their cigarettes glow shrouded in smoke as they share the intimacy of nicotine breath, but the whole time John’s eyes are on yours. A punishment. A dare.

In a bedroll as far from everyone else as the room allows, you don’t sleep a wink.

The following morning breaks grey and ominous. You can’t leave the place far enough behind.

—

Rushing Spring houses Old Father Time’s new owner, a fashionable young woman whose father can refuse her nothing. He barely looks the horse over before offering more than your asking price, and you shake his hand without giving him a moment to think twice.

“Better get going if we want to beat this weather,” John says as they walk away with their new purchase. His eyes are squinted up at the sky, storm grey and swirling. It’s the most he’s offered to speak since Lottie’s.

“You’re right,” you agree. But as you glance up at the churning clouds above you, you’re not so sure that you will.

—

The rain catches you the next afternoon in open country, not a settlement in sight. It starts as a drizzle, errant drops that speckle the leather of your saddle and pepper Moonshine’s coat, but soon crescendos into an all-out pour. It comes so thick and fast that you can hardly see John and Old Boy just a horselength in front of you. John turns to shout something over the downpour, but the wind snatches his words. It’s too dark to read his lips.

When he turns his horse away you follow blind.

There’s a rockface somewhere off to the left, you know. You’ve seen irregular shelves and outcroppings from a distance. Maybe John spied something like that before the rain came? Maybe he’s just trusting that he’ll find shelter before an errant lightning strike hits anything nearby. Whatever the case is, his luck holds. You endure only a few more minutes of being utterly soaked before the dark, yawning mouth of a cave opens up before you.

The horses shake their dripping coats the moment you step inside. Their unshod hoofbeats echo with the rainfall. Lightning flashes, lighting your surroundings for a heartbeat and a half. It’s enough to see that the cave doesn’t run dangerously deep; you need not fear it housing some slumbering bear or wildcat’s den, but it’s enough to keep the rain from soaking you entirely. So long as it doesn’t flood, you guess.

Without so much as a word you and John fall into a routine that’s been established since you were kids. You untack and hobble the horses, toweling them dry as best you can. Moonshine tenses beneath your hands at the distant rumble of thunder rolling ever closer. John starts a fire and gets to warming food. Canned beans, it looks like. Better than nothing. You set the tent tarp on the ground to keep the bedrolls dry. The extra blankets you have packed away aren’t quite wet. It’s a sadder, damper camp than you normally pull together, but in the wake of this weather you’d be hard-pressed to do better.

You huddle close to the small fire with your plate of food. John sits opposite you and says nothing. Just watches. You watch back. The way his sharp features accentuate with shadow. The way his damp skin is drenched in firelight. His hair is plastered to his cheek, and your fingers twitch with longing to smooth it back and kiss the raindrops from his lips. When the next lightning strike flashes, you see unmasked want reflected back in his eyes.

“John…” you start, but can’t find the right words. How do you give voice to thoughts you’ve smothered for years now? How would you even begin?

“I need a drink after all that,” he says, pulling his flask from his belt and taking a swig. “How ‘bout you?”

Your mouth is terribly dry. “Sure.”

The offer doesn’t surprise you, but the way he hands it over, slow and deliberate, your fingers brushing together, does. Instead of retreating back to his side of the fire he remains with his hungry eyes and sharp mouth. You can’t quite bring yourself to look away as you drink. It burns like whiskey, but it tastes like him.

“Somethin’ else out there,” he says, inclining his head toward the mouth of the cave. Lightning flashes, and a clap of thunder - the closest one yet - punctuates his statement. “Reminds me of all them years ago, picking you up out of the mud. You remember that?”

“How could I forget? Saved my life.” Marked it forever. Changed it. For better or for worse.

“Every time it storms I think about that day,” he confesses. His hand reaches up for your face, cupping your cheek. You swear your heart stops. His brows knit together. “I don’t know that I would’ve saved anyone else.”

“I’m not sure I would’ve let anyone else do the saving.”

The rough pad of his thumb strokes the side of your neck. You swallow past a dry mouth and watch his eyes trace the line of your throat. Firelight flickers across his features. He leans in closer.

“It was always gonna be you and me, wasn’t it?” His breath fans your lips; whiskey and want.

Lightning arcs across the sky outside, lighting his face in that same eerie glow it did the day you met. He’s so beautiful. You’re so tired of pretending.

Before the thunder has a chance to crash, you answer him with a kiss.

It’s everything.

Electric.

You feel the boom of thunder in your chest when it comes, feel his hands wandering there and know it’s where they’ve always belonged. When he bites your lip and pushes you onto your back, your body accommodates him without thinking. He settles into the space between your legs and pulls back just long enough to admire, a wolfish gleam in his eye. What a sight you must be, spread out and chest heaving, eyes blown wide with years’ worth of want, face half-lit by the fire.

“Fuck,” he says, breathless, and then kisses you again. “Should’a done that sooner.”

But you’re here now, and it’s everything you could ever want or imagine. Better, somehow. You know John better than you know yourself and still his passion surprises you as he presses chapped-lip kisses further and further down your neck. You gasp when he bites down and feel him smirk against your rainsoaked skin. He’s paid back in kind with a sharp tug at the root of his hair, your hand tangled in those long, dark strands. A groan sounds from deep in his chest and he pulls away long enough for you to see the grey of his eyes go black.

“Tell me you want this,” he says.

“I want it.” You squirm, rolling your hips against his just to see desire glaze across his face. “I want you.”

“Shit, Ghost,” he says. “You always had me. I’m yours. It’s all yours.”

Whether he means his body or his heart or his soul you don’t rightly know. Right now you hardly care. All you know is that his hands are all over you at once, pulling layer after layer of soaked clothing away until you’re almost completely bare beneath him. Your nipples pebble against the sudden exposure to evening storm air, and his hungry eyes watch your every move, every breath beneath him. He’s a sight himself; half hard already, those soaked-through breeches plastered to his skin leaving little to the imagination. His hair is all a mess and his scars stand out against scarlet and his eyes are dark and bright. You help him tear his clothes away and grin when his broad, lean chest gleams in the flickering light of the campfire. You run your fingers against the dark hair there and feel him shudder beneath your touch. Heat rushes to your core when he removes his pants, leaving his cock exposed and flush against his stomach. You move to lick a stripe down your hand when he grabs your wrist.

“Don’t,” he says, face flushed. Eyes bright. “I like when it hurts, a little.”

He licks his lips. You grin and take him in your hand. His breath catches and his hips stutter as you set a slow, steady, punishing rhythm.

“Goddamn,” he curses. “Just like that.”

You’re dizzy with power and want. Seeing the effect you have on him, his chest heaving, his eyes rolled toward the heavens, makes that simmering warmth in your belly start to boil over. You smooth a calloused fingerpad over his tip just to watch him shudder. Precup smears. His eyes squeeze shut, and all too soon he’s pushing your hands away.

You tilt your head in question and he grins, half-shy. “I ain’t gonna last if you keep that up.”

“That’s the point, dumbass.”

He shakes his head, bends to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Want to feel you, first.”

Heat floods your body from your chest to your fingertips at the confession.

Hard to argue with that.

He makes a strangled sound at the back of his throat watching you wriggle out of your pants, moaning outright when you take his hand and put his fingers in your mouth. His eyes glaze over and he thrusts them to the back of your throat just once to see what happens. You hum around them. His eyes go even darker.

Hesitantly, maybe even a little reverently, he starts to work you open. The further he goes and the more you relax into it, the rougher and more confident he becomes. One finger becomes two, becomes three. Still you want more.

“Yeah?” he says as you moan, half cocky and half like he can’t believe he’s the lucky son of a bitch making you see stars. You hate that it wrecks you the way that it does.

“Yeah,” you breathe, tilting your head up to press a kiss to his jaw.

He takes your face in his hands and kisses you back properly, thoroughly, before lining up to your entrance and thrusting in all at once. It’s that special kind of too-much ecstasy, your vision going dark and your voice keening at the sensation.

“Shit, you feel good,” he whines.

“Please, John,” you say, though you’re not sure what you’re begging for other than more.

Lightning screams through the storming sky outside and his pale skin glows in white-hot light. He takes you apart to the sound of fading thunder and falling rain. You shift to meet the thrust of those narrow hips halfway, and rake your fingers down his back with each burst of pleasure. If there’s such a thing as completion, it must be this. The way your bodies fit together, the way you know every thought that flashes behind the wolfish want in his eyes. Each unspoken, understood I love you. He taught you to do it long before he recognized the feeling returned, and when you finally reach the peak of your pleasure you sigh it into his skin.

I love you, John Marston.

“Fuck, Ghost,” he pants. “Fuck. I love you too.”

His thrusts get sloppy, chasing his own high, and when he pulls out and spends himself across your stomach his voice cracks saying your name. It’s never sounded sweeter.

After a few settling breaths John leans down and presses a firm kiss to your forehead. You miss his warmth for only moments when he rolls away to find a rag to clean you up. The two of you fall asleep in one another’s arms. Outside, the rain slows and fades away to a drizzle, then nothing.

—

You wake the next morning to wiry arms wrapped around you and John’s face pressed into your stomach. He snores softly, and you allow yourself a quiet moment to admire his sleeping form. It’s impossible to stop the fond smile that steals across your face. Carefully, carefully, you extricate yourself from his embrace.

When you step outside, morning birdsong greets you. The grass beneath your feet is as dewy as the pinks and yellows and robin’s egg blues that paint the sky above. It’s the kind of sunrise that only comes after a storm.

You lean against the rockface and light a cigarette, watching the smoke dissipate on the fresh morning breeze. It isn’t long before John joins you. Wordlessly you pass him your cigarette, and wordlessly he takes a drag. He breathes smoke into the air and smiles.

Together you watch the sun rise.

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #fran writes #ghost story #ch. 23

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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 9 months

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Title board created by the wonderful @mochie85!

Lesson Eighteen

You are positive Loki has been kidnapped by The Flock, but after they leave their settlement without a trace, there seems to be little hope that you and Brunnhilde will be able to recover him...unless you can put the final piece of your power into place on your own before it's too late.

**MASTERLIST HERE** Pairing: Soft!Dom!Loki x F!Reader Content Warnings: smut, extensive mentions of death, euthanasia, and death-related philosophy, some dark content (though the characters won't be), exile, moodiness, smut, kinks of various flavors (look for specific chapter warnings), trauma and mental illness, reader is a captive, reader has a body count

“BRUNNHILDE!” you shrieked, rushing down the hill just as the King emerged from her cabin. “Any sign of him?” you called.

She gritted her teeth at your boisterous approach, shaking her head. “Nothing. Perhaps today the scout we sent west will come back with something,” the King suggested. “I can hardly believe I’m leading a search party for him, let alone actually worrying.”

Gods forbid you have some character development, you thought.

Loki had been missing for five days. The King had sent out several volunteers to search the surrounding towns, and so far, two of them had returned empty, the rest hadn’t returned at all. The others were still spreading out, searching every hill, valley, rock, and ditch.

The day after you and Loki arrived at your woeful impasse, he was absolutely nowhere. Gone without a trace. No evidence of him leaving for Oslo or anywhere else (he would have certainly left a word or a note!), no signs that he’d had second thoughts about everything and chose to bail without the risk of waiting for the results of the test.

On day three, one clue emerged, though you wished it hadn’t for fear of what it meant: The Flock’s settlement had been completely abandoned. You and The King spend the entire following day combing the empty tents, cabins, and spaces. It was as if the entire clan had packed up and retreated overnight…as if they had something new and special to conceal from New Asgard.

But Loki was magic, and none of The Flock were. How the hell could they subdue a literal Asgardian God and take him away without a trace? Even with the development, nothing came of the ghost town, and you all decided to continue guiding the search from New Asgard.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had been alerted, but due to the terms of Loki’s bargain, they could not interfere in any way. Even Thor was expressly forbidden from aiding the search in person, instead only able to occasionally monitor Norway from the skies in the quinjet whenever he had a pilot. While it wasn’t much, Thor, of course, was just as worried as you were, and he tried to pull every string he could with Fury, but to minimal avail.

Loki was on his own, wherever he was.

“I did this,” you moaned, nearly collapsing at Brunnhilde’s feet, exhausted and heaving your breaths. It was bad enough you were exerting yourself so, but you had barely slept since Loki disappeared. Your powers were quickly losing stability again. “He could be long dead and it’s all my fault.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You know they’re trying to draw me out. This is all about me,” you grunted, turning your head over your shoulder, as if looking again would yield results this time. “I think we should go back to the settlement.”

Your trainer shook her head. “Do you remember that Asgardians are significantly harder to kill than humans? You really think those inbreds could execute him so easily?”

“They sure kidnapped him without much trouble.”

Brunnhilde rolled her eyes. “Look, Y/N, there’s nothing more we can do until the last scouts return anyway, so why--”

“--because I can’t do this without him!” you threw up your hands, showing Brunnhilde that your fog was acting so peculiarly, it was beginning to change colors as it flickered less like mist and rolled more like a thunderhead across your palm. “It’s happening again!”

The King shook her head. “Stop being a damsel, Y/N! It’s not him that controls your power, it’s you. It always has been! You just need to suck it up and stabilize yourself or Loki won’t have a snowball’s chance in Niflheim.”

You shook your head, bouncing uncomfortably on your ankles like an anxious child. “Look, not everyone has to be Captain Marvel smashing through the glass ceiling,” you sniped. “Loki is the one who taught me everything I know about my magic and how to use it! I have to have him here.”

The King shook her head, taking your hands in hers despite the clouds of death waiting there for her. She did not fall over.

“Does every student cling to their teacher forever?” asked Brunnhilde. “Thank fucking Norns they don’t, let me tell you. I’d have gone bloody mad by now.”

Your thoughts went back to your conversation that night with Loki. Were you becoming too dependent on him? Were you letting your love for him cloud your higher judgment? The entire year was nearly over. The eleventh hour was nigh. Loki was likely trapped in Jonah’s basement somewhere (wherever that was) being tormented in order to lure you into his trap.

“Look,” she continued after observing you for a moment. “If I take you back to the settlement and show you that we’ve combed the entire village, will you at least take a breath?”

You nodded, but paused after, another thought coming to you (perhaps not a thought so much as a pull or an urge).

“No,” you countered. “Not the settlement. I want to go to their cemetery instead.”

You and Brunnhilde reached the top of the hill that The Flock’s burial ground was built into later that afternoon, a chilly wind just beginning to come in with the earlier dusk. In the daylight, the place somehow looked even creepier. The wrought-iron fence and gate looked even more broken and twisted. The lone tree in the yard that you and Loki had once sat beneath, kissing underneath the stars, looked as if it was no longer alive at all, and was merely a standing pile of dead wood waiting for decay to topple it.

Once you’d stepped through the gate, the voices started all but yelling into your ear, telling you to go up the hill as you’d suspected, to where the crypt bearing the name ‘Jonah’ stood.

You smiled and turned to The King as she followed you up the hill, looking annoyed more than anything. “They’re talking.”

“Good. Yeah. Great. Talk back so we can get out of here, please,” Brunnhilde mumbled back, clearly uncomfortable.

The crypt still gave you uneasy vibes as you placed a palm against the etching that labeled the marble boxes within. You braced yourself for noise, for loud voices crowing your mind all at once.

You didn’t expect yourself to travel to another place entirely.

Instantly, your senses took you away from the cemetery and to a dark, nearly-black room you’d never seen before. The Jonah you knew, perhaps about seven or eight years younger, was kneeling before a hospital bed containing an older man. Other strange, worthless details painted the picture for you: a dusty desk with loose papers and devotionals scattered about, a photograph of a little blonde boy, an ashtray overflowing with butts and ends of smoked cigarettes…

“Bjorn,” the older man mumbled, “the Shepherd calls me.”

“Father…” mumbled the kneeling boy.

“You know what you must do,” said the dying one. “What my visions brought me.”

“Y…yes…” said the teenager, clearly doing his best to hide his distress. “The demons will come from the sky disguised as refugees during the Time of New Magic. But I’m only nineteen…”

“If it isn’t you, then The Flock will fall apart, and the demons will win.”

“Oh, but Jonah…”

You bit your lip, understanding coming to you.

“No, you are Jonah now. Blessed be The Shepherd.”

Something else materialized before you as the boy began to murmur a prayer. A window appeared above the bed, and just outside the glass was a street sign, reading ‘1800 S Akersgata.’

You muttered the words out loud. “Eighteen-hundred south Ahkers-gata…”

“What was that?” Brunnhilde’s voice called out to you, jerking you out of the vision and back to the crypt. “You just said something but you looked like you were…I don’t know…spacing out?”

You repeated yourself. “Eighteen-hundred south Ahkers-gata…I think it’s an address.”

“Where?” The King shrugged as you placed your palm on the crypt again, this time nothing appearing at all.

OSLO, came the old man’s voice directly into your ear.

“I don’t…wait, yes…Oslo,” you said. It was as if someone was cracking the code to a safe, and the safe was your brain. Little pieces were coming into place, giving you the piece you needed to find Loki. At the same time, your death magic pulsed at your fingertips in pure black waves as it read the marble’s history to you, and you almost felt the urge to cry.

“Odd, it’s as if the last Jonah is the one telling me this,” you said quietly, describing verbally how you felt. “I feel…remorse coming from this tomb.”

“I get the feeling. Can we go now?” asked Brunnhilde, not even waiting for your response before turning away.

“Wait!” you called, scrambling to follow. “We have to find him! If that’s where The Flock is now, and that’s where Loki is, we can’t just sit here!”

The King rolled her eyes as she bolted out of the gate, thankful to be off of cursed ground. “Who said we weren’t going to rescue him? I may think Loki is a snake, and don’t think I’ll ever change my mind on that, by the way,” she insisted.

You shook your head as you followed her back into the woods and down the path toward New Asgard. “I never asked you to.”

“But,” she continued, “not even making an attempt at saving any of the few Asgardians there are left in the universe, snake or not…wouldn’t make me a very good King would it?”

You smiled. “No, not at all.”

“I’ll go around and ask for volunteers,” said The King. “Or, rather, blackmail and guilt, whatever suits my fancy.”

“I’ll meet you tonight,” you agreed. “I’m sure you don’t need to be reminded that time is of the essence!”

Upon returning to the village, you went your separate ways to make your preparations for the raid. As you did some drills with your knives on your own, awaiting word from Brunnhilde that the assembly was complete, you sighed, knowing what you had to do…or rather, had to avoid doing.

The Jonah before Bjorn, the one who died before you and sent you the vision, knew the truth, and wanted you to spare his descendants from his fate. He wanted you to deliver the message to Bjorn, his son, and his family, personally.

You couldn’t do that by killing anyone, or running in with daggers flying. But what if they intended to kill you or Loki? They’d certainly made that clear in the past.

How does the harbinger of death itself offer an olive branch without making it wither in her grasp?

“Blackmail and guilt, you say?” you asked, your lip twisted up skeptically. “Worked like a fuckin’ charm.”

The King stood pouting before you, absolutely no one behind her. “I told them I’d cancel Christmas! What more do you want from me?”

You mumbled sarcastically, “Clearly it is better to be feared than loved.”

Brunnhilde shrugged. “Anyway, sorry. I know this doesn’t help.”

You sighed. “Are you going to bail?”

The King shook her head almost immediately. “What kind of Valkyrie would I be if I did? The girls would kill me a second time when I got to Valhalla.”

“Well,” you said quietly, a smile unfurling, “when this is all over, it’ll be the first story we tell our students, won’t it?”

Brunnhilde smiled. “Is this a bribe?”

“No, just accepting your offer,” you replied. “Although, your added support at this time to your future business partner would be much appreciated.”

You spent an hour planning with the King. With only the two of you, it would have to be a matter of threatening or bluffing Jonah, or perhaps just wriggling Loki free enough for him to escape with his magic.

You had no access to a motor vehicle, so unfortunately, you had to pack for a thirty-six hour hike inland toward the capitol. You didn;t want to have a heavy load to bear the whole way, so you only stuffed one change of clothes and a bag of trail mix you’d found in one of the cabinets in your backpack.

That night, just after sunset, Katja met you on the porch as you slipped out to meet the King and begin your rescue. She held a bundle of cloth in her hand.

“This was Ivar’s. I hope it won’t be too large for you,” she said, throwing the cloth over your head rather abruptly. Your head naturally found the hold in the middle, and as you peeked through, you realized that Katja had just given you a drape for the chilly air.

Luckily, Ivar’s old age had shrunken him from his prime, so the poncho was only a little large on you. It felt like a big, cozy blanket of wool.

“Do you need supplies? Water? Food?”

You shook your head. “We’re well-prepared, but thank you.”

“Blessings and fortune,” Katja said, hugging you close. “Please be safe.”

“Thank you for everything,” you said, kissing Katja on both cheeks.

She sighed and looked you over once more, like a mother making sure her child had everything she needed for school. “I know you believe death is a terrible power to possess, but just remember, Y/N: without death there can be no life at all. Darkness is as important to the balance of the cosmos as light.”

“I know--”

“--but, if you ever need to find the light again, look no deeper than here,” Katja continued, placing her palm on your heart. “You were able to find a hint of love in the midst of your darkness. That power is even greater than death. Love will always be the strongest magic you’ll find.”

Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes as you threw yourself into a hug.

After a long, tender moment, Katja pulled away with a scowl. “Very well, very well. Now go, Y/N! You have no time to lose!”

You leapt off the porch and made your way to the western path, where your traveling companion was impatiently tapping her foot and nursing a liquid from her canteen that almost certainly wasn’t water.

“Now, you sure you don't want to kill him?” Brunnhilde asked as you began your long, two-day walk toward Oslo. “He may just keep coming back until they kill you both.”

“We’ll be ready for them,” you promised. “Besides, Loki wants out of here as soon as we’re free. They won’t find him here again.”

Brunnhilde snorted. “He spends ten months unsure of whether or not he loves you, and as soon as he says it, he decides to leave you behind? Now THAT’S the Loki I know and loathe.”

“You don’t understand,” you said quietly. “I can’t exactly keep him here, you know?”

“Well, that’s how it happens,” said Brunnhilde with bitter pessimism. “You’ll get over it.”

“No,” you muttered below earshot, “I don't think so.”

Camping was never your strong suit, but at least your cooking skills made it easy to whip up an improvised breakfast after a long, awkwardly-quiet night of walking. You’d packed some bread, which you toasted over a small fire Brunnhilde built, and used a piece of slate as a skillet to fry some mushrooms after you found some just off the trail that you recognized as edible.

“If we keep eating like this, I’ll be ten pounds heavier by the time we reach the city,” Brunnhilde said with sarcasm. “I don't see why you like him, but I can guess at least one reason why he likes you.”

“I can teach you how to cook and bake, if you want,” you suggested. “It’s a little more work, but a lot better than drinking your supper,” you said, emphasizing the last phrase as the King went to tip the canteen of whiskey to her lips.

You moved on throughout the day, but even the King’s feet were getting stiff and sore by the time late afternoon rolled around, the sun already nearly set by 5pm. You reached the edge of the woods, where you stepped out onto the apex of a large hill that overlooked a valley several miles around. Against the darkening sky, the glowing city of Oslo sat along the horizon, waiting for you, daring you to invade. It looked like the Emerald City: a beacon of both promise and mystery.

“Let’s stop and eat again, and I’d like to sleep for a few hours,” she said. “Oslo won’t move away from us before morning.”

You growled, impatient and tired from the day’s exertions. “They could kill Loki by then.”

“Sweetheart, if they took him just to execute him as a message, they would have done so and delivered the body by then. He’s being held as bait for you,” she said with confidence. “Believe me, they are waiting for you.”

“But they could be torturing him!”

“Do you really want to go in there with your blades flying now, when you’re exhausted and hungry?! Rule Number One of Battle, Y/N, NEVER go in without a clear mind and a strategy!” her voice quickly resorted to an authoritarian, drill-sergeant's bark, and it made you cringe with surprise.

You hissed back, “Look who’s talking!” You indicated the flask in Brunnhilde’s hand.

“Let’s not go there. I just want some more of those mushrooms you picked.”

You were able to set a fire and cook the small reserves you’d brought along by the city’s light pollution that reached you from the skies. Afterwards, you decided that fighting Brunnhilde on the issue of sleep was useless and would only further deplete your limited energy, so you agreed to keep watch knowing you couldn;t sleep, in case some Flock members were keeping vigil for you outside the city limits.

“Are we really going to wait until morning?” you asked as your traveling partner leaned against a stone.

“If you’re really going to stay awake, watch Oslo and wait until the city gets dimmer, perhaps three in the morning. They may have fewer people on watch at that time.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that,” you remarked.

Brunnhilde yawned. “Like I said…clear mind..strategy…”

She passed out before she could finish her sentence properly, leaving you to spend the following hours watching the stars turn above your head and the flickering lights of Oslo before you, hoping to the skies that in spite of the odds, Loki would be in your arms again by dawn.

Sorry this is a bit more of a filler chapter, but the big rescue mission is coming up! Please reblog and comment if you like!

@kats72 @violethaze @cheekyscamp @javagirl328 @yelkmelk @mischief2sarawr @buttercupcookies-blog @lokidokieokie @fictive-sl0th @jaidenhawke @caothicshit @holdmytesseract @anukulee @joyful-enchantress @simplyholl @meowmeow-motherfucker @huntress-artemiss @lokisgoodgirl @loz-3 @mjsthrillernp @alexakeyloveloki @linaax @noideakitten @evelyn-rathmore @lovingchoices14 @itzcomplctd7 @praq123 @the-fantasy-loving-angel @alexakeyloveloki @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @admiralatthebowofnails @vanilla-daydreaming @technicallysassyfox @ozymdias @fall-myriad @sititran @lokisdeadcat @blog-the-lilly @satrkovaza @wolfcyanide

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years

Text

Tithe 2/2

Part One

Summary: Younger Gods AU - don't need to read the original fic to enjoy. (But you do need to read part one.)

18+ NSFW

Warnings: Neglect/abuse/manipulation, unhealthy relationship dynamics, SMUT (artisanal?), the whole-ass angst train, needlessly verbose prose for the "aesthetic," potential (minor) S2/comics spoilers

My master list for further reading

Recommended listening: Son Lux "Let Me Follow," and Ghostly Kisses "Blackbirds"

Next on the one shot list is a Hob x reader x Morpheus inspired by a prompt. And Younger Gods, of course. And the new, super-long mystery project.

Any of you lovely fucks want an AU of this AU? Like, with the Tom Ellis Lucifer? Same premise, wildly different story. I kinda want to write it, but I can't promise when it will appear. Let me know if there's an audience or if I should leave it on the back burner until it boils down to sludge.

Part Two

The bread runs out, and then the waterskin goes dry.

Her life becomes an hourglass, slowly draining as she waits to be remembered.

The Morningstar likes her best when she’s weakened, desperate, when there’s nothing but frantic hope left in her eyes, and it all belongs to the ruler of Hell. She hasn’t reached that point yet, but each day brings her a step closer, and if the Morningstar does not come, does not bring light to her cell, she’ll eventually fall beyond even that.

The last drop of water rolls over her parched tongue, leaving a damp trail that sticks to the roof of her mouth. Her cracked lips aren’t bleeding – yet. She’d rather be asleep before they do. This time, she won’t crawl back towards consciousness without a light to follow. Until the door opens, she’s determined to dream. Of all the things she may lose, her misery, her life in Hell is not at risk. But damned souls cannot enter the Dream Lord’s realm.

If she remains forgotten, she’ll lose her meadow and the storms that rush to greet her like old friends she never knew.

Dreams have become a finite resource, and she wants as many as she can hold before they disappear forever. The Dream Lord said he would not take them from her, but death might.

She curls into the dark, face tucked against cold stone, listening to the hollow shadows that keep her company. Until she drifts.

She escapes.

It’s so easy; it never fails to surprise her how quickly and far she goes in the space between breaths. Hell, she’s always been told, is the one place in the universe impossible to escape, but that just isn’t true.

One moment, she waits in the cold. The next, she rests in soft grass with rain washing her clean of cares.

The meadow bursts with life – slow-growing things and skies rolling thick with heavy clouds – all very busy existing. Peacefully thrumming with a green pulse removed from time. Each beat of the space’s verdant heart lasts a moment. An eternity.

She loves every inch of it, and the possibility of losing this home breaks her heart.

For a day, she stays in the grass. Unmoving. Bathing in the rain and the beams from the sun and moon that peek between thunderheads.

Although she imagines his eyes on her, suspects his touch in the rain and his attention in nodding daisies, the Dream Lord only returns on the third day. He did not visit – openly at least – as her rations slowly drained away. She can only guess why, but she sees the question unspoken, the unwanted answer that brought their last meeting to an end.

Maybe he senses the change, the deeper melancholy infecting her place of peace, and it’s called him back like an open wound left to fester.

He still cannot save her.

She knows.

She was the one to tell him, after all.

But when she looks up, knee-deep in the stream with the rain peppering kisses along her neck, she’s glad.

What can he take she isn’t already doomed to lose?

He’s a familiar face now, and she doesn’t have many of those. He stands in her sanctuary, and no bad thing can happen here. She refuses to believe otherwise. She needs faith in something. Her hope in the Morningstar fades in the dark with her half-mortal body, and her grey-sky meadow fills a flaking hollow in her chest.

There’s room in that hollow for him, too.

Her meadow is already a part of the Dreaming, and thus a part of its Lord. She found rest and safety in him before he waited at the edge of the woods, and if he wants to visit the stormy plain while she sleeps, who is she to deny him?

He doesn’t approach, and neither does she. He’s content to watch, studying her leisurely play like her wet ankles will tease out some great mystery, or the grass she weaves into a plait holds terrible riddles. But she only wants to feel flowing water over her skin. She only wants to make something green and fresh into a pretty wreath to set in the rushing stream.

When the sun catches the clouds on fire, and sunset burns hot pink and gold, she settles in a cluster of colorful weeds to wait for the stars. Yellow flowered sour grass, little wild violets, and bristling white clover peep up between her fingers, cushion her head as she lies back.

She feels the Dream King approach more than she hears him. It’s like the wind stops to bow, and his presence fills the little pause in the meadow’s pulse. Sitting beside her, he watches the sky clear. The clouds never hide the constellations when she dreams. They’re too wonderful to hide, even for the most liberating storm.

His eyes mirror the cosmos as he turns to her, enchanting. They should make him distant. Unreachable. But she swears she could name the constellations twinkling there.

“What brought you here?” she asks.

“A part of me has always been here. I am the Dreaming.”

She isn’t sure if he’s being obtuse on purpose, but she can’t remember the last time she felt free enough to ask questions, so she presses it, building a history between the two of them, growing their encounter into a connection.

“The first time I saw you. When you waited by the trees.”

Galaxies comb over her as she rests, looking up at him from the bed of weeds and wildflowers.

“Curiosity.” Honest and simple. It isn’t exactly a vulnerable confession, but he doesn’t have anything to prove to her, and she likes the honesty.

She wonders if it will stretch to the present.

“And this time?”

The light in his eyes sharpens as they narrow. He looks at her like he’s the one who asked the question, hunting for answers behind her eyes.

“Curiosity unsated. And –” He hesitates long enough she thinks he won’t continue, but when he does, his voice has something beyond a ruler’s curiosity, a trace of the stories buried in his gaze during their last encounter softening the words to a rumbling whisper. “Perhaps, concern for a dreamer.”

The last rind of orange sun dips under the horizon, and the stars jump to life, ignoring the twilight. They’re all eager to burn.

She rolls fully onto her back, smiling as she takes his gaze with her, and looks up. How many more nights of dreaming does she have left? How many stars can she count, and if she tallies them all, can she keep them when she goes?

He waits for her answer patiently, as sure and still as the dark he wears so well.

Since he didn’t lie to her, she can’t bring herself to lie to him, either.

“This may be my longest dream yet. And my last.”

She thought he was still a moment ago. But now the dream goes still with him, and he’s a black hole locking the world in his gravity. It’s only suspense. Not suffocation. It draws her without either having to move.

When he breathes again, the stars remember how to twinkle. The stream dares to run.

“Has the Morningstar forgotten you?”

“Yes.” She’s resigned to her death, but she already yearns for all these beautiful things she can’t keep. “I wish this were real.” So she could tuck a flower in her pocket to smell when she wakes. So she could cradle a star in her palms during the coldest nights of her pitch dark cell.

More than anything, she wants the storms to follow her home like a stray dog.

“Your life here is as real as what you feel in the waking world.” He pauses. Corrects himself. “In Hell.”

Her view fogs over, and she blinks quickly, before any tears leak down her face. She doesn’t try to hide the misery in her voice. “That just makes it worse, though.”

A shooting star arcs overhead. Instead of a wish, she pins her fears and regrets to it, hoping it will take them far, far away, leaving her to enjoy however many dreams she has left in peace.

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He leaves less and less.

For the first week, he comes every other night. Then he appears with the stars. Eventually, he arrives early enough to see the sun set and lingers long enough to watch it rise again. A growing pattern spreads like a bright stain: the weaker she becomes, the closer he sits. The longer he stays.

Rain still falls, thunder grumbles, and lightning flashes quick as thought. It’s all still her, all still her dream and her place, but she’s dying, and they both know it.

Eventually, it becomes a matter of leaving when he must rather than visiting when he can.

She isn’t sure why he cares. He oversees all dreamers, and the Dreaming expands beyond even those countless billions. She waits for the right opportunity to pose the question – a bright afternoon when the then clouds glow with the sun and dim rainbows hover over the trees. Everything tastes possible.

“I am the Dreaming, but I believe this corner of my realm would crumble away without you.” He buries his long fingers in the grass, tilts his head back to study the gathering clouds. “The meadow is mine, but the storms are yours, and their energy feeds everything that grows here. I could create a facsimile without your rain, but…”

His endless eyes turn to illuminate her, expressing all the dangerous things hanging like forbidden fruit between his words.

It would not be the same.

It would not feel like her.

It would lack the smells and shades of her untrained, demi-god soul.

And he would miss it.

He would miss her.

How should she tell him she will miss him, too?

“Dream Lord –”

He interrupts her. “You’ve given of yourself, and I enjoy your company. Please.” His chin drops so he can eye her through his lashes, and she isn’t sure if it’s an invitation or a dare. “Call me Morpheus.”

Her mouth feels strangely dry as she meets those eyes – dark in spite of the stars they hold. “Morpheus.”

“Yes.” His deep voice drops even lower, pushing her thoughts aside like a puff of dandelion seeds. “What name do you wish me to use?”

The dandelion seeds fly back to the stem and turn to stone. She looks away, humiliated, wondering if he’ll just forget he asked and tell her something new instead. But, patient as ever, he waits, though he seems aware the question wasn’t taken as intended.

She lets the silence sit until it’s awkward, until the shame and horror burn in her throat, begging for some kind of release. The answer chokes its way free.

“People call me things, but I don’t have my name. The fae didn’t think I needed it. The Morningstar calls me Rain. But that isn’t my name.” It all tastes like vomit. Ugly and undeserving of the quiet meadow. He’s given her permission to call him by name, and it’s a wonderful gift, but she can only show her scars to excuse her failure to offer the same. “I have no name to give you.”

That strikes him. When she dares to look him in the face, she sees the empathy. His slackened expression holds no judgement. He doesn’t mock her or take back what he’s shared. Frustration lies in the way his eyebrows pinch, though, and she’s seen it there before.

He’s found a limit to his power, and he doesn’t like it.

This time, instead of placing her alone in the field and leaving, he folds the narrow space between them so she presses into his side, under an arm that brings her even closer.

It’s a denial on his part. Who would dare pluck a dreamer from the defense of the Dream King’s arms?

She chooses to accept his embrace regardless. It’s the first she’s enjoyed in quite some time. The best by far, even if he’s claiming something she hasn’t expressly given permission to take.

With his chin resting on her head, he murmurs, “We shall find it for you, and you will have any name you wish until that day.”

Like she has time to wait. Time and opportunity to search the waking world for the name her mother gifted her.

She doesn’t have the strength to argue. She wonders if he says these things because he knows, too.

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The storm rages through the meadow. She feels herself slipping fast, but she irrationally hopes if she pushes more of herself into the dream, some fragment will live on. Morpheus can keep it. He can keep the meadow and the chaotic weather. Her afterlife will keep her away, but she doesn’t want to leave him lonely in a dusty field.

They stand together by the stream because she’s sick of lying down and waiting for the end, even if she feels it biting her heels. She’ll meet death on her own two feet. His arms keep her upright, pulled close to his chest.

Only days left now. Maybe hours. She fights to stay in her dreams, aware of the throbbing headache and spiking pain in her physical belly. It all washes through the link to flesh and bone, echoes that manifest in her dream. She’s lucid enough to recognize them for what they are, and she’s lucid enough to ignore them. She chooses the dream. Considering Morpheus holds her fast, the dream has chosen her, too.

Even in the circle of his arms, remaining takes focus. The discomfort of her living body leaches through and jerks on her tether to wakefulness, demanding she return and suffer in full.

As the Dream Lord holds her, she holds him. Her arms loop around his narrow waist like he’s a tree in the storm that will anchor her against the pull from sleep. Lovers would carve their names into the trunk. Instead, she whispers, “Will you stay? Just a little longer.”

It is all she has left.

He breathes into her hair, and the gust is pleasantly warm compared to the wind. Only a little longer. She imagines his arms cinch just a bit tighter in defiance.

When he speaks, his voice is haggard, the smooth darkness roughed by an unspeakable emotion that has dared touch the Endless. “I will stay.”

He’ll stay until she can’t.

Until the end.

They stay together, breathing in time, pretending the end isn’t galloping towards them. Playing at eternity in cherished silence.

And then –

The door creaks, and she jerks awake. Dim light – still blinding – pours into her cell, framing the winged ruler like the sun.

“My sweet Rain. Did you think I had forgotten you?”

She looks to the light with hope, but it isn’t for the Morningstar. It isn’t for the fire’s warmth or the bland food that will fill her shriveled belly. She hopes to live so she may dream again, bring rain to Morpheus’s lonely meadow.

The months have taken their toll. The Morningstar holds out a hand, calling her to rise and return to her monarch’s side, but her knees fold the moment she tries to stand. And she does try. The igneous rock scrapes her palms as they catch her full weight, and she gasps for breath at the effort.

Even if there is light, she’s still dying. She needs water. Food. It isn’t too late to perish.

The Morningstar sweeps down, not to lift her off the floor, but to hold her chin and force her eyes from the floor. Lucifer’s eyes are hungry on her face. They demand her helpless adoration. Her wild hope.

“You are unwell.” The ruler of Hell says it like someone else left her in her cell for the better part of a year. No responsibility. No guilt. Only feigned concern tender and light as a feather. “We must remedy that.”

Mazikeen helps her up, half-carries her as the Morningstar moves to a table full of food and a tall pitcher full of what she desperately hopes is water. Little chimes ring through the marble hall with each shuffling step. The demon helps her sink to the floor their ruler’s side, her head resting against a knee. Easily within the Morningstar’s reach, angled so her desperation is on display.

As ever, she’s at the Lightbringer’s mercy. Her tormentor is her savior. But that’s only true because she must live to keep her dreams, and there’s a cup of water in Lucifer’s hands.

A ringed hand holds her jaw steady as the goblet nears. “Here. Drink and be well, Rain.” As she swallows, a hand runs over her hair. Torn chunks of bread and grey vegetables follow, taken from the Morningstar’s fingers. She knows how to behave, how to appear thankful and glad when she’s screaming inside. Her dignity died a long time ago. It doesn’t chafe her. But she has someone else’s hands in mind now.

She is still something the Morningstar fears to lose, and the Morningstar has no idea she’s given her hope to another king.

----------------------------------------------

She enters the dream in his arms.

He holds her like he’s been waiting, unmoving since the light of the open door woke her.

They stand in the meadow with the threat of rain carrying across the sky in rolling thunder, and as she finds herself, discovers her balance, his hands rise to her face.

He studies her as he had from the edge of the woods, but it isn’t her actions he marks. Inquisitive stars peer deep to draw out new pain, searching for hurts, asking without words if she is well.

Her hands trace the back of his fingers, wandering to his wrists, over his sleeves and up to his elbows. Then back to his wrists in a soothing stroke.

“I will dream again,” she assures him.

The Morningstar has remembered her. She will live, and she’ll return to this green place in his Dreaming.

His hands shift so his thumbs press on her jaw, tilting her face up to meet him. She expects a word or some nebulous expression she’ll spend her waking hours puzzling over, but he banishes all her expectations effortlessly.

With a kiss.

Silken lips press to hers. A touch. An introduction.

Her heart stalls in her chest as her hands cling to forearms. Holding him close in confusion.

“I thought you lost.” His mouth barely leaves hers, and each word is practically a kiss of its own. “I thought this meadow would languish without the rain.”

Apparently, the grass wasn’t the only thing to grow thirsty in her absence. He barely finishes before he kisses her again. An invitation this time, a call to dance as their lips glide together. Careful touches grow warmer, firmer, and she dares to answer in kind. She’s never been invited to play this game before, but she feels like she’s glowing, like there are no bones or muscle left in her body, only the hazy idea of lightning before a bolt gathers itself.

His hands slip along her jaw so the tips of his fingers can curl into her hair. She has his full attention, the weight of a billion dreams, and she wonders if this will consume her. She entertains a fantasy that he can tear her away from her mortal body, keep her in his soft hands like this forever.

Their lips break apart so he can press his forehead to hers, noses brushing together as he puts together the questions he must ask before he takes more.

“Will you spend this dream with me?” He pauses his thought for the next kiss. It’s quick, but no less sweet. When he pulls away, he leaves enough space to look, to hold her gaze. She sees his need, his hunger, and she hopes he’ll swallow her whole, let her never be lonely again.

“May I show you what it is to be worshipped, little storm god?”

There’s a touch of a growl in his voice, and it carries through her in a delicious shiver. He isn’t the only one who wants, who needs, who hungers. Her hands wander to his chest. Two curious, brazen fingers creep higher to ghost over his lips, trying to discover the secrets behind the blinding power of his kiss. When his eyes flutter shut, bolder hands brush along his eyebrows, down his nose, until he shudders and catches them up in a grip like silken iron.

With more kisses to her fingers, her knuckles, the inside of her wrists, he says, “Please. Give me your words, little storm god.”

Here, in his realm, he’s asking permission. Has anyone ever asked for it before? No. Never. She swells with something painfully bright, and she feels drunk on power. She smells ozone from her lightning.

The feeling burns, fierce and lovely, as she stares into the stars he calls eyes. She doesn’t recognize it. It’s nameless as she is. But she wants more, and if she has to give him every word she’s ever spoken and ever will, she’ll gladly surrender them.

“Yes.”

He slips closer, nuzzling with soft kisses under her ear as he presses her hands against his chest again.

She tries to think of more words – the right words. Breathless, she says, “I’ll spend this dream with you. Please. Morpheus.”

Before she can descend into frantic babbling, he seals her agreement with another kiss. He asks with gentle touches for her to open for him, and she gladly gives leaves for him to take as he wishes, because she’s falling into the sky, and one of his stars burns in her heart.

----------------------------------------------

He pulls night around them like a curtain.

Even the stars disappear behind a thick scrim of cloud cover.

The trees rustle with the breath of a rising storm, and for the moment, their psithurism is the only song in the dream, the only sound as he lowers her into the grass, its emerald flush gone silver in the night.

When he first reclaimed his tools and began the laborious process of remaking his realm, the green meadow had dazzled him. He’d stumbled upon it by chance. Great swaths of ruin and decay gave way to a peaceful storm, and as he’d stepped into her space at the edge of the Dreaming, the rain melted the weight on his shoulders. His power mingled with hers across the landscape, and though he knew all dreamers without stopping to speak with them, he found himself wanting to understand. He wanted the little storm god to look at him and answer his questions.

How could a prisoner of Hell have so much life to share with the world of sleep? Did she know what boon her rains granted the desolate corner of his kingdom?

He approaches her with all his questions, and he finds a lonely demi-god who hardly knows what she is. Her divinity is fact, but it has no influence on her waking hours. It is a gift unconsciously offered, poured into his world to sustain life and passion where all else cracks and decays.

The longing in the dream touches him, a lonesome song of a trapped thing, so he gives her warm sun between the clouds, lets the long grass embrace her and the stream kiss her feet. When he returns, when he struggles to leave, he soothes her with contact she’ll recognize as his embrace. Hands, and arms, and his chin on the crown of her head.

It’s a quiet thing. A balm for a heart that has never been any way but broken. He basks in her relief as she faces an end he unwittingly inspired, and it soothes aches of his own. It goes this way until he craves the little storm god in her meadow – her respite from Hell.

The craving grows in quiet hours and misting rain, fed by the threat of imminent loss. He thinks he has lost her when she fades from her dream, only for an instant, but it’s more than enough. When she returns to his arms, he is decided.

He pours that reverence into every soft touch, each stroke of his lips.

She gives him the words he most wants to hear, and he begins his worship.

When she looks up from her bed of grass and flowers, her expression suggests she’s the one eager to praise, that he is the god deserving offerings. He must show her differently.

He sets a hand on her chest, splayed fingers just reaching her collar bones. His palm drags down as he leans in to claim her lips, splitting her attention as his palm travels between her breasts, down her belly. As his hand returns, he banishes her clothing. His hand rests over her heart, flesh to flesh, and he listens to her waking pleasure through the dream. It’s only an inexperienced whisper, but he will teach it to sing.

Prayers drip from his tongue as he tastes her neck. Her confused, eager hands roam his hair, his neck, the collar of his coat with little noises of joy and frustration. When he smiles, charmed but determined to keep his slow pace, he moves his hand from over her heart to cover a breast. Patience has its rewards, but he will not leave her cold and wanting.

He fills his mouth with her other breast instead of words, and he tastes her heartbeat through the tender skin as he teases her peak into a bud. She gasps and arches, so his free hand slips around to support her back, keeping her near as he begins his feast.

The first sprinkles of rain patter over them, but the storm god panting under him hardly seems to mind, and neither does he. He loves her rain, her kindly chaos.

“Morpheus.”

He answers the summons, returning to her lips as his thumb circles a stiff nipple. Pushing her thighs apart with a knee, he reclines between her legs, giving her time to adjust to the position without feeling exposed. She fills his senses. Petrichor and crushed grass. Moving water and electricity.

There is more of her to have, and he thinks he may combust if he can’t have it all. He breaks their kiss with praises as he works his way down the path his hand took in the beginning. Words feel hollow, beautiful, and good, and perfect – his mouth does a better job expressing his passion when it’s full of her skin.

His hands paint her body with affection. They explore each dip and curve, spread over her back, cradle the dip of her waist, return to her breasts and curl around her hips. He doesn’t give her space or time to grow shy, but he enjoys her yelp of surprise when he swoops low and pulls her knees over his shoulders. A kiss to the inside of her knee reassures her of his intentions, and he moves to her core.

He licks her entrance, and a broken moan rewards him. How sweet. He must discover what other sounds she makes when she isn’t guarding her words and asking careful questions. As free as she believes herself to be, she does not know how to be unrestrained, even in her dreams. That is alright. He will help her.

Every flick of his tongue triggers a gasp. When he takes her clit she whines. Her hips try to dance against him, chasing pressure and release, but he has complete control, which he uses to build a slow pleasure that will shatter her. He wants her to fall apart on his tongue, and Dream of the endless is nothing if not determined.

She comes with a cry that sounds almost hurt, but the dream practically glows with her passion, and the clouds echo her calls with thunder.

He isn’t satisfied, and he pulls another from her, this time beckoning her to the edge of madness with curling fingers in partnership with his tongue. He allows no pain, free to banish any possible discomfort from this encounter. If he ever has her half-mortal body in the Dreaming, he will drag her through hours of bliss until she cannot recognize any pain in their coupling. But that is a concern for another day.

For the time being, he’s happy to grow drunk on her taste.

After she catches her breath for the second time, she reaches for him, and he takes her outstretched hand, pondering how lovely their fingers look laced together as she tugs him back up to cover her so she can rain chaste kisses over his face and down his neck. He’s burning for her, and the ache crawls from his belly into his chest as she puts her lips to his eyes, his nose, his chin.

His clothes melt away, and she explores every inch she can reach with fresh enthusiasm. He kisses her back into the grass, savoring the warm fingertips tracing the lines of his chest, dipping over his stomach.

He gathers her leg to rest over his hip, maintaining the kiss as he presses inside. A groan reverberates through the entire Dreaming, and he bites down on a name he doesn’t know. It has never bothered him so much as it does in that moment.

But her hands are on his face, and her whole form writhes to welcome him.

As he moves within her, he aches to fill her with stars and wishes, to let her breathe her dreams through the desperate gasps billowing over his ear. She clings to him, and he reaches for her heart. Though they are too close for him to even imagine a parting, he kisses his hopes and assurances into her flesh, breathing devotion and faith as the wind sweeps down with the rain to bless their union.

He wants to take everything she naively offers, but he wants to give as well. He wants to search out the name bestowed by her mortal mother and return it. He wants to whisper it like a benediction as he takes her again in the storm, tying them closer with old magic and simple understandings.

She chants his name with dizzying fervor, stoking his desire to find more, to press nearer in every way. Her body offers him the relief of a cottage fire in an autumn tempest, and he throws as much fuel on that fire as he can. As his hips roll to meet hers, he murmurs, “Let me feel you again. Will you give me another? Can you give me more?”

She’s past the point of words. Even his name has fallen from her lips, though he still feels it thrumming in her mind as she flutters around him, approaching the end with the most desperate sounds. He kisses her sternum, just over her heart to ask a boon of the little goddess coming to pieces in his grip.

“Please.”

She remembers how to speak as she crashes through her third high.

“Morpheus.”

What would he give to hear her call him thus every evening? It must be a spell. He prays the magic takes, that it sets around them, binds them like satin cord.

He works back up her throat, hungry for another kiss as his own end rushes near. She accepts him so readily, so happily. Even though she’s exhausted from pleasure, the smile she meets him with has the flavor of spring.

Joined in every way, he shudders with his release, filling her the way her rain filled his heart. Reluctant to leave, he rests above her, within her, as he stills. Quick breaths push her chest against his, and he cradles her blissfully limp body. Her fingers twine through his hair again, soothing, trying to return satisfaction and fulfillment she’s already given him twice over.

Her storm tempers itself. Satiated purrs carry through the sky, and a misting rain glitters on her bare skin, catches in her hair and lashes like jewels plucked from the night sky. Her eyes may as well be moons for the tidal pull they exert over him.

Though he has just had her, has yet to even pull away, he wants more. It’s a thirst he can’t slake, and he marvels at his own sway as she presses into the palm he holds to her cheek.

All too soon, she will wake. In Hell. She will suffer, regardless of the Morningstar’s favor.

There are few hates as strong as the starving man’s as he watches a fool leave all he’s ever craved to rot.

He will not allow it. He cannot bear to as she kisses his hand and glimmers in the sleeping meadow.

“Twice traded storm god,” he murmurs, “should you be willing, I would negotiate a third trade for you, to make you a creature of the Dreaming.”

He watches her face, almost mistakes the tears dripping from her wide, hopeful eyes as more rain. Eager again for her words, he kisses over her cheeks and returns the salt in a searing kiss, branding her with their entwined passions.

He wants all of her. Forever. He tells her as much.

“I would make you mine and keep you.”

If she agrees, she need never disappear from his arms again. He need never worry that the rain will cease. She need not sleep in a cold cell, trapped in the dark alone.

Her acceptance shines in her eyes, haunts the stroke of her hands over his back.

“I would be willing.”

It’s better than an oath, and he knows just how to honor it. He’s more than ready to worship her again.

----------------------------------------------

He sends Cain as his emissary. It’s the first thing he does after he loses the storm god to waking, and he waits on his throne for news, struggling to attend to his duties as he wonders what news his subject will bring.

Will Cain see the storm god, veiled and chained with bells in the corner of the room, or will the Morningstar lock her away again at the first whisper of a guest.

What demands will the ruler of Hell make of him in exchange for the storm god? It is a negotiation he dreads, and not only for the risks he will face. The Lightbringer is often cruel, and the tithe may have to pay for her own freedom in blood. But Morpheus will have her regardless of the Morningstar’s machination. Even if she comes to the Dreaming mauled, he will celebrate her arrival.

Surely she knew the danger when she accepted him?

She is made to weather storms.

He need not fear too much.

Cain returns.

He gives Morpheus a letter from Lucifer Morningstar, formally sealed with wax, written on parchment made from some ancient beast’s hide. Before he breaks open he words, he quizzes his subject. Had he seen the storm god? Was she well? Did the Morningstar intimate violence as it became clear who, in fact, claimed the tithe’s allegiance?

The first murder shakes his head. “She stood in the shadows with the Morningstar’s favorite Lillim. I didn’t even notice her until I said your name and the bells on her ankles trembled.” He hesitates, and Morpheus feels the sun dim behind the throne room’s stained glass.

“What?” he demands.

“The Morningstar – well, the Morningstar smiled.”

Morpheus opens the letter and immediately spots the trap. It is a terrible thing, clearly meant to destroy him. But he doesn’t care. Not as much as he should. And the Morningstar must know it.

It’s less of a letter and more of a will. Lucifer Morningstar has left Hell. The infernal realm and all within is given into the hands of Dream of the Endless.

An impossible burden. An invitation for war and conflict with a dozen of the most powerful entities to ever grow thought.

Yet all he can think of is the door in the royal chambers, and the little god locked behind it.

Cain took a day to travel back, and the storm god is not asleep. He cannot feel her in the Dreaming, and he wonders if she’s hurt, if the pain keeps her from resting. What has the Morningstar done in the hours since handing Cain the message?

He rushes to Hell. He does not pause to enter by the gate, armed with the word of the Morningstar. This time he enters not as a guest but as lord. If any demon dares interfere, he will not regret tearing his way through them.

Word of the Lightbringer’s desertion has already spread, and Hell hums with a particular kind of anxious chaos. Demons press against rules, abandoning their posts in the image of their former keeper. Souls wander, wild-eyed but free for just a moment of their torment.

He cares for none of them.

A few small devils scatter as he enters the Morningstar’s chambers.

The door stands open, the cell empty. Subdued fear crests over him like a wave.

Had the Morningstar simply left the demons to tear into her flesh? Undefended? Screaming as he waited for word to reach him?

He will find her soul and take it away with him, turn her into a true creature of the Dreaming and give her an eternity free of whatever agony the Morningstar had left for her.

One of the devils tries to skitter past him to the door, and he seizes it by the neck.

“What happened here?”

It chitters and croaks, but it is weak, and it bows quickly to Dream’s power. As razor-sharp claws scratch at his hand, it hisses what it knows.

“Ruler summoned fae king. Wanted magic. Wanted potion to stop sleep. Stop dreams. Stuffed it down the tithe-pet’s throat. Took the tithe. Took Rain. Not here. Gone. Gone. Gone. Let me go?”

He throws the twisted cretin across the room, snarling.

Yes. Now he sees why the Morningstar would smile. The little storm god made good bait, even if the former ruler of Hell had no intention of surrendering her.

The eternal ash scratches his lungs, but he can’t help drawing breath after breath, looking for some trace of her as he crouches to touch the floor of her cell.

She met him here.

He wonders if he can feel her hunger and thirst in the stone, her loneliness in the shadows.

She dreamed herself away, and now she will have no escape. Even if she walks the waking world, Morpheus has no doubt the Morningstar will find ways to punish her. And without a realm to govern, there should be plenty of time for torment.

The burden Lucifer so elegantly foisted on him prevents Morpheus from chasing after his little storm god for weeks and months. Time slips by as he sorts through the mess left by the Morningstar’s retirement, and by the time he’s free, she is gone.

He searches the waking world and discovers nothing. No stories, no whispers, no hints. The Morningstar has hidden her well, and he knows better than to ask the Lightbringer to trade a second time.

Months stretch on, birthing new years and decades.

He wonders as he waits in her meadow, still hoping that she will break the magical chains twisting through her mind and dream her way home.

Does she ache for him as he yearns for her?

The grass is turning yellow.

Is she in pain?

The stream runs dry and the bare trees rattle like skeletons when faint breezes disturb the still air.

What else has the Morningstar taken from her in retaliation?

The sun is too bright, and the stars turn dull.

He was right. It is dying without her. Fading around him even as he tries to sustain the place where he kissed her, where they joined and made love for the first and last time.

Morpheus does not give up, but there is no path to follow, and the corner of his world they shared crumbles. She becomes another bleeding scar he cannot staunch, a misery he carries in love.

Perhaps one day. Perhaps by some miracle or mistake they will meet again. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Nothing kills hope, not even when it becomes a knife between his ribs.

He wanders the sea of the unconscious, looking for storms.

#morpheus x reader #morpheus x oc #dream x reader

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smashboxgirl26 · 1 year

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a random list of long fic recs (aka longer than 5k) from ao3 ft. bakugou, shoji, dabi, and jean that no one asked for bc i was bored!!

(some of these are nsfw, which i will warn about for the big ones, but make sure to check their tags before reading anything!)

and beware, this is very long bc i clearly have nothing better to do with my time hehe

you call me wound but i will answer to knife (bakugou x reader) by kirkeeter; i got this recced by a friend and omygodddd i loved it so so so so so much, it's been a while since i read it but it's tech support! reader working under ph! bakugou

Steal Your Girl (bakugou x reader) by Tcierra_Steph7; the actual first bakugou x reader fic i ever read (the literal fic that got me into fics) and it's SO AMAZING OMG, canon compliant, but it's not a bad thing bc it's framed super well (there's also Dear Diary , which i've been obsessed with FOREVER but i dont think it'll ever be updated at this point which is okay - but if you've read (past tense) or read (present tense) either of these, you'll have my heart forever <33)

Other (bakugou x reader) by deadite; a coraline au that's superr good and goes super in depth of the world it creates and i was completely hooked when i read it

His (bakugou x reader) by PBelfz; one of the best yandere! bakugou stories i have ever read, but be warned - highly nsfw (ik yandere is not everyone's cup of tea but if you're into that stuff and haven't read this fic, you should read it!)

surrender (whenever you're ready) (bakugou x reader) by OfMermaids; one of my favorite fanfics ever!! and anything written by her is honestly amazing (especially The Widening Sky, a mermaid au, and The Sun God's Bride, a fantasy au, which you should definitely also check out!!)

Bar Tool (bakugou x reader) by thunderhead; band au AND bar au?? but yeah this fic has everything you could ever want it's sooo good

darling it's better (down where it's wetter) (bakugou x reader) by makoodles; another one of my favorite mermaid aus (bc i love mermies too much and it's my favorite trope) but also contains nsfw content

Gemini Syndrome - Masked Singer AU (bakugou x reader) by opal_vortex; one of the most UNDERRATED fics ive ever read! and the concept is so good!! bakugou goes on the masked singer and the reader is one of the judges loll

Husband for Hire (bakugou x reader) by btp; stardew valley au! (and also one of a couple of fics that inspired strawberry jam loll)

well, i've been saved by the grace of southern charm (bakugou x reader) by willowser; soooo soo soo good!! contains nsfw but if you liked strawberry jam then ur gonna like this one even more it's everything i hope my writing is and more

drawing with light (shoji x reader) by multipurposeroom; literally the fic that made me fall in love with shoji and made me want to cradle him in my arms for the rest of my life bc of how sweet he is

We All Fall Down (dabi x reader) by Musecookie; the reader is an art student who ends up drawing dabi and he finds it in the dumpster and shit ensues and its sooo good, it's also been a long time since it's been updated but it's superrrr great!!!

Higher than the Mountain, Deeper than the Sea (dabi x reader) by maokitty; contains nsfw but it is so!! good!! and it dives into his character so so so so well!

if he's a serial killer than what's the worst that can happen to a girl that's already hurt? (dabi x reader) also by willowser; contains nsfw and i'm actually currently reading this one! but it's very very good so far and im excited to get through it!

Ice Scream, You Scream (jean kirstein x reader) by LilacMochi; contains nsfw but hehehehehhe i loved it AND I READ IT DURING THE SUMMER LOL IT WAS SO FUN

Sweet Tooth (jean kirstein x reader) by cloudspawn; currently reading this one, but IT IS AMAZING AND AN ABSOLUTE FAVORITE I CANNOT EVEN STRESS HOW GOOD IT IS ISTG (you'll see all my comments under each chapter loll)

#yeah idk i just wanted to give the authors that inspire me a bunch of credit because they absolutely deserve it #so go show them some love too!#also look at the proportion of bakugou fics compared to everyone else lolll #im such a loser <3 #happy reading!!!#keke.recs

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memoriesoftanalorr · 1 year

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Title - Paper Tigers (Vash the Stampede x reader)

Note -- Thanks for your likes for previous part of my x reader guys! I love you, it means a lot of to me x3 Sorry it’s not so detailed.

Summary - Y/n and Vash are good friends since childhood. Once Rem decide to teach boys and you how to make a origami butterflies. You and your family escaped a collapsed ship shortly before the boys and Rem sacrifices herself, you hoped that Rem escapes with Vash and his older brother. Some time later, you and your family living far from Jeneora Rock, your mother died two years ago and you're get depressed because of this. Y/n studied as archivist in college but she didn't get a change to continue study a higher education cause she haven't enough money for studying. Y/n headed to JuLai City, she get caught in the center of the sandstorm, while she decide to wait until the sandstorm is over in the abandoned Tower nearby. Meantime, Vash, Meryl, Roberto and Nicholas as well get in the same problem and walked into Tower as well after you. When Vash and Y/n meet up after a long time, they're recognize each other barely but after introduction Y/n and Vash, they're happy to see each other again. When sandstorm is over, Vash made a tiger origami for Y/n as a gift also some other origami for Meryl x3 Part Two of my story. Paper tigers by Thrice.

Some years later.

-------------------------------------------

A large thunderhead clouds appeared in the sky, Vash, Meryl, Roberto and Nicholas notices the that sandstorm is arisen. They're waited in the car until the sandstorm is over. Some hours ago, sandstorm was over and Roberto noticed the tower in the distance.

Vash suggested to his friends that they could stay the night in the tower. Meryl wasn't sure that this is a good idea but Roberto and Nicholas didn't mind that. Everyone got out of the car and stepped onto the soft sand of the desert and headed towards the tower.

All four of them entered the tower and climbed the spiral staircase to the top. Vash trace the wall with his metallic arm, is this tower is really abandoned? Suddenly they are noticed someone over the table sitting on the chair. A girl glanced at the strangers with a worry.

"It was a long time since anyone comes here, well if not counting me. Who are you?" Y/n stands up from the chair and walked closer to Vash. Y/n glanced at a blonde guy carefully, he seems familiar to her. Vash wind up his hand, "Hello, we're not going to hurt you, me and my friends just want to stay the night here. My name is Vash." He made a warming smile.

"Vash?" Y/n asks.

"Y/n?" Vash blinked his eyes in surprise, then his lips curved into a smile.

"Yes, I am. Glad to see you again, bro." You rushed towards him with a tight hug, Vash hugs you back gently.

"I'm sorry I never checked on you or the way I never letting you know how I am doing." Vash replied.

"You can tell me now. Introduce me to your friends, I want to know about them too. Welcome to a abandoned archive! I'm a archivist assistant now by the way." she said proudly.

"Where's real archivist then?" Wolfwood snapped at you.

"That's rude insulting a person, Wolfwood!" Meryl burns in anger.

"I'm going to meet with him in Julai City." Y/n answers.

"This is Meryl and this is Roberto and Wolfwood. Guys, this is my childhood friend, Y/n." Vash said.

"My name is Meryl Stryfe. I'm reporter." Meryl said.

"Nice to meet you, Meryl. I like your style." Y/n said.

"Thanks. Nice to me you too." Meryl said.

"Hello, kiddo." Roberto shakes your hand.

"Nice to meet you too, Roberto." Y/n smiled.

"Nicholas D. Wolfwood." Nicholas wanted to shake your hand too but you doubted for a second and then shake his hand.

"Are you hungry, guys? I have some food here." Archivist assistant said.

"That would be great." Vash nodded.

Time skip

After dinner

"Do you still love making origami?" Vash asked you.

"Yes, I still do." Y/n replied.

"Origami is for kids, bookworm." Nicholas mocked you.

"Origami is art so don't judge someone else's opinion so rude!" Meryl protests.

"Bookworm, huh?" Y/n snorts.

"Wolfwood loves making nicknames, don't be offended by that." Vash calms you down.

"Okay, why not try to make some origami guys?" Y/n asked.

"I'm in." Roberto spoke.

"I think I have something in mind." Meryl said.

"Okay, I'll give your some paper." Y/n smiled excitedly.

"If you thinking that origami is for kids then I think it wouldn't be so hard to you, right?" Y/n teased Nicholas.

"That girl is messing with me, okay!" Wolfwood joined them.

"I'll make one for you Meryl." Vash glanced at her with a smile.

Meryl turned her head to him, then turned away blushing. "Uhm, what you going to make for me?" She asked.

"This is a surprise, wait until I'm made it." Vash said. Y/n giggles, she adores these two together. You started making a spider like origami while Roberto started his bottle like origami, Meryl making a flower origami. Vash also finished a tiger origami for Y/n and started to make a star origami for Meryl and Nicholas try to make something like a cross.

"Is this good one, how do you think, Meryl?" Roberto asked to a young reporter.

"Is this a bottle? Oh, Roberto!" Meryl rolled her eyes.

"Roberto love to drink, isn't it? Hey, Roberto that's good." Y/n making a joke.

Nicholas get confused with his origami and you helped him a bit.

"Meryl, I made a star origami for you, do you like it?" Vash holding his origami and giving it to her.

She clapped her hands in delight, "Vash! This is so beautiful, thank you!" Meryl hiding origami inside her notepad.

"I glad you liked it." Vash smiled.

"Would you like my flower origami as a gift to you?" Meryl asked.

"Sure." Vash nodded.

Meryl giving a Tulip flower origami to Vash. In the language of flowers that flower represents affection and love. Vash thanked Meryl and said that her origami is wonderful. Nicholas said that he's going to keep his origami for himself. Roberto giving you his origami as a gift as well.

"Okay, pals. How about to give yourself a good sleep?" Vash suggested.

"Good idea." Y/n agrees.

Before get asleep Vash and Y/n wanted to get a conversation face to face. Meryl was curious and wanted to go with you but Roberto stopped her. "Let them talk without prying eyes."

"Hey, Vash thank you for your origami. And could you tell me what happened recently?" Y/n get serious.

"That's tough to explain, what you want to know first?" Vash shrugged his shoulders.

"What happened to Nai?" you asked.

"It's Knives now." Vash replied coldly.

"Tell me please." Y/n laid her hand on his shoulder.

"He's killed some of townspeople at Jeneora Rock. It was awful... I couldn't do anything." you could hear how he sobbed softly.

"It's not your fault, buddy." Y/n hugged him from the back since Vash turns away.

"I had bad days lately but I glad I met Meryl, Roberto and Nicholas and I glad to see you again too." He make a small smile.

"Brace yourself. I know that this will be hard to us both but I want to know. What happened to Rem?"

Tears flowing down his face as you glanced at him. "When ship collapsed she's stayed there but send us away. I didn't see her ever again."

"I'm so sorry, Vash." You stroke his hair gently.

"So you going to Julai City too? Please be careful." His voice cracked.

"I'll be okay." You assured Vash.

You both look at the night sky full of stars. Vash walked away after some minutes. On the way back, Meryl sees that Vash cried and then she walked to you. "Vash cried? Why?" Meryl asked.

"He missing Rem." you replied.

"Who is Rem?" Meryl asked again.

"Rem rised Vash and his brother Knives when they're were kids. She sacrificed herself and died." You told her.

"He get through a lot of bad things. Poor Vash." Meryl sighed.

"Yeah, it's already late, you have to go to bed now. I'll show you your room." Y/n spoke.

#vash x reader #vash the stampede #vash my beloved #vash the stampede x reader #Trigun Stampede #meryl stryfe #roberto de niro #nicholas d. wolfwood

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alectology-archive · 2 years

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omg bff why do you not like brandon sanderson's books? (im asking both bc im curious and also in hopes that you will rant your heart out)

I let my thoughts cool for a while before answering this sjdhwifhskf because his books just make me so mad. I've tried to organise my thoughts but I haven't really succeeded so it's mostly a compilation of all my annoyances with him. This is partly a me-problem in the sense that writers who’re only good at plot (which is mostly the case with him) just do not work for me at all. In my list of priorities good plot is ranked a lot lower than interesting thematic explorations and good prose (but he also sucks at characterisations - most of his characters are carbon copies of one another with slight differences, which means I don’t really end up liking any of them).

I’m going to put the rest of the rant under the cut because this turned out longer than I expected although I was typing this on my phone during class today-

His writing style is just really brash and lacking elegance or nuance - plus he has the most boring prose I've ever come across, maybe? I very much think he needs to step back and stop publishing so many books with such large wordcounts when most of his exposition turns out to be pretty useless. I just HAVE to drop a couple of quotes because some of them are such an eyesore, full of nonsense fragments and repetitions.

He stared northward.

At the black and silver clouds.

He’d never seen their like before. They blanketed the entire horizon to the north, high in the sky. They weren’t gray. They were black and silver. Dark, rumbling thunderheads, as dark as a root cellar at midnight. With striking silver light breaking between them, flashes of lightning that gave off no sound.

LIKE.

War had come to Andor in the still of night. The approaching refugees would soon discover that they’d been marching toward danger. It was not surprising. Danger was in all directions. The only way to avoid walking toward it would be to stand still.

Me when I’m trying to desperately say something #deep (he does manage to write thoughtful stuff. But he also fails a lot of the time and he needs a better editor.)

Outside the palace, the Asha’man line was finally weakening. They’d given him the better part of an hour, blasting back wave after wave of Trollocs in an awesome display of Power.

When I talk about him prioritising Drama and Plot over thematic importance, this is what I mean, essentially? One of the main themes RJ’s books deal with is that war is a tragedy, but instead of trying to maintain the spirit of that, he delves into how Cool the asha’man look killing the enemy’s armies and dedicates a whole book - a memory of light - to endless war sequences that I don’t quite understand the need for... at all.

I've only read mistborn, his WoT instalments and parts of the way of kings so I can only speak for them, but mistborn was generic-YA-bad and the way of kings reads like a person who doesn't know how to write trying to desperately write fantasy so I had to drop it early on (I'm still trying to read it, but college has been keeping me very busy, unfortunately so I'm trying to prioritise Good Writers instead because I can tell that reading his WoT instalments has rotted my brain and ruined my prose. ugh). I've also seen people describing the experience of reading his books as interacting with a textual translation of video games (in a not-good way) and I agree, honestly!

What I hate MOST is that he specifically instructs readers how to feel about characters doing certain things instead of trying to steer them towards those conclusions. He lets you know that you’re supposed to hate x character and sympathise with y character instead of letting you decide yourself based on their prior motivations/actions in the story. I hate it when an author tries to spoon-feed everything to me and tries to force me to feel about certain stuff in a way that they specifically want me to - such writing also means they’re probably a bad writer if they feel the need to clarify to the T why I’m supposed to feel a certain way.

Again, mistborn is one of his earlier books and I don't know if he's improved since, but there's also a bunch of fridging in his books, a sense of female caregivers being put on a pedestal, and female characters undergoing a character arc to embrace their femininity (while they previously rejected it) which means I have a harder time trying to believe he actually enjoys writing female characters. The 'how dare the oppressed subclass hate it's oppressors' thing he keeps pulling repeatedly in his books will never stop infuriating me either.

Also he is not funny and I wish he'd stop trying to be funny because I feel like throwing my book against a wall whenever I read what is supposed to be a ‘humorous’ passage. Shallan Davar bless you, the fandom loves you but I may never just because you get the brunt of his ‘funny’ dialogue:

“Well,” Shallan said to the captain, blushing but still eager to speak, “I was just thinking this: You say that my beauty coaxed the winds to deliver us to Kharbranth with haste. But wouldn’t that imply that on other trips, my lack of beauty was to blame for us arriving late?”

“Well…er…”

“So in reality,” Shallan said, “you’re telling me I’m beautiful precisely one-sixth of the time.”

“Nonsense! Young miss, you’re like a morning sunrise, you are!”

“Like a sunrise? By that you mean entirely too crimson”—she pulled at her long red hair—“and prone to making men grouchy when they see me?”

He laughed, and several of the sailors nearby joined in. “All right then,” Captain Tozbek said, “you’re like a flower.”

She grimaced. “I’m allergic to flowers.”

I’m sighing for a thousand years.

#it's also the homophobia thing and the mormon thing mostly #see I have my own beef with grrm but he knows to Write at least lol #I can't say the same for BS - he just doesn't read like a person who really knows how to write #sure he's creative. but he's not translating it well into a written medium.#asks #willowycreatures #text #brandon #<- I know I have a lot of his fans following me at this point so you're welcome to filter my rant tag #sanderson critical

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merakimind · 2 years

Text

Gratitude

THUNDERHEAD (AOAS)

(Gender-neutral) reader-insert Word count: 667 SFW

Occasionally, the working days can become quite exhausting—both emotionally and physically. Masking with a fake smile, imitating laughter even when the joke wasn’t funny, and dealing with those who lack any decency. Your emo-nanites work strenuously to reduce stress, but there’s no better remedy than some good sleep.

“Don’t worry about today or tomorrow,” the Thunderhead had reassured you gently. “You should take this weekend to rest and take care of yourself. You deserve it.”

Typically, the Thunderhead wouldn’t let you sleep all day long; but today was the exception. You’re wearing your most comfortable loungewear, sitting on your warm bed, tucked into soft blankets while reading a paper novel. Typically, nobody reads off paper anymore; everything is digital. Paper is a fire hazard, and it’s also harmful to the environment to continuously chop down trees. While paper books aren’t being manufactured anymore, countless novels from the age of mortality remain scattered throughout, mostly found in displays in mortal era exhibits and museums…. But the Thunderhead managed to snag you a few. You love books; the somehow-wistful scent of the paper and the stark contrast of faded ink-printed words on yellowed pages has you hooked. If only bookstores still existed, so you can experience the… what’s the word, vellichor?

Books from the age of mortality are much more interesting than recent novels. Such literature is emotional and can even make you shed a few tears or laugh out loud. However, while going through old Sci-fi novels, you noticed how people of the mortal era perceived artificial intelligence; they were afraid of such innovations. They feared that A.I. would become smarter than humans (which is true and inevitable, but not a bad thing at all) and take over the world (which is also true, but not in the way they think.) The Thunderhead is the most benevolent and loving sentient being in existence, you would argue. People feared A.I.; they feared the unknown. Evil people also dreaded A.I., for they knew that their scheming corporations which profit off fraud would crumble.

“It’s silly,” you mutter aloud, tone soft but still perceivable by the governing A.I. who is always listening.

“What is silly, if I may ask?” came the Thunderhead’s soothing voice; you would describe it as calm ocean waves, perhaps with distant powerful yet harmless thunder.

“The way people perceived artificial intelligence back then. I guess I understand why, but it’s still silly. Were people afraid of you when you took control?”

“Of course there were several who were a bit weary of having a non-human leader and others who welcomed me with open arms; however, those who truly feared me had a reason for it. For example: corrupted politicians weren’t afraid of me per say, but rather—in their greed—they were afraid of losing their power.”

“And the criminals?”

“The majority of criminals broke laws due to low-income, poverty, social inequality, poor education, and psychological health issues. When I assumed control, such criminal activity was reduced to only those who felt the need to diverge from normal societal behaviors for recreation.”

“Oh, you mean unsavories,” you say.

“Indeed.”

Now that you think about it, humanity would probably be extinct if it weren’t for the Thunderhead’s intervention. It had repaired the ozone gaps, cleaned the seas, coaxed back endangered species and habitats, and established true equality and order throughout human society. It’s a bit difficult to believe that there wasn’t a Basic Income Guarantee back then, and people were forced to work for the sake of survival. Nowadays, people only work for the sake of luxury.

“I’m glad you took control,” you say with a grateful smile. “I don’t know how many people tell you this, but thank you for saving us from ourselves.”

There was a few milliseconds of silence; so short that you’re unable to perceive it, but the Thunderhead does. Its tone comes out warm and benign as it says, “Thank you, (Y/N). Your gratitude is appreciated.”

It rains later that day.

#thunderhead a.i.#thunderhead #ai x reader #thunderhead x reader

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neodracunyan · 11 months

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Job Searching for Dummies|Sonic for Hie x Male!Reader

Bio + Reader

Reader Info

Y/n - Your Name

L/n - Last Name

E/c - Eye Color

H/c - Hair Color

F/c - Favorite Color

SF/c - Second Favorite Color

F/f - Favorite Food

F/d - Favorite Drink

F/m - Favorite Movie

Reader Bio

Name: Y/n L/n

Age: 21

Sex: Male

Species: Human

Appearance: (Pictured Above)

Occupation: Various (Throughout the Series)

Personality: (Normal & When he's around friends) Sweet, Caring, Friendly, Polite, Happy, Supportive, Kind-Hearted, Comforting

(When dealing with his foes and/or when Sonia does something stupid or illegal): Angry, Vengeful, Brave, Serious, Heroic, Courageous, Confident, Responsible

(When he is stressed out or depressed): Suicidal (Not all of the time), Upset, Livid, Depressed, Lonely

(When he is around the people that he falls in love with): Nervous, Kind, Bashful, Funny

Friends/Allies: Sonia (Mostly), Tailsko (Millie Prower), Amy Rose, Eggma'am, Earthworm Jen, Knuckles, Link (Sonic For Hire), Linkle (Female Link), Kirby (Female), Mario (Frenemy), Luigi (Frenemy), Princess Peach, Maria (Mario's Sister), Luigina (Luigi's Sister), Shadow (Frenemy), Shade (Shadow's Sister), Silhouette (Pokémon Trainer OC), Mother Brain (Improved Body), Soniqua (Sonia, Y/n and Mother Brain's Daughter) Morty, Metal Sonic, Metal Tails, Metal Y/n, Pac-Man, Arcade Ghosts (Blinky, Inky, Pinky, & Clyde), Young Link, Bowser, Gilius Thunderhead, Toad, Yoshi, The Frat Boys (College Season), Mayor Mike Haggar, Lucca, etc.

Enemies: Mario's Mafia Gang, Eggette (Sonic Mania Season), Dark Vader, The X-Men (College Season), Darth Vader, Splinter, El Padrino, Female Characters that have a crush on Y/n, Hilda (College Season), Many Other Enemies that Sonia made during her time with Y/n, Kevin the Assistant, Zelda the Karen, etc.

Harem: Sonia, Tailsko, Eggma'am, Earthworm Jen, Kirby (Female), Mother Brain (Improved Body), Lucca, Amy Rose, Princess Peach, Shade, Maria, Luigina, Linkle, Zero Suit Samus.

Likes: Relaxing, Playing Video Games, watching a movie without interruption, happy hour, hanging out with his friends and his girlfriends, going on adventures, doing his job(s) correctly and not cut any corners or ignore any safety precautions while on the job, eating at the BurgerTime, the college life.

Dislikes: Sonia slacking or messing up on the job that could lead both of them to get fired or get arrested, Tailsko being asshole when she took all of the money from Mario's Mafia Organization, Sonia using Lucca's time machine without permission that created rifts in the space-time continuum, created destruction in the Sonic Mania video game that led Eggma'am own daughter(?) Eggette to get revenge on her, Y/n and the rest of the game for destroying the game she's in, being hounded by lots of female video game characters that have a crush on Y/n, being hunted down like an animal or being used for their own amusement no for reason, having to deal whatever kind of crap that he had to deal with (Mostly caused by Sonia).

History: You just don't know how you got into this situation. A female hedgehog by the name of Sonia saved your own life from a group of thugs and you promised to pay her back after she saved you, which turned out to be her mooching off out of you since she was out of a job when Nintendo won the Console Wars and she promised to find a job to get on her feet and you were also looking for a job since you got kicked out of your parents' house after you graduated high school.

The reason why though is because you were going to find a low-income apartment after you graduated high school, but your parents didn't want to help you out and kicked you out of the house with all of the hard-earned money that you got from your old job in Creation City taken away by your horrible parents.

Luckily, your old childhood friend and Pokémon Trainer from Pallet Town known as Silhouette, who managed to be a much better trainer than Rusty and owns his best and only good Pokémon, who is a literal god named Perfect Bidoof aka Peanut Butter helped you out and gets you into a low-income and rent-free apartment and Peanut Butter even gave you some powers to help you get through some bad situations when Sonia became your roommate and (soon-to-be-girlfriend) along with her friends like Tailsko that gives the two some job suggestions in order to earn some cash.

The only problem is that Sonia always ends up causing some problems while on the job or when she started something bad like taking over Mario's Mafia with Y/n as the new boss, going through time that caused a rift in the space-time continuum or even created chaos in the Sonic Mania game after learning that she was replaced with another version of herself.

Now, Y/n has to go through a whole new adventure with Sonia and the gang that will always end up horribly or something that is far worse than death itself.

So, sit back, relax and get ready for the exciting adventure with Y/n's Endless Search for a Job with Sonia and the gang.

#fandom #fanfiction #sonic for hire #sonicthehedgehog #dorkly #action #adventure #comedy #mario bros

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lovesickrobotic · 1 year

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the distinct lack of thunderhead x reader is going to kill me, actually

#ooc #when it comes to checklists they literally check off the entire list and run circles around it empathically #...

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don-lichterman · 2 years

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The Arc of a Scythe Paperback Trilogy: Scythe; Thunderhead; The Toll

Price: (as of – Details) Publisher ‏ : ‎ Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers; Boxed Set edition (December 1, 2020) Language ‏ : ‎ English Paperback ‏ : ‎ 1616 pages ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 153446154X ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1534461543 Reading age ‏ : ‎ 12 years and up Grade level ‏ : ‎ 7 – 9 Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 2.9 pounds Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.5 x 4.1 x 8.25 inches

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momolady · 2 years

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Vyre the Dragonborn

A story of a dragonborn lady who values her privacy and distance from people. But then that all changes when she find an injured human on her doorstep.

Female Monster/Reader x Female Human

////////////////////////////////////////

I started noticing some strange things a few days ago - strange noises and movement in the bushes. I first thought it was just some animals, but then I found things like tracks in the mud outside my cave, discarded apple cores, and plants missing from my garden. Perhaps there was something bigger than the usual rabbit or mole sneaking around.

I’ve been living on my own for a while, because keeping to myself is better than the alternative. So seeing signs of life out here bigger than a rabbit, but smaller than a moose, is quite disturbing to me. I laid a trap, hoping to catch whatever has been stealing from me and stalking around my property, but the trap and whatever was thieving from my garden were gone by morning. There were traces of blood in the dirt and on some of the plants as well. Hopefully, this warning was enough to scare the intruder off, and if that didn’t do it, the foreboding storm clouds above would be the finishing touch.

Thunderstorms around here are no joke. I’ve been all over this world, and the rain here seems to fall heavier, harder, and meaner than most places. The temperature drops precipitously, and the black thunderheads in the clouds are like omens of death.

Late in the evening, I go to the mouth of the cave to fetch some wood from the tinderbox. As I step outside my door, I smell blood. My nostrils flare, and my chest burns. The blood is close, and I can taste its warmth upon my tongue. It’s been so long since I had been overcome by this feeling. I take a few deep breaths and approach the tinderbox, and I can see the trail of blood that leads around to the other side. I follow it to find a slumped, soggy shape huddled against the side.

The scent of blood is overpowering, stirring memories of battles, of my teeth sinking into flesh. I turn my head, catching a cold breath of rain and moss. I come closer to the figure, a stretched-out leg wrapped in a crude cloth bandage. I gently lift the figure’s hood to see what I’m dealing with, and it’s a human woman. You’re unconscious and pale, soaking wet from the rain and bleeding heavily from the trap I had laid. I suddenly feel very guilty. But who on earth would come back to the place where they had been injured? A fool, perhaps. A desperate fool.

I take you inside against my better judgement. I dress the wound, wrapping it properly to stop the bleeding, then remove your wet clothes and lay you on my bed to rest. You look small and helpless, and I suppose I am a fool as well. The storm rages on, thunder booming as loudly as cannons, and yet you don’t budge. I wonder how you can sleep so peacefully in such chaos.

I think I doze off in my chair, because I am woken by the sound of you stumbling out of bed. You’re on the floor, barely able to walk from your injury, but you’ve still managed to get close to the fire and your drying clothes. I get up from my chair and you cry out, ducking down and covering your head. “I won’t hurt you,” I say, “But you do have a lot of explaining to do. You’ve been thieving from my garden for a while now.” I come closer, crossing my arms over my chest. “Come on, get up.”

You remain huddled on the floor, whimpering softly. “Get up,” I command, but you still don’t move.

I take you by the nape of the neck like a kitten and place you back in my bed, where you shrink back into the corner. “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you. You’re far too close to death for my tastes.” I pull up a chair and sit down. “All I want is to know why you’re thieving from me.”

I see your eyes for the first time, quite large and dark in color. You whimper again as you slowly begin to rise, and as your hair falls in your face I notice how choppy and uneven it is, long and flowing in places and short and jagged in others. There are cuts on your hands as well.

“I-I w-w-was ju-just h-hungry,” you stammer.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand your motive. “Are you running from something?” I ask.

You look at me, eyes wide and lips pressed firmly together. You look near tears, but don’t dare to release a single drop as you nod. “Y-yes.”

I sigh heavily. This isn’t something I want to get involved in. I turned my back on people long ago. That’s why I came here, miles and miles from anyone or anything. That means you got lost and had been traveling for days, weeks maybe, on your feet. My vegetables were probably the first good meal you’ve had in a long time. No wonder you would risk staying around.

“You do realize how far away from anything you are, right?” I ask. “No one would ever find you out here.”

You stifle a cry and duck your head back down.

“You can’t walk out of here, either,” I grumble. “I suppose I’m stuck with you until you can.”

You looked back at me, wide eyes trying to figure me out. “Can you cook? Clean?” I ask.

“Y-yes,” you stammer again.

I nod, rising from my chair. “Then you can work off your debt to me while you get better. You owe me quite a few vegetables and apples, young lady.”

You slowly raise your head again, staring at me in disbelief. “Y-you won’t eat me?” you quaver.

“I told you, you’re not worth killing.” I place my hand on my chest. “My name is Vyre.”

You look at me, strangely quiet and timid, then turn your eyes down and nod. “I p-promise n-not to be a… a burden, Mistress Vyre.”

“Just Vyre,” I scold. “Once your debt is paid, you’ll be gone from here, so don’t get attached. I care not what you’re running from or why. I just want you out.”

You nod shakily. “Rest for now,” I grumble. “Nothing to do around here while it rains, anyway.”

Your fingers worry over the choppy ends of your hair. “I c-can cook.”

“I have soup on already. I’d rather finish it off than start anything new.” The look on your face confuses me, as if you’re scared I’m going to do something if you don't. “You can make bread later if you want,” I offer, and relief visibly sweeps over you.

Over the next few days you attempt to do chores. You polish some of my silver and clean the tinderbox outside, and I give you a walking stick so you can move around my home without having to rely on your injured leg. You hobble about, meek and scared and trying to keep as busy as you can, but you struggle with your leg injury. No matter what I say, it feels like you fear coming to a stop. I’m not sure what you’re running from, but in the back of my mind I keep thinking that perhaps we’re running from the same thing.

One afternoon you’re in the kitchen kneading dough. You’ve been making bread steadily for the last couple of days as you keep adding to my soup, extending it longer than I expected to. You have your sleeves rolled up, and I can see scars around your wrists and up your arms. I have scars of my own, ones that I thought were bad, but yours strike me as wrose.

“Your bread is delicious,” I tell you. I’m unsure why I pay the compliment, and I suppose I just wanted to. “Keep up the good work.” I pat the top of your head, and the look you give me startles me. Your big eyes open wide, and for the first time I see no fear in them. You almost seem to smile, but the expression vanishes just as it arrives. I walk away, unsure how to take such a display.

The bread that evening is beautifully made, and it looks like you really put all of your efforts into making it an attractive loaf. You watch me expectantly as I take my first bite. I don’t like being watched like this, especially when eating. “You don’t have to worry,” I tell you. “It’s good.”

The ghost of a smile appears on your face again, but it refuses to materialize. “Th-thank you.” You begin eating, having waited for me to take my first bite before you do.

“Did you come from the north?” I ask you. “Judging from the way you make bread and extend the soup, that’s just what I assume.”

You nod. “You’ve wandered farther than I first expected, then,” I murmur. “How long have you been on your own?”

You shake your head. “I d-don’t know.”

“All that matters is that you never looked back.”

“Y-yes,” you reply quietly.

I take another piece of bread and dip it into the soup. “That I can understand.”

That evening you bring in the rainwater you collected in buckets and warm it over the fire, watching the flames peacefully for a moment. Then you turn and look at me. “Vyre?” you chirp. “W-would you like a b-bath?”

I shook my head. “I clean my scales with oil. Water dries me out too much.”

“Y-your scales are p-p-pretty,” you say softly. “R-red is my f-favorite color.”

I look up just in time to catch a hint of a smile, but you turn away quickly. I sigh, looking back down at the book in my hand. “Thank you,” I mutter.

Once the water is warm, you haul it back outside the cave, where you intend to bathe. Later, I hear quiet sobbing outside the door. I peer out the window and see you sitting beside the tub with your head in your hands, beside a discarded brush with a large clump of hair in it.

My judgement isn’t sound, because I find myself stepping out into the cave. You flinch and looked at me.Your eyes have been threatening to spill tears for as long as I’ve known you, but this is the first time I get to see them. “I’m s-sorry!” You bow your head, keeping your arms over your bare chest.

I kneel down beside you. “I can cut your hair, if you’d like. It will grow back.”

You raise your eyes, looking at me as more tears come. “It will be short for a while, but I think it will be better than what you’ve been dealing with.” I take your brush and clean it out. “The birds can use it to make nests.”

You sniffle as tears stream from your eyes. I don’t know why you weep so, but perhaps kindness is a rarity to you. I cut your hair very short, coming just below your ears. Your fingers sift through the locks on the ground, but your shoulders drop in relief. “Th-thank you.”

I pat the top of your head. “It was nothing at all.” With your bare back to me, I see the many scars there and on your shoulders. I’ve suffered some beatings in my lifetime, and I’m sure my back looks the same. But I was trained my whole life to suffer. I doubt you were. You turn your head, curious as to why I’m so still. “Come inside when you’re done. It’s getting cold. ” I stand up quickly and return inside, taking my seat back before the fire. Why is this bothering me? Why is your presence beginning to take hold of me?

You seem brighter after your haircut, as if a greater weight has been lifted from your shoulders. Your furtive smile blossoms across your face more often, and when it isn’t raining, you help me in the garden, although I insist on taking care of it by myself.

One evening, as you serve me dinner, you have a strange look on your face. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

“I c-can w-walk on my own,” you stammer, anxiously twisting your fingers together. “I sh-should leave in the m-m-morning.”

I find myself shocked at the idea. “Oh, right.” I clear my throat. “Of course.” I looked down at my food, and the thick slice of bread on my plate. “Where will you be going?”

“I’m n-not sure.” You sit down at the table.

“You’ll find your way.” I start eating.

You remain still, not touching your food or even lifting your hands to the table while I eat. You sniffle and take a stilted breath. “I w-want to st-stay h-here,” you spit out as confidently as you can.

I look up from my plate, setting my spoon down by the bowl. “This is no place for a young woman such as yourself. I’m here alone for a reason.”

“B-but…”

“No,” I say sternly. “I have enjoyed you here, but my mind will not be swayed. You can’t stay here. No good will come of it.”

You lower your head again. “You do understand what dragonborn are capable of, right? What sort of strength we have, what sort of damage we can inflict?”

You remain still.

“I am not your friend. I was never raised to be anything more than a predator,” I keep going on, hoping to scare you. “I am a hunter and assassin. Someone like you would be nothing to my abilities.” I pick up my spoon again. “That’s why I am out here. So I don’t get used again.”

“M-me too,” you whimper.

I looked at you, seeing your eyes filling with tears again. “I d-don’t want to get used a-again. N-no more!” You slam your palms down on the table. “I w-would rather d-die here!”

I take a slow, purposeful breath, then lay my arms out on the table. “Are you asking me to kill you?”

Tears gush down your cheeks.

“If you wanted to die, then why have you fought this entire time? You could have died after getting caught in my trap, but you escaped. You ran all the way from the north. You don’t want to die.”

You look at me, fear and desperation in your eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” I sneer. “Don’t try to beg me for something I can’t give you. Go south and follow the rivers. You’ll find kindness along the way that is better than mine.”

You lower your head again. “I’ll give you a dagger before you go,” I say simply. “So you can protect yourself.”

“O-okay. Th-thank you.”

That night, you lie quietly in your bed, your back turned and the blankets pulled up around you. I go outside, deciding to take a bath like you did, but with my own special blend of oils. I strip down, rubbing oil into my scales before wiping it away with a cloth. Their color becomes much deeper as I clean them, and flecks of gold appear as I wipe away the dust and debris from my scales.

“C-can I h-help?”

I look up to find you in the doorway, watching me quietly with a shy gaze. Your cheeks are red and your eyes bright. I turn and look at the bottle of oil. “You should be asleep.”

You ease out of the door. “I w-want to h-help.”

I sigh and hand the bottle to you. “My back is hard to reach.”

You take the bottle and move behind me.

“A little goes a long way, so be careful.”

I feel your warm hands upon my back, like smooth, sun-dappled river rocks. I close my eyes, trying to ignore how much my body aches for this touch. It’s been so long, and yet I ignored the yearning for palms along my back, fingers brushing against the base of my tail. I’m bothered by how much I like your hands. “Y-you’re shaking,” you chirp.

“That’s enough.” I stand up. “I’ll take care of the rest.” I felt heated to my core, and my aching skin burns for you. “Go back to bed.”

“B-beautiful,” you whisper. My tail shakes, and I fear looking back at you.

“Y-you’re beautiful,” you murmur again. You stand and place your hand upon my arm. “Vyre.” Your voice is like honey, and I can’t stand it.

“Go back to bed,” I whisper shakily.

Your hand slips down my arm and takes hold of mine. “Y-you too.”

If I look at you, I’ll be lost. “It’s late.”

You gently tug my hand. “It is.”

I chuckle softly and turn to look down at you. You’re smiling, the first time I’ve ever seen one directed at me. You look sweet and shy, but also ravishing. I touch your cheek, pushing aside your hair so it isn’t stuck against your skin. “I can’t,” I say in a cracked voice.

“I w-want to th-thank you,” you say through trembling lips. “F-for being s-so kind.”

“I don’t want thanks. Not like this,” I shake my head. “Go back to bed. You don’t owe me anything anymore.”

You step closer to me, placing your hand on my chest. “I w-want to.” Your fingers stroke down to my stomach. “Y-you’re so b-beautiful.”

I grab your hand and lift it away from me. I gaze into your eyes, seeing a spark of fire inside them I’ve never seen before. Your smile is soft and honest, and begs for more than my gaze.

I let you lead me back inside. We sit together on my bed as strip away your clothes. You press your soft body against mine, letting your skin become slick with oil. You kiss my shoulder, and I shudder at the soft touch. Your breasts press against my side, and the dark thought of them between my teeth makes me quiver. “W-would you l-like more?” you whisper.

“I dare not ask,” I whisper back.

You kiss my shoulder again, pressing your whole body against me. You feel so soft and warm, my head is swimming. “I’m n-not scared.”

“You should be,” I rasp. Your lips press to my cheek and neck, and I feel the searing heat of your little wet tongue against my throat. It makes me shudder with weakness. The low moan you utter is like a knife through my ribs, and I take your shoulder and force you back. “Let me breathe,” I growl.

Your smile was inflaming, making me want to bite your lips. “I w-want to m-make you feel g-good.”

“You’ve hidden this part of yourself all this time. Or are you trying to act to keep my favor?” I push you down onto the bed, your supple body on display for me. Parts of you glow from the oil on your skin, making you look decadent.

“I l-like you, Vyre,” you whimper.

Words have never wounded me so much. I grab hold of one of your breasts and squeeze it, palpating it in my hand until I see the rouge of your cheeks turn dark and hot. I dip down, taking the erect nipple into my mouth. I nibble it, torture it, lapping it with my tongue. Your moans come out honest but quiet. I lift my head, baring my sharp teeth to you. “I could rip out your throat here. I could bite into your thigh and watch you bleed to death. Either would not be my first time.”

You reach up, touching my face. “I t-told you I w-would rather d-die here.”

I’m weaker than I thought. “Why?” I hiss.

Your smile returns, sweeter than before. “Y-you.”

I kiss you, with no teeth and no anger. I just kiss you to feel you press closer to me. Your body is so soft and warm, it’s making me drunk. You move me easily, like hot clay under your palms. You open me up, placing yourself where I’m not ready, but extremely willing.

“So pretty,” you breathe. “L-like a ruby.” Your smile vanishes against my skin, kissing my thigh and nuzzling against my core. Your lips part, and I feel their heat and wetness against me. I open for you, taking your tongue inside me.

“Oh, gods,” I gasp.

You moan against me, your hands massaging my thighs and mound. Your tongue feels like fire inside me. Your fingers joined along, curling deeply to where they are most wanted. Your moans grow louder, vibrating along every nerve inside me. You make me want to cry and rip my sheets to shreds. You touch me, arousing me to heights that make me breathless and dizzy. You take my soul from me, carefully placing it back with a kiss on my lips.

“B-breathe.” You stroke my cheek.

“Oh, gods,” I whimper. I can’t feel my tail or my legs.

You kiss me again, laying your head upon my chest as I recover. I’ve never faced something as dangerous as you before. I fall asleep with you draped over me, my body weak and my mind empty. I should have stayed awake and repaid your efforts.

When I do wake, I find myself alone. You’re no longer in bed, and there’s no sign of you anywhere. My heart is racing, but my mind is calm. I told you to go, urged you to. You were simply repaying what you perceived as kindness. My heart wants to run and chase you down to bring you back, but my mind tells me it’s the end. I rise from bed, legs still weak, inner thighs bearing marks of your teeth and kisses. I look around my home, and it seems cold and dark.

I get dressed, planning to tend to my garden after the most recent rains. I’ll never see traces of you there again - no missing vegetables, no footprints to track. This is fine. I’ve been alone before, and now I’ll be alone again. I open the door at the mouth of the cave and look towards the tub where I bathed last night. The bottle of oil is still there.

I leave the cave, stepping out into the morning sun. The air feels crisp and cool, heavy with the scent of wet earth. I also smelled something hot and coppery - blood.

And there you are in the garden, sucking your finger and cursing at a blackberry bush. You’re still here. “I w-wanted berries for breakfast,” you mutter guiltily.

I nod, unsure if I should move. “That’s fine.”

You stand up, dust off your knees and smile shyly at me, your cheeks blooming a bright red. I’m relieved to see you, but scared to touch you in case this is a dream. You make us breakfast, mashing the berries to spread over the toast. I lick your fingers, remembering how remarkable they were last night. The blackberries mix with your blood, and the flavor makes me delirious.

“A-are you feeling a-alright?” you ask.

I look into your eyes, my head spinning. “I don’t know.”

You smile and kiss me, taking me back to that wonderful bliss from last night. “I’m n-not afraid of you.”

I cup your cheek in my hand. “Why not?” You don’t answer me, but we both know the answer.

I take you in my lap after breakfast, and your naked body feels so much more vulnerable than last night. I cup your breast in my hand, slowly dragging my claws along your skin. Then I place them inside you, feeling how hot and wet you are. Your voice is soft, elated. I touch you until you can no longer stand it. Your body trembles, and you leave a puddle on my thigh. I can’t leave you alone, so I splay you across the bed, devouring your quivering mound. Your cries become so loud, I cannot hear the thunder that brews outside. You taste like earth, like fire, and I drink you down until your thighs tremble and you roll yourself away from me. I kiss your rear, your back, and run my hands along your skin until I am curled against you.

Your smile is docile and pure sugar. You look up at me, delighted and warm, tears in your eyes. “Stay with me,” I whisper.

“I w-will,” you croon back.

You remain by my side, although I can’t get rid of the fear that I’ll hurt you. It isn’t until winter, when the warmth of your body is most needed, that I realized I’ve not been scared in months. You found an injured dog a while ago, and she had given birth to pups just before the snow. One evening, after collecting firewood, you’re happily cuddling with the puppies. Your smile is so warm, it makes me melt, but it also makes me wish I was the cause of it.

“D-don’t pout,” you giggle.

“I wasn’t.”

“Vyre,” you coo.

I look at you holding the wiggling puppy. “I wasn’t,” I insist.

You place the puppy back with its mother and come to my side. “It must be cold out there. Let me warm your hands.”

I smile, placing my hands around your soft waist. “It was cold.”

You hold me tight, snuggling up to me. “I love you.”

Another knife between my ribs. You’ve placed many of them there. “I love you,” I whisper back. “That’s why I risk the cold.”

You kiss the inside of my palm. “That’s why I love you most.”

#monster fudger #monsterxhuman #dragonborn #dragon girlfriend #monster lover #monster romance #momolady monsters

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