#messages from the vine... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ak-vintage · 11 months ago

Text

Work of Art

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prompt: Marcus Acacius & Nose

Summary: Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, established relationship, arranged marriage, POSSIBLE DUBCON (sex in an arranged marriage with a patriarchal power structure), hefty age gap, pregnant reader, inexperienced reader, insecurity, body worship, nose worship, face-sitting, oral (f! receiving), discovering that you’re in love with your spouse, SO MUCH FLUFF, high likelihood of historical inaccuracy (aiming for vibes, not perfection)

Written for @joelmillerisapunk PPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3

It is barely sunrise when the messenger arrives at your door.

Coated in a layer of dust from the road, mounted on the back of a well-lathered horse, and bearing the colors of the empire, the young man demands your staff wake you to receive him – that he is under orders to accept no intermediary, that his message is intended for the lady of the house and no one else. The news of his arrival sends ice into your veins the moment you open your eyes; even as the wife of a general, you do not often receive messages from the front lines, and you could not resist fearing the worst. Curls loose and mussed with sleep, tunica tied almost haphazardly in your haste, you rush to the atrium as quickly as propriety will allow and take the messenger’s sealed scroll with trembling hands.

My dearest wife, it reads. The skirmish on the southern border has been quelled for the time being. In recognition of our efforts, and out of respect for our recent union, I have been granted leave to return to Rome for a period of respite. If the sea is calm and the road is easy, you can look to the horizon for my return in one month’s time. Prepare the household for my arrival. Faithfully yours, Marcus Acacius

The relief you feel at those words is so powerful that you sink into the nearest chair, weak-kneed. Thankfully, your staff are more than competent enough to manage offering food, a bath, and a fresh horse to the harried messenger without your guidance, for you have not the capacity to play hostess. It had been your greatest fear, you realize as you sit there reading and re-reading the general’s letter until your eyes begin to burn with fatigue. You had had such little time as husband and wife before Marcus had been shipped out to the border, and you dread nothing more than the prospect of joining the ranks of the widows of Rome before you even have the opportunity to fully know the man you had married. It would have been such a waste, you think, like a flower cut from the vine when it was barely a bud, cursed never to bloom for the rest of time.

The truth is that although yours had been an arranged marriage, one of convenience, you feel (perhaps naively) that it held great promise. The general had never married, choosing to prioritize his military ambitions over his personal life. However, now that he was getting older, he had determined that it would be wise to seek a wife who might give him an heir to the prestigious station he had earned for himself over the years. Your father, a wealthy, prominent senator, had brokered the match, and a mere fortnight after you had been introduced for the first time, you had been wed.

Marcus had proven to be a gentle husband, a great contrast to what you had believed based on the tales of his ferocity in battle. He had spoken kindly to you and listened patiently, giving weight to your words, treating you like a partner right from the start. He had given you free reign over the household and encouraged you to mold his domus and his staff to suit your tastes. You had had very little time in each other’s presence, but he nevertheless struck you as a man of honor, a man of principle. As a woman in your position, there was little else you could ask for in a match, and the thought had comforted you as you stood side-by-side with this near-stranger and signed your marriage contract.

On your wedding night, he had been as tender with you as he could. You had been able to tell that he was holding himself back, restraining himself from taking you as savagely as he might have wished, but for that, you thought him compassionate. Of course, there had been some pain to start; this you had anticipated. However, toward the end of your coupling, as the general had begun to growl muffled curses into the soft skin of your neck and thrust himself so deeply inside you, you swore you could feel his manhood in your belly, you thought perhaps that it might have begun to feel…good?

He had spilled his seed within you shortly thereafter, bringing your union to a sudden and dramatic end and leaving your tentative, blooming pleasure to fizzle and die in your veins.

You glance down at the swell of your belly at the recollection, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. The fruits of your union that night – and the nights that followed for the brief month he had been permitted to remain by your side – had made themselves apparent shortly after his departure. That had been five months ago now, and it had been an incredible relief to know that you had managed to fulfill your duty to the general so quickly. You had fully expected to give birth on your own, to share the joyous news with him via special messenger like so many other soldier’s wives. Now, to know that he is set to return so soon, that relief is compounded. Barring any emergencies on the front, he likely would be home long enough to be present for the birth.

Birthing was a woman’s business, of course. You knew there was little Marcus could truly do to aid you in your labors. But a part of you, perhaps a very foolish, girlish part of you, could not help but feel safer when he was near. You would sleep better at night knowing he was once again within the walls of your domus.

Easing yourself back onto your feet, you get the attention of the nearest member of your staff.

“Once our guest has been seen to, gather the others in the courtyard,” you command. “We have much to prepare. The general is coming home.”

General Marcus Acacius rides into Rome on a sunny afternoon astride a handsome black stallion. Escorted only by a small retinue of guards and vassals, he travels light, with the economy and efficiency of a man who has spent the majority of his adult life in an army camp. The servant boy you have stationed at the city walls every day for the last week eagerly tells you that he looks well, that he has been asked to report first to the emperors’ palace but that he expects to be home by nightfall.

The news of your husband’s imminent arrival has a riot of butterflies rising in your chest, and you feel the child you carry respond almost instantly, fluttering and twitching against the walls of your womb at your excitement. A smile pulls at your lips, and you smooth your palms over the rounded surface of your belly as if to say, “I understand. I feel it, too.”

You send a message to the kitchen staff with orders to ensure that the general’s favorite meal is prepared for this evening, as well as for his preferred wine to be brought up from the cellar. Perhaps it is a bit silly – this is his home even moreso than it is yours – but you have an odd desire to make him feel welcomed. You want him to know that you have given thought to his needs and his preferences, that you have managed and looked after his home with proficiency in his absence, that you have anticipated his return.

You want to make the general happy, you realize with a flush. Not only for him to be happy, but you wish to be the cause of that happiness. Does that make you proud, you wonder? Or selfish? Perhaps. All you know for certain is that in the brief time spent by his side, all those months ago, you had begun to associate Marcus Acacius with feelings of comfort, of safety, of acceptance. Even perhaps…affection. You like him. Was it so wrong to wish for him to like you, too?

You are in the ostium waiting for him when the general arrives. The sun sets behind him as he approaches on horseback, still in full armor from his travels, and your first thought is that he is even larger than you remember. Blotting out the golden light with the incredible breadth of his shoulders, you think he looks almost otherworldly, like some mythical hero of old returned from a harrowing quest. You can feel your heart speed up behind your ribs, galloping like the hooves of his horse on the cobblestones, and you are thankful no one can hear it but you. You are a woman grown, wedded and bedded and carrying a child, the head of your own household, the wife of a prominent, respected officer of the grand army of Rome. The idea that you should become so flighty, so unmoored at the sight of your own husband is absurd.

When his gaze falls on you, your trembling hands find your stomach, a gesture that has become more and more instinctual as the bump has become more and more visible, and before he can even greet you, his eyes drop to where they rest.

Marcus pulls his horse up short, the soft expression in his dark irises sharpening, intensifying. You watch as his prominent brow draws up, something between shock and awe and hope washing over his face, and then he is swinging his leg up and over his mount, dropping to the ground, closing the distance between you in a handful of long, powerful strides. His eyes do not leave your stomach until he is a mere handful of inches from your body, and you catch sight of his broad, thick-fingered hands clenching at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

“Dearest wife,” he rasps, his throat dry as he finally, finally flicks his eyes back up to meet yours. “Have you something to tell me?”

You swallow thickly, suddenly overcome with the intensity, the intimacy of his attention. “Welcome home…husband.” Your voice sounds tremulous to your own ears, but you do not allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you wrap both of your hands around one of his and bring his dry, scarred knuckles to your lips. Dropping a kiss onto the center ridge, you add, “It is a blessing from the gods to see you well after so many months apart.”

Your name is a sigh on his lips. “It is a blessing to be permitted to return home after so short a time,” he counters. “Now, if my eyes deceive me, I will beg your forgiveness and claim fatigue from the long journey as my excuse. But are you…”

He trails off, as though hesitant to speak the words aloud, and you could swear that someone had reached into your chest and taken hold of your heart for how tight it squeezes at the thread of hope woven into his words. Unable to bear it anymore, you finish his incomplete thought on your own.

“Yes…General Acacius – ”

“Marcus,” he interjects immediately, and you feel yourself flush at the familiarity.

“Marcus,” you echo. “I-I am with child. You are to be a father.”

The breath he releases is long and slow, his dark eyes shining in the setting sun, and if you did not know better, you might think that your revelation had rendered him speechless. However, it takes him only a moment to collect himself, and then he is reaching for your belly with both hands, palms outstretched almost pleadingly. “May I – ?”

You nod readily, feeling a grin split your face, and then his hands are on you, cupping your swelling bump with his sword-calloused touch. His skin catches on the fine material of your tunica, but you are unbothered. He is warm and vital against you, his touch more than welcome after so many months on your own, and as though the precious thing had been waiting for their cue, the child in your womb kicks against their father’s hands.

The general’s brows shoot up at that, his forehead crinkling beneath his dark, gray-streaked curls, and he lets out a rough, strained laugh. “By the gods. It’s true.” Keeping one hand on your bump, he brings the other to the side of your face, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, stroking your jaw with his thumb. It’s the most tender, intimate gesture he has ever shown you, and the heat of his palm has your knees weakening beneath you.

“You honor me, amica. Thank you,” he says, husky voice thick with emotion. He presses a brief, dry kiss to your forehead, and you cannot help but wish it had been to your lips instead.

Dinner passes in a blur of sumptuous foods and peppered questions, both from you about his time at the border and from him about how you are settling into your new home, your new role. This is one thing about your relationship that has been easy from the moment you met – it is clear to you that Marcus cares deeply about your perspective on the world. He never rushes you, never cuts in when you are speaking, never attempts to correct you in some demonstration of superiority. It’s a unique experience for you coming from a man, particularly one of his age and rank, and it makes you feel cherished in a way you never would have expected in a marriage like yours. You are under no illusions that yours was a love match, after all, but something about the intent way that Marcus holds your gaze, the way he nods along as you speak, the way he asks such thoughtful questions – it has you all but convinced that he cares for you as you are coming to care for him.

The two of you linger over dinner long past nightfall, but eventually, he stands from his chair at the head of the table, offers his hand to you, and leads you to the privacy of your shared chambers. He beds you that night, as you had expected he would after so long without the touch of a woman, and you go to him willingly. His touch burns with barely-restrained fervor, the expression on his handsome face twisted almost as if in pain, and just as you had on that first night, you feel something building within you as he takes you.

You have no name for it, and yet it feels altering in its magnitude. You feel like lightning, like lava, like some elemental thing ablaze with fire and light, and just when you are certain that the feeling is about to consume you, just as you know in your bones that you cannot take any more or you will surely die –

Marcus spills himself inside you, withdraws, and collapses onto the bed next to you.

The feeling recedes. You catch your breath. Your husband plants a kiss on your hairline, and under his lips, he finds the sweat of your exertion, of your truncated pleasure. He whispers “good night, amica” against your curls, and then he rolls away.

Moments later, soft snores fill the room. The general is fast asleep, but you…

You are going mad.

It is many days later before this madness finally comes to a head.

Every night since his return, Marcus has sought his pleasure in your body. He never forces himself upon you or hurts you in any way; he asks before touching you, always. But as you approach a full week of night after night of thwarted pleasure, you cannot help but begin to find ways to…delay the inevitable question. You have taken to engaging him in conversation as you lay in bed, asking him about the many visitors he has received over the last several days, or about his journey home from the border, or about his favorite horse, Tempestas. He takes this in stride, seemingly happy to indulge you, and the two of you spend long minutes talking softly by candlelight, warm and close under soft, shared sheets.

This night, you decide to ask him about the baby and how he feels knowing that you carry his heir, that his legacy is secured.

You anticipate the smile he gives you, the fond look in his eyes as he reaches out to feel the curve of your belly, as he has done now hundreds of times over the last week. What you do not expect is the earnestness of his words as he tells you, “I have never been a father before. At my age, I did not expect that I would ever have the privilege. Now that you have made it possible, I find that I care much less for legacy or inheritance than I do for…safety. Stability. Peace.”

You soften at that, and on instinct, your hand goes to his hair, brushing his graying curls back from his forehead with gentle, soothing strokes. You have found that this is something he likes, and he leans into your touch like a barn cat in a sunbeam. He seems pensive, and you allow the silence between you to linger while he gathers his thoughts.

“I mourn that this child should have a general for a father,” he admits after a moment. “I will be absent for much of his life. I will disappear for stretches of time that could number in years, and when I return, I will be like a stranger to him. Were it in my control, I would be more present. I wish to know my child. And for him to know me.”

“Him?” you echo, a bit impishly, and Marcus smirks.

“Or her, of course. I cannot claim to know whom you carry in your womb. I shall leave that mystery for the gods.”

You grin back him, enjoying the good humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “I am sure that however much time you are permitted to spend with our child – be it months or weeks or days – it will be enough.”

Lifting himself up on one elbow, the general fixes you with a skeptical frown. “How can you be so certain?” he asks.

“Because it does not take long to see who you are, Marcus,” you reply earnestly. “To see your nobility, your strength, your power. Your kindness. These are all things I learned about you in the mere fortnight before we were wed. Your child shall know these things about you, as well.”

Tucking your hands beneath your cheek, you stare up at him from your pillow. The warmth of the candlelight casts shadows across his golden skin, highlighting the soft crinkles around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Besides, even when you are away, I shall be around to teach them,” you add with a shrug.

“Amica…” He seems a bit overcome at your sincerity, and his low voice rasps like a sword on a whetstone in the darkness. “You are very generous.”

That riot of butterflies returns to your belly as the intimacy of the moment stretches on. Gods, but he is so beautiful like this. No one has ever looked at you the way he does – not with base lust for your body, not with envy for your wealth, not with dismissal for your sex. Marcus looks at you like something precious, like something to be valued. That look makes you foolish, makes your cheeks hot and your tongue loose.

When you speak again, it is without thought.

“When I think about our child…I hope that they look like you, so that even when we are apart, I might have some comfort in seeing your face every day.”

At that, the general lets out a full-bodied laugh and rolls his eyes. Flipping over onto his back, he shakes his head fondly at you like one might a mischievous child. “Now I know for certain that you are flattering me, wife.”

Your brows nearly reach your hairline as a flush of embarrassment races up the back of your neck, darkening your cheeks in an instant. “Wh – No, sir, I would never!” you insist. “I am being entirely earnest.”

“My face? My face upon an innocent babe?” He says this with a scoffing laugh, sounding amused, but when you catch sight of the tightness in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows, you think that there might be something…authentic beneath his jesting words. “No, my dear wife. It would be far better if the child were to share your visage. Then they might truly be comely to look upon.”

Is it possible…have you stumbled upon a true insecurity, you wonder? It seems unlikely. This is General Marcus Acacius, commander of the emperors’ armies, a man two decades your senior who fought wars on behalf of Rome before you could even walk on two feet. He exudes power and strength and intelligence, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence and self-assurance that comes along with experience. He is a skilled strategist, an indomitable warrior.

Does he truly not see…

Scooting closer to him on the bed, you allow yourself to cup his bearded jaw, to turn his face toward yours. “There would be no greater gift than a child with your eyes, Marcus,” you say softly. “Or perhaps your smile.”

“But not this nose, surely,” he replies, tapping the end of his prominent, hooked nose with one calloused finger. He shakes his head with a wry smile, as though the idea is too preposterous to consider. “I would not willingly inflict such an eyesore upon a child.”

By the gods. He means it, you realize. He has truly surprised you. To your knowledge, the general is not a vain or self-conscious man. You have never known him to care overmuch about how he looks; it was quite a contrast to the pampered upper-class boys you grew up alongside, something you had found refreshing when you had first met. Had you misunderstood? Misinterpreted his lack of self-regard as a lack of care?

You decide it does not matter. All you know for certain is that your husband appears to be under the impression that his appearance leaves something to be desired, and as his wife, you feel it is your duty to demonstrate to him just how wrong he is.

The thought has your heartrate picking up again.

“Do you know…what I thought,” you begin haltingly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “the first day I met you, at my father’s villa?”

His dark brows knit together in a small frown, as though your words have surprised him. “Tell me.”

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you confess, “I thought you the most striking man I had ever seen.”

“You flatter me, dear heart.” His words are soft, as is his answering smile, but you can hear the platitude in his voice. He does not believe you.

“No, no, it is not flattery.” With some effort, you push yourself up off of the bed, too emphatic to remain lying down for this discussion. You haul your pregnant body up to kneel at his side, tucking your knees into the warmth of his thick waist, and your long hair dangles over his broad chest as you look into his eyes. “I know that…the circumstances of our union were not exactly romantic, and I know that we do not yet know each other well, but I hope you will heed my words when I tell you that…I count myself extremely fortunate to have been married to so handsome a man.” Glancing down at your hands, you fiddle with one of the many thin, gold rings on your fingers in self-consciousness. “My father could have selected anyone he liked. The fact that it is you who shares my bed, you whose child I carry… It is a blessing.”

It is silent between you for a time, your words hanging in the air like a declaration, but then Marcus’s body shifts against you. Curling up to sit at your side, one of his thick, broad hands comes into your line of vision and wraps itself around both of yours, stilling your fidgeting.

You risk a look up, meeting his gaze through the length of your lashes, and you feel your breath leave your body as you take in the softest, warmest, most tender expression you have ever seen on his handsome face.

“It pleases me to hear that you are happy,” he murmurs, running one of his thumbs along the back of your hand. “And that your affection for my look is genuine. It would not do for you to say such things in an attempt to…endear yourself to me. There is no need. I am already quite fond of you.”

You are quick to shake your head. “Not at all! If I have ever given you such an impression, you have my deepest apologies.”

Now that your true feelings for your husband have been revealed, you feel as though you can no longer contain them. Under the affectionate weight of his dark eyes, more comes spilling forth, unbidden. “The truth is that even in the short time that we have known one another, I have spent many hours at my easel attempting to recall your likeness in detail so that I might recreate it. Your nose in particular, I find to be most…attractive.”

Your hand moves of its own accord then, slipping from his grip to float across the narrow space between you as though possessed by some covetous spirit. The very tip of your middle finger lands in the space between his eyebrows, and although you make no conscious decision to do so, you trace down the steep curve of the bridge of his nose with a touch so delicate it might as well have been a breeze.

Your own voice sounds breathless and far away to your ears as you whisper, “You look like a sculpture, Marcus. Like the great marble warriors along the garden path. It makes you look stately and…masculine and…commanding.” Between your thighs, you feel your most intimate muscles clench. You have grown swollen and sensitive there, a feeling you have become increasingly familiar with since your husband’s return home. It’s sweet and delicious and utterly torturous, making you want to squirm in your seat, but you resist.

At least…until Marcus traps your hand in his and brings your wandering fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes snap to his, and you watch as he presses slow, lingering kisses across each of your fingertips. The sensation of his hot, moist breath on your sensitive skin has you trembling, and gods, but his lips are so soft. Turning your palm up to the heavens, the general places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tender center of your palm, and you feel yourself swaying toward him as though under a spell.

The plush of his lips dances gently across the thin skin of the inside of your wrist, and your pulse thrums beneath his touch as he growls, “There is perhaps…one advantage of such a face.”

“Tell me.” Your echo of his earlier words comes out like a whine, like you are pleading with him, though what you are pleading for, you cannot say.

Marcus appears to consider your request for a moment, his eyes going sharp and calculating, and then he says, “Perhaps it might be better if I showed you. Do you trust me, dear heart?”

You are quick to nod. “Yes. I trust you.”

Inclining his head at you in acknowledgment, he releases his grip on your hand and pulls away entirely. He lays back on the bed then, scooting down so that his head is flat on the padded surface rather than on his pillow. He adjusts himself a bit, shifting back and forth, but once he is comfortable, he looks back at you and pats his chest with both hands. The sound is muffled by his soft linen sleep tunic but nonetheless audible in the silence of your bedchamber.

“Mount me,” he says without preamble, and you swear you can hear the whirring gears in your brain grind to a halt.

“W-What?”

“I want you to sit astride my face, as you would a horse.” No matter how intensely your face burns at the wicked suggestion, you cannot seem to look away. His deep brown eyes are bottomless in the dark, the depths of them reflecting the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well. You can feel yourself falling into them, can feel something at the very core of you tugging toward him, answering his call. If you were to glance down at the rest of his body, you would see the evidence of the general’s own arousal tenting his tunic, but your gaze is trapped, held fast by the magnetism of him.

“Come, amica,” he says after a moment of your silent, scandalized staring. “You may rest your ass upon my chest, but I would have that sweet cunt on my mouth.”

You swallow audibly, still making no move to obey. Wetness begins to pool between your thighs, slicking your skin and staining the fabric of your sleep clothes, and you lose the battle against your urge to squirm. Your thighs clench together, and you shift upon your calves in search of friction, but you find none. You need his touch…but what he is suggesting is –

“M-Marcus, I couldn’t possibly – I shall smother you, how will you – ”

He cuts off your protests with a growl of your name, and in that moment, you see not your noble husband staring up at you. Instead, you see the Roman General Acacius – sharp jaw clenched, nostrils flared, dark eyes blazing.

“I shall not ask again, wife. No harm will come to you or to me. Now do as you’re told and sit on my face.”

You hesitate for another beat, then two, and then you shuffle forward on wobbly knees to obey. Your husband’s eyes burn a path across your body as you approach him, tracing from your parted, panting lips, to your heaving breasts, to your swollen, pregnant belly. You feel the look like a physical touch, and the sensation has your skin flushing, has sweat breaking out at the small of your back and the nape of your neck. With shaking, uncertain hands, you reach out and brace your palms against the gold-filigreed headboard for stability.

“That’s it, nearly there now,” Marcus sighs as you clumsily, awkwardly swing one of your legs over his body. Your knee lands on the other side of his shoulder, and you feel the heat of his touch on your naked thighs almost immediately. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the hem of your sleep tunic up to your hips, revealing your bare ass and cunt to the cool air of the bedroom.

You draw your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a whine, and gooseflesh breaks out across your skin. You’ve started to shake, though whether in fear or arousal, you couldn’t say. Gods, you’re so exposed now. The wetness between your thighs is fully on display, mere inches from your husband’s face. It’s mortifying; if you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, you know you would.

Marcus, however, clearly has no such compunctions. His thick fingers knead the soft, lush flesh of your hips and thighs, using his grip to draw your forward, to draw you down. The groan that oozes from his lips into the hot slip of atmosphere between you sounds exactly like the one he makes when he first slides inside you, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily at the tremor of it now sounding between your legs. He must catch sight of this, your body’s own betrayal happening right under that stately nose that started this whole ordeal, for one moment he appears to be watching you settle in with rapt attention, and the next, he is releasing a dark, sinister chuckle and yanking you closer.

You give a thought for resistance then, consider pulling yourself from his hold, but –

Oh, you can feel his breath on your cunt, can feel your dripping curls shift beneath the current of air as he laughs.

You shift a bit on your knees, settling so that your weight rests just above each of his shoulders with his hands gripping your hips from behind you. The lower curve of your ass brushes the fine fabric of his tunic, and you are certain that if you could see his face, you would find his chin mere inches from the part of you that pulses and throbs for his attention. As it is, the roundness of your bump nearly eclipses his head, leaving only wisps of the thick, graying curls on the top of his head to peak out around the edges.

“Marcus?” Your voice trembles with nerves around his name, and beneath you, he sighs.

“Well done, amica, you are right where I want you,” he assures you with a groan. You feel the well-trimmed stubble of his silvered beard brush your lower lips; the feeling startles a gasp out of you, and on instinct, one of your hands flies from the headboard to the top of his head. “Mmm, yes, that’s it – sink your fingers into my hair. Hold yourself steady on me.”

You hardly recognize the sound of your own voice as you whimper, “Marcus – Marcus, please.”

“I know what you need.” His touch on your hips is warm, gentle, soothing. “Don’t be afraid. Now rest your weight on me and let me taste you.”

The joints in your limbs feel like water at the general’s words, at the hot wash of his breath across your swollen center. The embarrassment at your precarious position above his face still fizzes in your veins, making you lightheaded, but molten desire has begun to drown it out. Your mind doesn’t fully understand what is about to happen or what he is asking of you, but it seems that on some level, your body does, because it is absolutely thrumming for it.

There is nothing for it anymore. You cannot refuse him. You do not want to refuse him. Whatever he is about to do to you, your body needs it, craves it in the same way it does air or water or food. When you sink your cunt down onto your husband’s waiting mouth, it feels both like a surrender and like a victory.

“Oh – gods, Marcus – ”

Marcus groans deep in his chest the moment you touch his tongue, and then he is bracketing his arms around your thighs and forcibly seating you even more firmly against him. Dragging the slick, pink muscle of his tongue through your folds in one long, languorous stroke, it doesn’t take long before your thighs begin to tremble around his ears. He is focused, meticulous, thorough in his exploration of your most intimate flesh – sucking delicately at your lips, dipping the gentle tip of his tongue into your soft, quivering hole, using the flat of it to dance around that swollen nub at your apex that pulses with the thunderous beat of your heart. The thick arms locked around your thighs angle you this way and that, and through the sound of your own gasps and whines, you can hear the way your wetness drips at his touch.

Every lick, every suck, every swirl of his tongue serves to drive you higher, and you find yourself mindlessly running your hands over your body to ground yourself – stroking your belly, gripping your hips, cupping your breasts. The latter has you accidentally brushing your hardened nipples with your thumbs, and even muted as it is through your tunic, the sensation has you crying out into the dark room.

And that tongue never stops. Marcus is relentless – inexorable and yet unhurried. You can feel all of the tension in your hips and thighs melting away under the heat of his touch, and yet deep within you, something has begun to twist, to pulse, to squeeze. It feels like it does when Marcus beds you – pleasure stirring, burning, building within you as he grows more and more intent, more and more hungry, oh, gods…

It is miraculous. It is unbearable. It is tantamount to torture.

“Marcus,” you gasp helplessly, your fingers knotting in his hair, gripping the headboard. “I – I need – ”

The general pulls away from your cunt with a growl like an animal, and the sound rumbles through your body as he rasps, “That’s it, beautiful girl. Ride my face. Grind those hips into me and ride my face.”

You understand each of his words individually, but they do not coalesce in your mind. How does one “ride” a face? For a moment, you feel self-consciousness and shame begin to creep in at the edges of your thoughts. There are others who would understand the general’s instructions, surely. Others who would know what he wanted and would do it for him in an instant. For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the women that follow the army camps, the women whose services you were certain your husband had partaken of throughout his extensive career. They would know, certainly. Was there truly anything you could offer him that they could not?

Just as you begin to lose that delicious curl of pleasure in your core, as the fog of desire begins to clear from your brain, Marcus flexes those thick, strong arms around your legs and encourages your hips to thrust, dragging your tender flesh across the stubble of his beard, the plush of his lips, the slick of his tongue. That tongue, suddenly firm and pointed, thrusts into your sex, lapping at your wetness, filling the place that clenches for his cock. With the hitch of your hips, that swollen bundle of nerves just at the top glances across the bridge of your husband’s nose.

“Ah! Marcus!”

Beneath your cunt on his face, beneath your hand in his hair, you feel him nod emphatically, and understanding crashes over you like a wave. “Riding” his face. “Mounting” him, like a horse. This is what he wants. He wants you to thrust your hips against his face, as if in the saddle of a warhorse. To rub yourself against his nose and his tongue.

He wants you to find your pleasure with his body.

As though all your joints and muscles had been waiting on this realization, your hips begin to move of their own accord almost immediately, thrusting against that relentless, ever-present tongue, driving it deeper into the hot clutch of your cunt, and fuck…that nose, that big, strong, curved, perfect nose, glancing off of that most sensitive spot with every thrust. Head thrown back, hands on your breasts, fingers twisting and pulling your tender nipples through your tunic, you experiment with different speeds, different pressures, different depths, but if you are honest with yourself, you are so far gone that it has all begun to feel equally intense, equally delicious.

And so you move with abandon – leaning heavily on the headboard for balance, gripping his hair, you grind your swollen, dripping cunt across your husband’s handsome face, fucking his tongue deep into your body, riding the hard curve of his perfect Roman nose. You feel yourself pulse and twitch and tremble with every thrust, feel him lap and slurp and suck at you with new fervor, feel his thick fingers dig into your hips so deeply you know you will bear his bruises in the morning. You had not known pleasure like this existed, had not known it was possible for you to achieve it. You feel drunk with it, the way it seeps into your veins like one too many glasses of wine, and Marcus drinks you down like the finest vintage.

Your clitoris drags across his nose once again, and you cannot smother your moan at the feeling. “Gods, Marcus, your nose – ”

Against your wetness, the general’s face vibrates with something like a chuckle. “I know, dear heart, I know – I told you, this face has one advantage.”

You shake your head fervently, feeling your long curls brush your back as you grind. “It’s perfect. Perfect, Marcus, I – oh, gods, I feel – ”

Another animalistic growl ripples through your husband’s chest, and you feel him nod beneath you. “Jus’ let it happen, amica. Take your pleasure,” he slurs, mouth full of you.

And you do. You take and take and take, clit grinding, hips thrusting, thighs shaking, lungs gasping, and with every pass, that bright, hot, vicious spiral in your abdomen winds tighter, tighter, tighter. Gods, it feels as though it is going to consume you – to swallow you whole and drag you under, to drown you in your own dripping sweetness, your own savage pleasure.

And then it plateaus, the sensations holding, holding, staying at precisely the same level, dangling you over the edge, and in a far away voice, you hear yourself whimper, “Marcus, please!”

Releasing his grip on one of your hips, the man beneath you lands a single, sharp smack to the meat of your ass, and over the edge you fall.

It’s everything you thought it could be – lightning in your veins, lava in your lungs, something primal and elemental and raw that rips through your body like a tidal wave that leaves you hiccuping whines and shaking like a leaf atop the general’s face. You spill your pleasure down his chin, into his mouth, along his jaw. It slips down his neck and dampens the embroidered collar of his tunic, and the way he groans into your twitching cunt, you would think that it had caused him pain. But no – he feels your ecstasy as though it is his own. You have left your body to soar among the clouds, and he joins you, overcome with the particular joy of being responsible for making his wife – the mother of his child – reach such heights.

When you come back to yourself, you are utterly spent – limp and boneless and sweating as though you had just run at top speed from here to the city gates. You start to collapse, and Marcus’s strong hands are there to catch you, to slide you down from his face to his lap. Gathering you into his arms, he brings you back down onto the mattress and tucks you into his side. His broad shoulder cushions your flushed cheek, and his fingers brush your disheveled hair back from your face as you catch your breath. Through bleary eyes, you catch the way his face shines in the candlelight. He’s covered in your slick.

For a few moments, you simply gaze at each other as the silence stretches between you. It is only punctuated by the sound of your labored breaths as each of you settle, but somehow it isn’t awkward, and you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. He’s so perfect like this, your Marcus. Hair mussed, face pink, everything from his chin to his nose glowing with your pleasure.

There’s a softness around his eyes you’ve never seen before, an earnest warmth that burrows its way into your chest and makes a nest there dangerously close to your heart. It’s an emotion you have a name for, if you are brave enough to say it, and the thought has you gripping tight to his tunic.

You are in awe of him.

You…you love him.

“And what is your verdict, my wife?” he asks after a beat. His voice is a low rumble that travels through his chest and into your body, warming you inside. “Does this Roman nose still please you?”

A tired grin tugs at the corners of your lips, pulling you out of the seriousness of your thoughts, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can manage. “Indeed, I am not certain I have ever been quite so…pleased before, husband.”

“Hmm. Good.” Marcus tucks the arm around your body into your waist, pulling you even deeper into his embrace. “Then perhaps the thing may serve a purpose after all.”

You reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, feeling the stickiness of your spend in his beard on your skin. “The purpose it serves is that it is my husband’s nose, and as such, is a part of the dearest face in the world to me.” His dark eyes soften at that, and he turns to place a warm kiss on the heel of your hand.

“Though…should you find yourself forgetting,” you add with an impish grin, “I would not object to a…repeat demonstration of its value. If it would be of any help to you, of course.”

This startles a laugh from his chest, his dark eyes crinkling with mirth, and you cannot help but join in. Gods, he is gorgeous, you think to yourself as you chuckle together in the dark. Both in his soul and in his body, your husband is gorgeous.

A hand drops to the place where your child rests, safe and protected inside your womb, and you feel a little flutter against your palm.

You decide then that you care not whether your child bears your face or Marcus’s. Either way, they will be beautiful, for how could they not be, when they have come from this?

Latin Translation:

amica - darling, sweetheart

#marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x f!reader #general marcus acacius #gladiator 2 #gladiator 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction

2K notes · View notes

witchyverse · 14 days ago

Text

Written in Ink

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader AU: Soulmate AU – whatever you write/draw on your skin appears on your soulmate’s skin Word Count: ~2,400 words Warnings: light bullying, swearing, fluff, soft tension, emotional vulnerability

----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Not fucking again.

Mattheo Riddle scowled down at his forearm, where a series of tiny flowers were blooming across his pale skin—again. This time in deep green ink, delicate petals unfurling one by one. A vine curled near his elbow, looping lazily like it had all the time in the world.

He didn’t.

He yanked his sleeve down with a growl, ignoring the flicker of amused looks from Theo and Draco

“What’s wrong, Riddle?” Theo drawled across the common room. “Your soulmate into gardening?”

Mattheo ignored him.

The teasing didn’t bother him anymore. Not really. Not after years of it—years of being the boy with the freak bond, the one whose arms were constantly scribbled with what looked like a toddler’s art class.

But it had started bothering him lately.

Not because of the drawings.

Because he’d started to look forward to them.

And that scared him more than anything. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You dragged your quill gently over your skin, tongue poking from the corner of your mouth in concentration.

This time, it was a vine of ivy—thin, curling lines winding down your forearm. Your ink pot wobbled on your desk as you dipped your quill again, blotting off the excess. You blew on the design gently to dry it.

You never meant for your soulmate to see them at first. The drawings were yours, little quiet things you gave yourself when the castle felt too loud.

But they’d never tried to stop you. Not after the first few weeks.

You remembered the first time something got scorched. Your drawing of a cat had come back to you the next day half-burned and smudged, the outline blackened as if ink had caught fire.

You hadn’t cried.

But you hadn’t drawn anything for two whole weeks.

Now, though, they never burned your drawings. Sometimes, you’d even see something small appear next to them. A dot. A dash. A single letter, like they wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how.

You didn’t either. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oy, show us your art, lover boy.”

Mattheo shoved the hand off his arm with a glare. Theo, Lorenzo and Draco were being especially annoying that morning, eyeing the ivy design now visible under his rolled-up sleeves.

“Bet they’re in Hufflepuff,” Draco snickered.

“No. Gotta be a Ravenclaw. All those books and flowers.”

Mattheo didn’t answer. He just sat there, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

He didn’t know who you were. Only that your handwriting was sharp and slanted, like you wrote too fast. And that your drawings were always blooming. Never angry. Never dark.

They were everything he wasn’t.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, that’s why he couldn’t bring himself to hate you. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You started leaving little messages.

Nothing big. Just a few words along the edge of your inked vines.

“Rain again today.” “They spelled my name wrong at breakfast.” “Transfiguration quiz was murder. How’d you do?”

You never got real answers.

But sometimes, a single tick appeared. A mark.

He was reading them.

You couldn’t explain why that made your chest feel full and aching. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mattheo stared at the latest message on his wrist, heart a little too loud.

“How bad is your handwriting on a scale from 1 to my Potions partner?”

Without thinking, he dipped his quill in black ink and scrawled across his forearm:

“Atrocious. You?”

The second he wrote it, he froze.

His heartbeat stuttered. His lips parted slightly, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually responded in words.

He waited.

Then, ten minutes later, as he sat in Defense Against the Dark Arts pretending to listen,, his skin bloomed with new ink.

“Somewhere between deadly and charming.” A pause. “You finally talked.”

He swallowed hard. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You didn’t sleep that night.

You kept glancing at your arm, tracing over his words, wondering who he was. Where he was. If he looked at your drawings the same way you looked at his handwriting now—like it meant something more than skin.

You wrote:

“Do you ever want to meet me?”

And for a long time, nothing came.

Then:

“Sometimes.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were leaving the Great Hall when it happened.

Someone bumped into you hard—shoulder first, like they meant it.

You stumbled back, ink bottle in your hands slipping from your grip and smashing against the stone floor.

“Watch it,” a Slytherin girl sneered. You didn’t know her name, but you’d seen her around Riddle before. Always trailing. Always laughing too loud.

You knelt to pick up the pieces, cheeks burning, fingers trembling slightly from embarrassment.

A few people laughed. Most ignored you.

You didn’t notice the footsteps behind you until a hand reached down to help.

You froze.

Long fingers, calloused knuckles, green-ink vines creeping up pale skin.

Your eyes traced upward slowly. Wrist. Sleeve. Collar.

Face.

Dark curls. Warm brown eyes. Sharp jaw. Tense mouth.

Mattheo Riddle.

He didn’t say anything.

He just held your gaze.

You stared at him, unsure if you were dreaming, because there it was—your drawing—your ivy. Still visible. Still real.

“It’s you,” you whispered.

His mouth twitched. “You make my skin look ridiculous.”

You choked out a laugh, blinking fast, breath catching.

“You never told me who you were.”

“You never asked.”

You shook your head, stunned.

“I thought you hated me.”

“I thought I would,” he said quietly, brushing a bit of broken glass aside. “But I never did.”

You stood, heart slamming against your ribs.

“So what now?”

He stared at you for a second longer, then—slowly—reached for your hand.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, right over the last thing you’d written.

He pulled a quill from his pocket—his own—and dipped it in your ink pot before carefully, gently writing one word across your skin.

“Stay.”

And then he leaned in, close enough to smell parchment and smoke and something darker.

“May I?” he asked, voice rough, eyes burning into yours.

You nodded.

And his lips met yours in the softest, quietest kiss you’d ever known.

Like an answer to a question neither of you had asked aloud. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later, back in your dorm, you stared at your arm where a new drawing had begun to form—tiny stars, scattered like freckles across your skin.

And just under them, a line in his handwriting:

“I like when you draw. Don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You never would.

#mattheo riddle x reader #harry potter #soulmates au

678 notes · View notes

meiyokbf · 18 days ago

Text

under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part two

author’s note: absolutely loved how this turned out!! lmk what you guys think, i love your feedbacks! hope you guys enjoy <3

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara, sobering up, smut (oral, reader and megan recieving, p in v). reader is still kind of a loser lol, megan is more vulnerable on this one.

word count: 2,3k

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut.

masterlist. | prev. | next.

— megan… — her name slipped out of your mouth like a secret; and then you laughed, breathless, throat still raw from the sounds she pulled out of you. — i… yeah. i think i am. but… not here.

she tilted her head, amused. — really? i kinda liked hearing you moan over the sound of closer by nine inch nails playing in the hallway.

— god. — you covered your face with both hands. — that’s not what i meant. i just… i wanna do this somewhere else. somewhere that doesn’t smell like… like…

— regret and glitter?

— yes. and also… — you looked at her, suddenly feeling a little shy. — i just… want this to be good. like, actually good. not a backroom fantasy with bad lighting and a questionable couch. like, something i’d wanna remember later.

she blinked, and the teasing dropped out of her face for a second. just like that. gone. she looked at you like she wasn’t expecting that; like you’d just surprised her. something in her gaze softened, just slightly. — you want this to be… nicer?

you nodded, sheepish. — yeah. if that’s okay.

megan smiled, and it wasn’t teasing. it was warm. something you hadn’t seen yet. — that’s more than okay, baby.

you fumbled for your phone, pulling up your messages, just in case manon had texted some kind of “where the hell are you” threat.

and there it was.

manzanita: don’t come home. lara and i are watching twilight and possibly scissoring. try not to impregnate anyone. cya 💋

you blinked. — well. guess my place is off-limits tonight.

— wait… lara? — megan raised a brow.

you shrugged. — yeah. i think that’s her name? the indian one with the fire engine red hair and those green boots that look like they’d file a tax return for you?

megan laughed, loud and real. — you mean dallas?

you stared. — what.

— that’s her stage name. — she shook her head, amused. — her actual name’s lara. i’ve known her for a while.

— of course you do. of course you know their real names. — you huffed. — do you have some stripper mafia group chat or something?

megan smirked. — maybe. if you play your cards right, i’ll add you.

you grinned, then sobered a little. — so… your place?

— yeah. come on. — she laced her fingers with yours. — i’ll take you home.

the uber ride was quiet. not awkward-quiet. just… heavy with anticipation.

you both sat in the back seat, her hand resting on your thigh, fingers tracing slow circles through the denim. it wasn’t even sexual. it was grounding.

you couldn’t stop looking at her reflection in the window. the way the streetlights caught the edge of her jaw, her lashes. she looked unreal. like someone from a dream you forgot and just remembered again.

her apartment was on the third floor of a brick building with vines growing up the side. it was small, but not cramped. clean, but lived-in. soft orange lighting. plants. a bookshelf with exactly three books in it and some bottles of wine. candles on the shelves. a framed photo of two girls you assumed were her friends. there was a warmth to it, something quiet and safe.

she locked the door behind you and leaned back against it. — nervous?

— no. — you said, too quickly.

she smiled. — liar.

you stood there like an idiot, still in your jacket, your heart hammering in your chest.

megan walked up to you, took your face in both hands. — take your shoes off.

you blinked. — what?

— first rule of my place. no shoes. — she was grinning, but her voice was soft. — second rule: you have to kiss me like you mean it.

so you did.

slow. deep. like your whole night had been leading to this moment. she didn’t rush.

her fingers traced under your shirt, grazing your stomach like she was feeling her way into your body one inch at a time.

you let her peel it off of you alongside your jacket, raising your arms without thinking. her eyes drank you in, hands spreading over your bare chest, thumbs stroking lazy circles just beneath your ribs.

— god, i love that you’re soft and strong. — she whispered. — you’re built like a goddamn daydream.

you flushed, overwhelmed by how she was looking at you. — you say shit like that often?

— only when i mean it. — she kissed down your throat, her hands slipping lower. — and i mean all of it.

she kissed you while directing you to her room, and then pushed you back towards the bed, the backs of your knees hitting the edge as she dropped to her knees. you froze.

— megan…

— shush. — she murmured, kissing the trail from your belly button to the waistband of your pants. — i want you to remember this forever.

her fingers popped the button of your jeans, slow and steady. the zipper came down. your boxers were already damp. painfully so.

when she pulled your cock free, she moaned; actually moaned, as if only the mere sight of you was enough to get her off.

— fuck… you’re beautiful. — she wrapped her hand around you, stroking once, slow. — i bet you’re so sensitive now, aren’t you?

you nodded, hips already twitching.

— yeah? still all worked up for me? after what i did to you back there?

— fuck, yes, megan.

she kissed the head of your cock, then licked a stripe down the underside, slow as honey.

— say it again.

— megan.

— again.

— megan. — you moaned it this time, your fingers curling in her hair as she took you into her mouth.

she sucked you slow, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling around the tip like she wanted to taste every part of you. her hand gripped the base, twisting in rhythm with her mouth.

you gasped, bucking slightly, but she pressed a hand to your stomach, holding you still.

— easy, baby. let me worship you.

you could’ve come right there. but you didn’t want to. you needed to feel her.

— megan… please, i want to be inside you…

she pulled off with a soft pop, lips slick. her eyes were dark, pupils wide. — say that again.

you reached for her, voice cracking. — i want to be inside you. i want to fuck you so bad... please.

her whole body shivered.

— god. you don’t even know what that does to me when you beg.

she climbed into your lap, straddling you, sliding off her tank top, shorts and underwear without ceremony. you were half gone just looking at her. her skin, her softness, the flush in her cheeks.

— ready?

you nodded. she reached between you, lined you up, and sank down onto your cock with a long, gasping breath. you both stilled for a moment, overwhelmed.

— jesus christ… — she whispered. — you feel so fucking good.

you couldn’t even speak. she was tight. wet. perfect. the way she held you inside her like she was made for you.

she started moving slowly, hips rolling in steady, delicious circles.

— god, you’re so thick… fuck, i can feel you so deep… — her hands slid down your chest. — every inch of you. stretching me just right.

your hands went to her hips, gripping without meaning to. — megan… fuck, you’re so tight. i can’t-

— oh yes, you can. — she rocked down harder, making both of you moan. — you’re taking it so well, baby. making me feel so fucking full.

you moved with her, hips meeting hers, matching her rhythm now. her breath hitched every time your cock hit that perfect angle inside her.

— fuck, right there… — she whimpered, hands bracing on your shoulders. — keep fucking me just like that, baby. shit, you’re ruining me.

— you feel like heaven. — you gasped. — fuck, i never want to leave your body.

she kissed you then; messy, urgent, tongues sliding, teeth grazing.

— you make me feel like me… not jade, not the fantasy… just me. — she whispered against your lips. — thank you.

your hands cradled her face, thrusts slowing just for a second. — thank you, megan.

— say it again.

— megan...

she clenched around you at the sound of it, hips stuttering.

— i’m gonna cum, baby… please, cum with me. — she almost sobbed while holding you for dear life once the tip of your cock massaged her sweet spot.

— fuck… fuck, i’m there- i’m..

you both shattered almost at the same time; bodies locking, sounds swallowed in each other’s mouths. your thick cum filled her, hot and deep, her walls pulsing around you like waves as she moaned like a bitch upon you.

and when you finally stopped shaking, she was still holding you like she never wanted to let go.

but you weren’t done with her. not even close.

you slid your hands to her waist, coaxing her gently off of you, and before she could ask what you were doing, you were guiding her to lie back against the sheets.

— what are you… — her voice was breathless, unsure.

— shh. — you kissed her inner thigh, lips barely brushing her flushed skin. — let me take care of you.

you didn’t give her time to protest. not that she would’ve. her breath caught when your tongue dragged slowly through her folds, tasting her pussy; warm, slick, everything. her body jolted like she hadn’t expected it, like she wasn’t used to someone worshipping her this way.

— oh, fuck… — she whispered, already breathless.

you licked her slow, deliberate, taking your time, tracing every ridge of her with your tongue. her thighs tensed around your shoulders, not closing; never that. but holding on. grounding herself.

she tried to keep quiet. tried to stay in control.

— baby, you don’t have to- oh, god… i already came-

— and you’ll come again. — you murmured against her, voice low. — let me feel you fall apart.

you sucked her clit gently, tongue flicking it with just the right pressure, and she gasped. one hand flying to her mouth, the other twisting in the sheets.

— jesus christ… — she moaned, trying to keep it together.

you glanced up at her, eyes locking onto hers as you pushed two fingers inside her, slow and deep. her jaw dropped, back arching.

— f-fuck… (y/n)…— she whined, louder now, more raw than you’d ever heard her.

— that’s it. let go for me, megan.

her name from your lips did something to her. her composure cracked further, pleasure unraveling her second by second. you curled your fingers just right, tongue never breaking rhythm, and her hips started to buck; searching, needy.

— i… — she gasped, voice high and ragged. — i never let anyone do this. fuck, i never let anyone-

— but you’re letting me. — you kissed her clit again, sucked harder. — let me have all of you, megan.

her thighs clamped tighter, body tensing like a wire ready to snap.

— oh my god- i’m… fuck, baby, i’m gonna…

and she shattered. came so hard she quite literally cried out, voice hoarse, face buried in her arm like she couldn’t let herself be seen like this, even now. you didn’t stop until her legs were trembling and her breaths were stuttering out of her chest like aftershocks.

when you finally kissed your way back up her body, she was flushed and quiet, her eyes a little glassy. still catching her breath.

you laid beside her, brushing hair from her face. she looked at you like she didn’t know what to do with all the feeling inside her.

— you okay?

she nodded, slow. then whispered, almost like a confession.

— i don’t usually let people do that. i… don’t really like feeling… exposed.

— did you feel safe?

she didn’t said anything right away.

— yeah. i did. — she answered truthfully.

you leaned in, kissed her cheek. — good. because that was one of the sexiest things i’ve ever seen.

she laughed; soft and real, and pressed her forehead to yours. — you’re such a nerd.

— you’re still shaking.

— yeah. your fault. dick.

you kissed her again, smiling into it. when she finally relaxed, her limbs draped over yours, and then she collapsed against your chest, breath uneven. you kissed the crown of her head, still trembling a little.

there was a long pause, but not at all uncomfortable. quite the opposite, actually.

— you used my name a lot.

you smiled. — well, you gave it to me. figured i’d use it.

— feels different when you say it like that.

you kissed her shoulder. — then i’ll keep saying it. every time i make you feel like this.

her smile was sleepy, satisfied.

— deal.

the room was still, lit only by the soft yellow glow of a bedside lamp. her fingers traced slow shapes across your skin like she was absentmindedly writing poetry she didn’t want to say out loud.

you stared at the ceiling, your heart still a little uneven. not from the sex. from the after.

you cleared your throat, voice barely above a whisper.

— so… will i see you again?

megan didn’t answer right away. her hand stilled, just for a second.

then she propped herself up on one elbow, looked down at you with those sleepy, unreadable eyes.

— baby, after the way you just fucked me? — she smiled. soft. real. — you’re not getting rid of me that easy.

and somehow, that meant more than yes.

you let yourself exhale, pulling her closer again, like maybe tonight wasn’t just an accident.

maybe it was a beginning.

#nsfw.#imagines.#under your spell.#katseye x reader #katseye #katseye smut #katseye imagines #katseye thoughts #katseye x reader smut #megan skiendiel x reader #megan x reader #megan skiendiel smut #katseye megan smut #katseye megan #megan x reader smut #megan skiendiel #katseye x you #katseye x y/n

441 notes · View notes

dead-end-draws · 1 year ago

Text

Tribe Banner concept art:

Folks seemed to enjoy my WOF WIPS, so here’s more concept art for y’all! My favorite thing about WOF is the potential for world building. I thought it’d be cool to see a tribe emblem represented on a banner/flag of sorts:

Read below for some of the thought process / headcannons behind the design choices: 👇

Skywing Banner:

Skywings pride themselves on 3 things; treasure, fire, & their enormous, soaring wingspan which steals the sky.

As such, portrayed on the banner, the fabric (often made with dyed cow or goat leathers) resembles draped dragon wings. Two Skywings embrace a goblet, which is spewing golden fire.

The banner is often held aloft with iron or gold poles, signifying to other tribes their wealth and pride.

Mudwing banner:

These banners are fashioned with leather hides from cow or crocodile skin, held aloft with bamboo, and painted with a Talon-print & Reed crest.

The talonprint symbolizes community and the strength of Mudwing sibling bonds. The reed border unifies all Mudwings regardless of their relationship to home; the swamp. Bigwings are often seen carrying these into battle, signifing their status and making it easier for a sib to locate them in the flurry of a fight.

Sandwing Banner:

Sandwing flags are made with camel skins and dyed cactus leather.

A crest shows a Sandwing coiled around a beaming sun, a reminder that despite the revered 3 moons, Sandwings are born to thrive in sunlight.

The fabric is cut in a way to mimic the swooping dunes of Sandwing territory. And the poles of the flags are equally intricate, with scorpion tails and golden ropes which frame the banner.

These flags make prominent appearances in parades, festivals, and markets, and even miniature version are often displayed in homes or as tapestries/carpets.

Seawing banner:

These banners are often seen displayed in royal quarters or councils, or above land to mark territory.

A nautilus shell crest on front echoes the swirl-pattern associated with royal Seawings: The banner’s borders resemble waves and a dragon swimming beneath their surface.

These are crafted with rich materials, strung with seashells, pearls, silver dollars, and deep oceanic color fabric. There is severe penalty for Seawings found plucking treasure from the banners, as they are a direct symbol of royalty.

Nightwing Banner:

These banners emphasize the Nightwings’ relationship to the moon, their source of power and praise. The material, a contrast of white stitching against purple velvet showcases moonlight and night, black scales against stars, magic and mystery.

They are seen decorated with 3 moons at the top and a centered dragon reaching up into the night sky.

These banners were often used during the war as secret code by spies to deliver to other tribes. Prophecy scrolls often came attached, delivering cryptic messages or secrets in the night. These banners all helped add to the secrecy of the Dragonet Prophecy, and kept tribes on their toes around Nightwings.

Rainwing banner:

Rainwing banners are not used for battle purposes like other tribes, most are mere decoration, location indicators, and have no unified design.

However, It is said back when Rainwings left the rainforest to trade pre-war, this particular banner design was often raised above Rainwing merchant tables, and showcases the coiled tail of a Rainwing with leaves, vines, and other sights from the rainforest adorning a bamboo pole. Bright color combinations accentuated the flag to entice curious customers.

Now, only one tattered version of the original Rainwing banner remains, displayed proudly in Queen Glory’s quarters, a reminder that building the Rainwings’ community is their most important goal.

Icewing Banner:

These banners reflect the same standards Icewings hold themselves to.

Like a visual of the rankings themselves, each banner is cut perfectly from an Icewing’s trained, serrated claws to resemble icicles, and crafted with fine blue stitching.

Flags are often held aloft with perfectly polished narwhal horn or bone, and can be inlaid with sapphires or diamond.

Icewing soldiers are often gifted these during ceremonies, and perform training exercises with the flags to test their stance/attentiveness. The crest showcases the swift sharpness of ice through a flying dragon, and a snowflake toward the bottom reminding Icewings that even minuscule snowflakes, small things, should be perfect in form.

3K notes · View notes

criminalyapping · 11 days ago

Text

due for trouble | house hunters

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: i'm reusing gifs at this point lol sue me. also is this one boring? i think its boring. that’s okay i’ll figure out how to spice it up

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, age gap, language

< part 11 | part 13 >

‘way too big aren’t you supposed to be working 🤨’

Are the two texts you send to Jack at 10pm, lounging in bed while he works. He had just sent you yet another listing for a house.

You had told him, about a week ago, that you wouldn’t kick up a fuss if he wanted to buy a house. It had taken a lot of convincing from your friends, more aptly a metaphorical kick in the ass to let your rich boyfriend-slash-baby-daddy do things for you, but you decided to radically let go of the reigns and let him do what he wants.

If you’re being completely honest with yourself, you’re so excited. You can’t help but think about worst case scenario hellscapes, but when you do you try and shove it down to the recesses of your brain and ignore them. You saw the weight that your hesitation and doubts caused on Jack, who has never, not once, given you cause for them. So you’re letting him buy a house, that you will move into without a fight, in order to avoid the frustration and hurt in his eyes every time you retreated from his open arms.

It doesn’t mean that you’re going to staunch your opinions on the listing he sends you, though. You’ve seen, hell, you’ve become a fixture, in Jack’s current duplex, and you simply will not be allowing him to decorate your new home alone. If you did, it would be dark and moody, with little color other than beige, navy blue, and browns. Not to mention the ostentatious size of a lot of the houses he’s sending you to consider.

You, Jack, and an infant certainly don’t require 5,000 square feet.

‘I am working’

You chuckle to yourself as he texts you back.

‘Send me a picture’ he requests.

‘naughty naughty’ you reply.

‘Not like that

Just let me see my girls, please’

You smile and fight the blush on your cheeks. You and Jack had been back to the doctor- a second time since you should have been able to find out the gender, but the baby did not want to show you - and were both delighted to find out that the baby was, in fact, a girl.

It was quiet and intimate, just like you had wanted. The ultrasound tech lit up as the moved the probe over your stomach, and had given the two of you the news with a beaming smile.

You immediately lit up with a smile, turning to look at Jack as he stood next to you. He pressed a warm kiss to your temple with a whispered “Thank you,” and as he pulled back you saw the shine of shed tears in his eyes.

So now, in between texting Jack while he works, you’re carefully curating a pinterest board for a baby girls’ nursery.

You’re thinking about a forest theme, with little cartoon animals everywhere as well as florals and vines.

You’ll see what Jack thinks the next time you see him.

You quickly snap a selfie, under no impression that you’re looking your best, and send it to Jack.

You’re laid back in bed, covers sitting below your steadily expanding baby bump, with no bra and a few pimple patches dotting your face.

Jack doesn’t reply before you fall asleep, getting a hopeful 8 hours before work in the morning, which is typical for him.

You wake up to a few more texts from him, also not unusual as he tends to send stream of consciousness messages when he’s bored on the night shift. The ones that stick out to you, however, are the ones telling you that he’ll be picking you up at 5:30 tonight to go to a walkthrough of a house.

One you haven’t seen before, a new listing, he explained, that he loves and think you will too.

You text him back to agree, telling him to get some sleep before then.

You spend the day excited, thinking about how Jack must really like the house because he’s never taken you to see one, nor refused to send you a listing with photos.

You’re still in your work outfit, barely home long enough to put down your lunch bag, when Jack appears in your door to pick you up.

“So, you really like this one?” you ask as you settle into his truck and snap your seatbelt. Under the bump, just like your OB said.

“Yeah, I think it’s perfect.” he replies excitedly.

“What makes it perfect?” you ask.

“Calm down, you’ll see in just a second.”

You cross the river, quickly moving into areas where the roads are wider, the houses bigger, and the bright lights of Pittsburgh farther away.

“How far is this from work?” you ask.

“About 25 minutes for me, 30ish for you.” he says.

“Is that with or without traffic?” you ask with a raised eyebrow.

“With,” he defends, “it’s closer than you think.”

“Now, this house isn’t new, but it was recently remodeled,” he explains, “and not by one of those cheap ass flippers, the owners knew if they remodeled they could get a lot more when they sold.”

“Okay, nice.” you nod.

“I really think you’ll like it.” he says with a self-satisfied grin.

Jack pulls the car over in front of a house on the right.

“Let’s go,” he urges, getting out of the car and coming around to help you down. Jack throws his arm around your shoulder as you walk up the driveway, knocking on the front door.

A woman answers the door and greets the two of you by name, ushering you in and allowing you to explore the home.

You walk through the house, a neutral smile on your face as you observe.

As much as you try to remain neutral, Jack seems to truly know you and your tastes, and you find yourself enjoying the house, much more than any of the listings he’s sent before.

Cozy, but not small. Airy, with large windows opening up to the backyard. A nice, roomy kitchen overlooking the dining and living rooms. The primary bathroom and closet are the things of dreams - luxurious and white, shining and polished. Four bedrooms and an office, three bedrooms upstairs and one downstairs.

As much as you try to tamp down your reactions, not wanting to overly influence him, Jack can see the excitement and awe in your face.

After you have done enough touring, you and Jack thank the real estate agent and head back to the car.

“So, what do you think?” he asks with a smile.

“I liked it.” you tell him truthfully.

“I’m glad,” he grins, “I like it too. I like it the most out of all the listings I’ve seen.” he tells you.

“I agree.” you say.

“Can you see us living there?” he asks, “Can you see us coming home from the hospital with this little one,” he poses, placing a gentle hand on your bump from across the console, “and putting her in bed in this house?”

“I can,” you agree, getting choked up at the idea.

“Good,” he says, leaning over the console and pressing a firm kiss on your lips. “I’ll put in an offer tomorrow.” he grins.

“Okay,” you smile. “Do you think we’d actually be able to move in before the due date?” you ask.

You’re having a December baby, and the days and weeks seem to be flying by at high speeds.

“Maybe,” he ponders, “or maybe not. Either way, we’ll make it work, even if the timing isn’t great.”

“Well, it seems like either way, I won’t be much help in the moving process.” you scrunch up your nose in apology.

“Ahh, don’t worry, I know plenty of people to help. And I’ll hire movers.” he laughs.

He drives back into the city, dropping you off at home with a kiss.

“Get some sleep,” he urges, despite the fact that it’s only 6:30, “and I’ll see you later. I love you.” he coos, dropping a kiss on your lips and ushering you inside your apartment.

“I love you too.” you smile as you close the door.

You can’t help it then, the excitement of the afternoon hitting you all at once, and you do a little happy dance around the living room, hoping that it all goes well and you’ll have the honor of living in that gorgeous house with your gorgeous boyfriend and your gorgeous baby.

It feels much better than being scared.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog @starswin @celiacallsitcausal @vinceelser @glamorizethechaos @nerdgirljen @namgification @li22ie2017 @misshoneypaper @gardeniarose13 @peachjellyy @babybatreads @spooky-librarian-ghost @foolishseven

let me know if you want a tag!!

#the pitt #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot

363 notes · View notes

prissyplastique · 18 hours ago

Text

divas what should I write. lowkey I've served so many Hector sandwiches I wanna branch out a bit before I go back to him. if I wrote Sophia/Parker fic would y'all fuck with that yes or no

#suggestions are open in case anyone wants to send an ask #messages from the vine...

8 notes · View notes

lunarxcity · 3 months ago

Text

Why her? (Part V to Why me?)

azriel x rhys' sister! reader

angst/eventual comfort ( I mean did you guys really thing I would let them have a smooth reunion? cackles maniacally in the background**)

Summary: When you walk in on Azriel and Elain the mating bond snaps leading you to flee to Autumn with Eris so you can be free of Azriel. Your absence causes Azriel to come to some drastic realisations, but is it already too late and has your time in Autumn led to you moving on?

Parts I, II, III, and IV if you missed them!

You were a fool for thinking that Rhys would allow you to discretely come back to the Night Court after being away for so long and even more a fool for thinking that he wouldn't find any excuse to throw a party. The details of your mission had been classified so Rhys couldn't exactly disclose that it was a welcome home party for you, but no one in their right mind will question the reasoning behind a Night Court ball.

Rhys' extravagance extended to his parties and they were some of the most revered in Prythian. Even Beron, the grumpiest high lord who hates anything to do with fun or laugher, would look forward to attending, dragging his gaggle of deplorable children along.

You're going to attend the Ball with Lucien and Eris and then stay in the Night Court, marking the end of your time in Autumn. Autumn has always been a place of change. The leaves of trees are always flickering between shades of red, orange, and brown some falling and some staying without being enticed by the prospect of winter of winter.

You do have to say the eternal Autumn does live up to it's namesake. In just 3 short months you've been changed, well not physically, but the way you think about yourself and how you go about the world. You would have to find some way to thank Eris for that. You did the work, but he pushed you to start and showed you the way and in return you hope you had taught him how to not be so unbearably uptight all the time.

You would miss your friend, Rhysand would never forgive you for thinking this, but he reminds you of Rhys in a way. You smile at the thought of your brother's reaction to this accusation. He would huff and cross his arms, immediately disagreeing with you. You know Eris would do something similar. He will make a good high lord.

You continue to get ready for the ball, ditching your normal colour palette of blues and purples for a Night Court black dress with gold adornments along the bodice. You had to pay homage to your time in Autumn, but you are still Night Court. The way the gold snakes around reminded you of golden vines rather than the shadow-like designs you've been accustomed to.

You were related to Rhys and Mor, it was in your blood to go over the top with these kind of things. It was Eris' idea to add leafs to the golden vines to the dress and also Eris' idea to match his suit to your dress. Lucien thought that the gold and black designs were way too much for him, but you were able to convince him into wearing the matching cuff links. You knew what kind of message that you and Eris matching would sent to the courts and to a certain spymaster, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. If you wanted to match with Eris so be it who cares what they think?

Your thoughts begin to stray back to a certain spymaster, it had been 3 months since you'd last seen him and 3 months since you had found out that you guys were mates. The mating bond had become nothing more than a dull feeling in your chest and you don't even think you could tug on it if you wanted to. That is how far removed you had become from the bond, how far you have become removed from Azriel.

Azriel. You were still trying to decide how you would deal with him. Right now, you are leaning towards being polite to him when you see him and then dancing and talking with everyone else all evening in order to avoid his presence. You decided to not give him the amount of your attention that he has become accustomed to. You will set your sights on connecting with your family and friends; he, of course, will be included in that but only on a polite, friendly level and not on the all-consuming level of a mate.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door. Eris walks in with a hand behind his back. His face is nuetral, but his eyes are almost solemn. He begins to speak, "It has been a long time since I've had the pleasure of being around decent company." Eris is not a sentimental person, so you understand that even this much is a lot for him.

He approaches you and his hand comes out from behind his back to reveal a gold necklace. It was a simple necklace with a gold chain and a small pendant on the end with a fox sitting on a moon engraved in it. He delicately places the necklace in your hand.

You smile up at him, "Thank you, Eris, I love it." You walk up to him and look in his eyes, the enemy of the Night Court that was somehow your saviour in this dark tie. You don't know how you repay him. You wrap your arms around him in an embrace and he freezes. He must not have hugged someone in a while because he immediately stiffed and then put his arms around you. If anyone saw this they would assume that this is proof that Eris Vanserra had a heart and that he needed to learn how to hug because it looked like you were holding him hostage.

Nevertheless, you got excited, he had never let you hug him before. He sighs, "You know you could just stay here, who else is going to look after the foxes." You thought back to the first day, you arrived in Autumn a complete and utter mess and in your drunken stupor had dragged along Lucien and domesticated a whole family of foxes. You had come a long way since then, when the fate of yours and Azriel's mating bond had been the only thing on your mind and the world felt tilted on it's axis.

Eris' voice interrupts your thoughts, "Who else am I going to terrorise on the daily?" You chuckle, "You will always have Lucien."

He lets out an exasperated sigh, "He's been much too boring lately. He doesn't appreciate my schemes." You let out an immediate retort, "Your brother doesn't want you to make an enemy of every court? What a pity." In all his spitefulness and maliciousness, Eris had been your rock lately and you don't know what you are going to do without at least a little bit of his mischief in your life.

Your eye strays to the window, and you look outside and see the trees swaying in the wind. The scene almost reminds you of a painting with Autumn leaves swaying in the breeze against the backdrop of a golden sunset. You had always believed the Night Court to be the most captivating of all the courts, you believed that nothing could rival the beauty of the stars that danced across the Night Court sky, but the golden Autumn sunset had you rethinking your decision. There was something about the warm, enticing glow of the Autumn Court sunset that had made you forget about the beauty of the Night sky that you had loved for so many years, but sunsets were fleeting and as soon as you began to appreciate the moment the sun had disappeared below the horizon it was over.

Sun disappearing below the horizon? By the Cauldron you were running late to the ball. You jump away from Eris and run to put on your shoes, "Loving this bonding moment we're having here, but we are running late and my brother will literally come here and drag me to the ball if we don't leave immediately."

He laughs and lets out a sarcastic, "Your command is my wish, Your Royal Highness of the Court of Night. Or is that not regal enough? Your divine goddessness-"

Yo roll your eyes and laugh. "Oh my god shut up Eris lets go." He drops into a dramatic bow and holds his hand out. You know he's trying to distract you from thoughts of Azriel, and you appreciate the effort.

He looks at you with sincere eyes, "You ready?" You answer right away, scared that if you give yourself a minute to sit and contemplate you're going to change your mind and run away like you did to Autumn. You nod, softly you say, "Ready as I'll ever be."

With that you take his hand and the world falls away as you begin to travel to the Night Court.

Azriel's a nervous wreck. He may be dressed for a ball, his usual leathers traded for ball attire. Azriel has never been one for especially opulent attire, Rhys has always been the most fashionable out of the three brothers, but he really wanted to look good for your guys' reunion. He had actually asked Mor and Rhys for outfit advice, which had left both of them speechless due to how out of character it was.

They dressed him in an elevated Spymaster's uniform, which was more flair than practicality. His tunic was much too tailored to be for fighting, and the cobalt cufflinks and designs would not help with blending in to the shadows. A useless outfit for spying or attending to any spymaster business, but a perfect outfit for a Night Court ball.

Mor and Rhys made him shave, get a haircut, even made him use this enchanted eye cream to get minimise the dark circles that were permanently etched on his face from all the sleepless nights in your absence. Mother knows how excited he was to see you. He had barely thought of anything else since he was told of your arrival and has thought of a thousand different scenarios of how your reunion will go. The last one involved you running into his arms and him happily spinning you around.

The remnants of your scent still linger in your room. Azriel would know, considering he's basically moved into it, but it's not enough anymore. Azriel needs more.

He's been pacing for nearly an hour, Cassian had become dizzy from watching him go back and forth for so long. "Brother, you are worried for nothing. You will see her and all will be well again." Cassian tries to assure him.

Azriel responds by walking over the counter and pouring a glass of whiskey. He stopped when it was about three-quarters of the way full. "Brother, I implore you to think about your decision." Azriel walks the glass over to him and Cassian gives him a smile. "See I'm proud of you, you made the right decision."

Azriel gives a small smile back and walks over to the counter. He then grabs the bottle of whiskey off the counter and presses it to his lips, beginning to chug the remnants. Cassian jumps up and runs to him yelling, "NO-"

The bottle was already finished by the time Cassian got to him. Sulking, he sat down and began to drink his own glass, scared that Azriel might come over there and down it too.

The sun was beginning to set over the horizon, which means the ball was starting soon. Azriel felt as though he couldn't breathe. He was a mix of excitement, nerves, and fear. His chest felt heavy in a way that he has never felt before and he half-contemplated jumping out the window and flying away and never coming back.

It was rare that Azriel would be the one freaking out and Cassian would be the one calming him down but here he was. His brother came over slapped an arm over his shoulder and was grinning at him. "You ready for what could possibly be the greatest evening of your life brother?" The way that Cassian was looking at him and the knowledge that you were going to be there made him almost believe that it could be.

You arrive to the gardens of Velaris, the site of the ball, with Eris in tow. To absolutely zero surprise, Rhys had spared no expense for this party. Fae lights swirled around the trees and plans lighting up the gardens while mage lights floated throughout the grounds lighting up in a variety of colours. The garden was illuminated in a way that made all the flowers glow, which was only enhanced by the full moon lighting up the sky. All in all it was the perfect welcome to the Night Court.

Azriel has never believed in fate, the idea of an entity controlling his destiny never sat well with him, he believes that he is the one in control of everything he does. He wakes up at the time he chooses, goes to the places he wishes, and will do what he wants. Azriel believes that fate is an excuse for those who fear action. The idea that fate will one day bring to you what you need, so why bother working for it had always bothered him to such a high degree. Azriel believes that he is the master of his fate.

If he is the master of his fate, why are his shadows screaming at him to follow them? Why is he feeling a physical pain in his chest from resisting the pull of his shadows? His shadows had only ever informed, but now they are commanding. They are a part of him and he is meant to have control over them, it's not supposed to be the other way around.

Their whispers had turned into screams and now the shadows were roaring at him to go.

Go where?

They say in unison. He takes a deep breath and tries to hone in on the where the shadows are trying to take him. The world becomes too loud, too bright, too overwhelming and he falls into the pocket of world that only he knows, the one where darkness is a comfort and shadow reigns supreme. The realm of shadow is both a veil and a comfort and under the light of the full moon, he closes his eyes and becomes one with the night.

He is led by pure instinct, letting the shadows carry him through the ever-surrounding darkness of the night. He doesn't know where he is going, but he knows that he needs to be there. Where there is he doesn't fully know yet, but he knows what there feels like. He feels like he's walking towards a comforting light.

He remembers a time in the Illyrian mountains when he was caught in a snowstorm. Devlon said the treacherous conditions didn't matter and made him continue to train his shadowsinger abilities. He took him up the mountain and when they were done with training, Devlon had an evil smile and had wished Azriel luck and winnowed back to camp without him. 12 year Azriel didn't know how to winnow yet, and he was left on the mountain by himself in the midst of a raging blizzard.

The conditions were some of the worst that Azriel had ever seen and he had no idea where he was. He was still learning how to fly, his late start due to his father, and he had no idea how to navigate back to your guys' home. He took a deep breath and imagined what he would come back to once he got home, and everything that he would lose if he didn't make it back alive.

He closed his eyes and began to fly as best he could. He thought of his your mother making everyone hot chocolate, like she always would on a stormy winter day. He thought of Cassian and Rhys fighting over the chair that was closest to the fire. He thought of you. You who would likely be sitting in your guys' spot, pretending to read your book while constantly looking at the door to see if he made it home safe. You with your warm smile and bright eyes, who would refuse to take your cup of hot chocolate Azriel was right in front of him.

He could see the scene as clear as day and feel the warmth and comfort of the cabin. Azriel didn't know how. He just felt it. He followed that feeling of comfort. He refused to die in this storm. He refused to leave you worrying about his whereabouts any longer. He flew and flew - the ice was freezing his wings, and the wind had increased the coldness tenfold. All he could see was white and all he could hear was the howling of the wind, but he kept going forward until he hit a wall.

Not a wall, but a door. He opened the door to see the exact scene he was seeing in his head. The scene that led him here. He had no idea how he got here with no visibility or sign of where he was going.

Rhys' mom had ran to him before anyone else could. His ears and wings had been covered in frostbite, and she immediately threw him into a warm bath. Once he got out, he went to the living room and saw 3 worried faces looking at him. Cassian and Rhys froze mid fight over the chair and you looked up from your upside-down book. He grabbed one of the four hot chocolates on the counter and sat next to you. He finally let out a sigh of relief. You had handed him a blanket and he finally felt at peace. Just the simple act of having you next to him had helped comfort him from all he endured that day.

That's how Azriel was feeling right now. Like he was flying through that storm again towards that feeling of comfort. Towards that feeling of home. He didn't know where his shadows were leading him at first, but now he has a good idea.

He gets out of the realm of the shadows and the first thing he sees is your back. You’re standing next to Eris at one of the entrances of the gardens of Velaris.

He’s hiding behind one of the hedges, contemplating if should go up to you right now or wait until you’re inside when you turn around.

He knows you had always been beautiful, but standing here in front of him with the backdrop of the fae lights and under the glow of the full moon you looked downright ethereal. His heart stopped and his breath caught. It felt like the ground beneath him gave out.

He took a deep breath and it was your scent that had permeated through the air and he felt it all. The feeling of comfort. The feeling of home.

He felt it snap and the world as he knew it came crumbling down.

Mother almighty you were his mate.

part vi

note: This chapter had gone very different than I originally planned, but it spoke to me and this is what demanded to be written besides who doesn't love a good cliffhanger. I do hope it doesn't feel rushed, but I feel like Azriel needs to suffer the way the reader did. Now he's dealing with a fresh mating bond and she's the one who's indifferent and he has to try to act normal and you know Eris won't make it easy for her. The next chapter is going to be complete chaos and I can't wait to see you all next time for it, until next time loves <3

note note: I may have lied about the whole editing thing, I'll go back and fix all the chapters...eventually...

taglist: @alimarie1105 @chaosabroad @bbontenswhhore @tele86 @ashblooddragons @circe143 @i-am-infinite @princesssunderworld @thestartitaness @tiffany-xx @cpfantasybooks @lucia-valentinaa @jennigsonl @ivy-34 @firefly-forest @k-homosapien @coeurdeveea @cherryjain17 @bckynatt @becstersworld @rcarbo1 @gojospearlycim @atluky @juliebluehufflepuff @willowpains @abadfantasybook @neverendingstay @hellohauntedturnstudent @highladyofhogwarts @littowl @iluvyewman-blog @lunaticpotatoe

658 notes · View notes

yummyrevivalfluid · 4 months ago

Text

And If You Think I’m In Love With You

Senku x Reader

Summary: You heard a rather interesting rumor. A rumor that when you confront Senku, has him analyzing his interactions with you.

WC: 1369

A/N: This fic was inspired by the song. Enamorado Tuyo by El Cuarteto de Nos. The lyrics are a bit contradicting so it can get confusing! But it conveys the message of being in denial of love! Downplaying feelings. I incoporated some lyrics of the song into the fic :)

“I heard an interesting theory today,” Your voice, briefly pulling Senku’s attention away from a research article.

“Theory?” He pushed back against his chair and turned to look at you, his brow raised in a questioning manner. Looking at you over his shoulder, you laid sprawled on his bed as you messed with a rubix cube.

“Theory…. rumor, same thing.” You reasoned, drawing out your words and shrugging your shoulders. Senku rolled his eyes, not entirely amused you broke his concentration for something he would consider trivial.

“They are not the same. Theories are explanations for phenomenon, made through logical reasoning and thinking.” Senku explained, his back to you once again, “Rumors can be true or false, made up…usually not backed by logical reasoning.”

“Whatever Dr. Know-it-all” you mumbled under your breath. By now you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, you glance at Senku’s form. You hesitate. Wondering if now a good time is to challenge the dynamics between the two of you. You almost regretted bringing up what you’ve heard.

“Well, I usually don’t pay attention to rumors,” you said quietly, yet Senku still heard you. Even snickering at your words and you responded with a playful glare. “But this one got my attention,” you walked to where Senku was sitting and placed your hands on his shoulders. He leaned into your touch and closed his eyes. You leaned over his shoulder and whispered into his ear, teasingly, “I heard you have feelings for me…”

Senku’s eyes jolted open. His relaxed demeanor now stiffened under your touch. A light blush graces his face, burning the tips of ears. “Where the hell did that crazy ass rumor come from!?”

“The grape vine…” you pulled back.

“And how did this grapevine come to this theory?” he asked. Curious as to know what others saw between the two of you. Is there something that he is missing?

“Oh man where to begin!” you exclaimed dramatically, launching yourself onto his bed once again. “They gave so many examples! For starters your lock screen…. they said your clingy…” you snickered. You continue to state a few other reasons, and for every reason Senku began to analyze. Deep in thought, your voice began to fade, not catching your own question at the end.

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

“Pleaseeeee Senkuuuuu!” you whined as you dragged him closer to the telescope. “Look at the lighting, it’s perfect! Just one photo please!”

“One photo.” Senku sighed. You let out a gasp, letting go of his arm and quickly ran to the front of the large telescope. Senku snickered at your excitement, pulling out his phone, getting ready to take the one photo.

“Do I look okay?” you asked, looking over yourselves. Senku walked closer to you, eyeing you up and down.

“You have something right there…” he muttered as he pointed at your shirt, you looked down just to have his finger flick your chin. “Kidding….” He cackled as you pouted that you had fallen for one of his lame tricks.

“Stop messing around, you said I only get one photo”, you swatted his arm to get him to stop laughing. Senku moved further back, positioning his camera.

“3…2…1.”

He took the picture and examined it. You were standing in front of the large telescope, the ceiling of the observatory showcased the night sky, the moonlight landing on you. He had to agree, the lighting was good. The way the moonlight hit your figure, you were practically glowing. You looked like a goddess… angel…He didn’t hear you approaching, too mesmerized by the photo he had taken of you. He didn’t have time to stop you from swiping his phone.

“Hey!”

“Relax, I just wanted to see how good I look.” He watched as you zoomed in and out of the screen, and then you were clicking buttons. “And BAM! Now you have me as your lockscreen. Just don’t go around and telling people that we’re dating.” You snickered as you handed him back his phone. You begin to walk away from him, going to the next spot in your exploration of the observatory. Leaving Senku to check his lockscreen and sure enough, your face was smiling back at him.

Not like it means anything he reasons with himself

I almost rarely see your photo on my phone

Even though the photo was his lockscreen, it’s not like he pays much attention to the photo. It’s not like he examines your photo every time he unlocks his phone. Maybe for like 5 seconds, rarely does he examine it for more than 10 seconds. It’s not like every time he checks for the time, he’s smiling back at your smile. It’s not his fault your smile is contagious. Weeks after the photo was taken, when confronted why he hasn’t changed it, “I only keep your photo on my phone because I don’t have the time to delete it. Too many buttons to click…”

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

Clingy? It’s not like I’m desperate to have you by my side…

All the time you keep him company while Byakuya is away, all the hours you spend with him huddled in his room. In Senku’s mind, sure he’s the one that invites you, even luring you with food and sweets, but you’re the one that accepts his invitation. You’re the one that clings to him.

Once again, you found yourself helping Senku with his research paper. Lured in with the promise of some chocolates. You sat at one end of his desk, reviewing his work, scanning for any grammatical errors, sipping coffee as you do so. Senku on the other hand is yet again planning another experiment. A loud yawn escaped you, catching Senku’s attention.

“Tired?” Senku commented. You glanced at the time on your phone, you stretched your arms, purposely invading into Senku’s area.

“How can I not be? You’re overworking me! Not to mention you forgot my chocolates.” You complained, you closed your laptop as you began to collect your stuff. “Anyways, it’s late. I got to get going…” you looked out his window, the sun had set a long time ago.

“Stay the night. It’s too late for you to be out anyways…” Senku got up from his seat and stood beside you, acknowledging the night sky.

“Why not walk me home?” you asked, already knowing his answer.

“Too much work…There should be an extra toothbrush in the restroom” Senku rubbed at the back of neck, thinking of what else you might need for the night. “Do you need pajamas?”

“If I knew better, I would think you wanted me to stay…” you teased, slightly leaning into his shoulder. Senku laughed at your comment.

“Ohhh sureee yeah,” Senku sarcastically agreed, “Part of my plan to get you into bed.”

“Perv”

And when I am, desperate to have you by my side…

Even though he had no plans to share a bed with you, that’s how the night ended. You lay beside him, wearing his old clothes. Your back pressed against him. He did a lot of explaining when Byakuya arrived home to surprise him, surprised to see Senku sleeping with you, his arms embracing your form.

…That doesn’t mean it has a deeper meaning…

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

Senku wasn’t sure how long he was analyzing these reasons. He wasn’t sure why he was analyzing them like it was something he was supposed to rationalize, something he was supposed to counter. Clearly this was a rumor. Something made up. Something that both of you two shouldn’t acknowledge. If you’ve given him a day, he could write out all the reasons why this theory can be disproved, but you didn’t. You spoke again, trying to get his attention. You repeated your question. The same question that was lost to Senku’s ear when he began to get lost in thought.

“So, do you?” you ask again. Waiting in silence for what felt like eternity. Watching as the gears turn in Senku’s head. Dying to know if the rumors are just rumors. If there’s truth to what’ve heard. You watched him, your eyes almost pleading. “Do you have feelings for me…”

And if you think I’m in love with you, please don’t make a fuss

“It’s just a rumor…”

I think…

#dcst senku #dr stone senku #ishigami senku #senku #senku ishigami #senku x reader #senku x y/n #doctor stone

469 notes · View notes

tigerpearlsworld · 5 months ago

Text

Pick a card...

Your appeal vs your true self

Before you chose the cards know that this is a general pick a card. There are infinite energies in the universe and the energies if align with your stars will guide you to my reading. So, welcome. Know that you can only chose one card. This pick a card is meant for your soul not for you to resonate but for you to realize when you get the message and truth in time. To pick a card you must follow your hearts tug and instinct and look deep within each image something about yourself rather than what you want it to be Breathe in and Breathe out, light a candle/ incense, meditate to the beating of your heart and let every thoughts come through and accept what is coming in your heart and then light and form a picture in your heart as you close your eyes and meditate in yourself. After that when you open your eyes choose the image where your heart calls for the most and remember your heart is your guide not your brain so.....

Sorry if my english is bad.

To those who stumble across my reading i pray to the stars to bless you with pure energy and strength.

Choose the pile:

The reading starts...

Pile 1:

The Vibes i get from this pile : Like a Ocean

Cards: (Page of pentacles, Page of wands, 6 of wands, The emperor)

Your appeal:

First of all the appeal you guys have is of both practicality and passion, Beauty and distance, warmth and silence. This are the contradicting things of how you are perceived as. Your natural appeal is of curiosity to learn, its also about devoting yourself to do the routine work which you had promised without any lack. People may find your nature very practical and sometimes dull when you are in your work mode. But when you get back to your creative self i see you charming anyone without any effort. Also there is a certain shy awkward confidence which i don't understand but its coming like that to me. I see you are very likeable due to your nature of not being so dominant. Your appeal to the opposite gender may even be of seductive allure and submissiveness although that may not be your intention. I also see in nature your appeal has a lot to do with your creative sense and fashion. Some of you may even be a tattoo/henna artist i also see fashion designer. Your appeal can be equated with vines its delicate, its intricate and so different yet its so far out of reach and so creative in its climbing ability to get the light.

Your true self:

Like i said in the beginning of the reading your vibes which the stars are whispering are of ocean. You have a depth in your soul like the ocean. You have a beauty about you which is free flowing like water. You can never be chained to anything or anyone yet when you are devoted no one can outrank you in your devotion. I see a bigger than life attitude in your soul. You want experiences or relationships or achievements which gives you satisfaction in a universal way. Your love is like the ocean, it doesn't have any impurities its like a Childs love. And also there is a lot of creative talents and skills which you have with you but you only display those gifts in silence with your friends and family. I see you are a person who is open but there is a very intriguing mystery and coldness which no one can pinpoint not even the people who are in a relationship with you can understand this nature of yours. I see in contrast to how people perceive you as passive or submissive inside you are filled with confidence, dominance and stubborn energy. I also see in your true self you are someone who is very sensitive and aware yet conscious of your actions you display in front of others. Some can say you have this quality about you where you hide your true feelings and thoughts behind your actions. In your truest self no matter what life throws at you but you have this inherent flame or amber inside you which never lets you give up. There is also this sense of war which keeps happening in your life or maybe inside you, its very dramatic the choices. I also see you can also be a spiritual person who does witchcraft, Tarot reading or is interested in gothic things. I also sense there is something about mermaids coming in maybe when you were a child you wanted to be a mermaid. But in your true self i definitely sense you feel more connected with water and you feel more at peace when you are near water. In the future you may even have a house or build a house near the sea or any waterbodies. In your trueself i sense when you work hard on yourself the most or you work at something with true intention without any malice i see you get more results. I also see you have a life of pain where you always had to devote yourself to either your mom or dad or husband in every choice of life no wonder it said life for you is like a dramatic choice and of war. I also see in your true self that you are someone who may not like to tell a lie. your honesty is something dangerous. I see its hard for you to even tell white lies its not like you can't

say because you most certainly can even deceive but you will feel unclean afterwards in your heart and soul. there is also expectance you have from others to be honest which always leads to disappointment. I also sense you can be harsh and very judgmental in times to people who lies to you or maybe you just feel something is off. I see in your true self you are someone who once doing a task or devoting to something/someone can't be shooked easily, you are like a mountain than tall and cruel who wont let anything interfere or come between you and your goal. Even though im telling your vibes are like the ocean but its like the ocean which churns fire and sparks.

Before i even begin the reading this song was being repeated in my head. This may have some messages or something which means something to you.

Pile 2:

The Vibes i get from this pile : Intense Duality

Cards: (The chariot, 4 of swords, The devil, Page of cups)

Your appeal:

I sense in your appeal there is a yin and yang energy. Its like you have two souls inside you which people may not be aware of. I sense your appeal to people sometimes can be scary other times it can be

awkward. People may think you have this boring life about you until they find this rough and scary energy that you possess and also may think that your interest are very alien or very weird. Your appeal to some people even though you may not try but is very intimidating. I sense you may get judged alot quicker than others or people may just try to defend you more especially your peers but no one truly understands you. TBH.

I also sense in your appeal some people may find think you are very discipline and hard to approach and sometimes people may even claim you are controlling or dominating in some ways. In another aspect i sense you appeal can be sort of 'Rest' where people may think you have this easing quality to you like if they are angry and if they talk to you for some reason they may feel more calm and collected.

I sense in your appeal there is something very taboo like something very scary even BDSM like which for some is very intriguing but for others very horrifying. I sense your appeal is like a blue fire

very warm but also very hot which can be like moth to a flame for many people even people from your own gender may be attracted to you but like i said this burning flame keeps long lasting relationship away from you. I see your partners may either get insecure by you or intimidated by you. There is a duality like very bipolar kind of energy to you. I don't know why but some of you may have some Autism, Epilepsy, OCD, ADHD or Bipolar disorder of some kind its really random but im getting the message. the stars are saying to be easy on yourself. And if im being honest your energy is a mess i really cant read it its so mixed.

Your true self:

Now coming to who you are i see that inside you're someone who is very in tune with nature and the universe. I see when you were a child that you may had this idea about being a mage or were just very curious about the abilities to control the weather and rain. its very random i know. um.. i also see you i know again its very random but you had a foot injury or you have a very strong feet.

In your true self i sense there is something very divided like very bipolar in one hand you are someone who is very intense with your thoughts, like you can pierce and find out any information about anyone. But on the other hand you are someone who likes to keep their peace. I sense sometimes you may just get certain information out of no where or you may even get outer body experience during your sleep. I sense you have very sensitive ears and to calm your anxieties and paranoia you may keep your headphones on even when you're out or sleeping. I see that in your true self you are someone who is very misunderstood. I see that in relationship when you give advice to your partner with goodwill they often ignore or just ridicule your advice but i see that in time what you say comes to fruition like a prediction truly. I see that in your soul you are someone who likes to do things in a rhythm, life is a rhythm to you and you like to march on your own beat. I see that in one period of your life you may had shaved your head or you may have been very boyish in your appearance or the way you just dressed. In your true self i see you are a counsellor who has this ability to understand people from every stage of life no matter if you are young or old. I see that your self literally can connect anything in life be it information, energy, people, theories or music. i sense that you are very old soul and you may have a very mature opinions and ways of thinking than the people of your age. I sense that inside you are someone who on one hand is very childlike, innocent and idealistic but on the other side you're also very dark and in conflict with your own feelings. I sense that you may be interested in things which people may find disturbing.

This is very peculiar but only for you two songs came in my head together now you may take it as a message or a sign its up to you....

Pile 3:

The Vibes i get from this pile : Purity

Cards: (The Empress, Ace of swords, 7 of pentacles, knight of pentacles, King of swords)

Your appeal:

I see people have this image of you where they want you for what they idolize you as not for who you are. I see people looking at you as someone who is very alluring and seductive. They feel this compulsion towards you like there is something very magnetic about you. At first people may feel you are weird but later on i see people tend to want to coddle you. I sense people's appeal towards you is of fantasy where they fantasize you in different ways in their head. I also sense people feels there is a disconnect in understanding you as they feel your way of communication or expression is very odd/alien like. Your appeal also come off as someone who is very self contained and people may feel that you're someone who is very unattached to things which people find precious or normal in society so they may misunderstand you or not understand you at all. Sometimes your peers may also feel that you're the oddball of the group and that you have this habit of talking with yourself alone or even when you're in a group. I see they look at you as something which is very sacred and soft but also fierce. I see people tend to forgive you easily too. There is a fluidity to your allure and energy which attracts everyone and makes them question about themselves. I sense people want to do things for you and that your appeal is of someone who is very likeable to everyone of every age its like you're a chameleon which can mold and be anything what the person or the situation wants you to be.

Your true self:

For your true self i see you're someone who is magical. yes. I see that you're someone who although may seem weird and odd but i see that in your truest self you're the most observant and creative. I see that in soul you're a natural introvert. I also sense that even if you have different shape of eyes can be siren, doe, almond, round or downward looking eye i see there is something very dreamy and soft about it which cannot be describe its very ethereal tbh. In your truest self i also see you as someone who fits in this saying of "work smart not hard" You can be lazy too but you get your work done. I also see you don't typically get emotionally attach to people but when it does happen its gets real deep like your love can be compared to the bottom of the ocean, Unknown, dark and all consuming. For the girlies who are reading this i feel like you really don't need a man you're someone who wants something more than just relationship in life. You want the most purest and the most broadest form of love. There is also something very unbothered about you where you may not care what others have to say about how you are... like as long as people who you care about likes what you wear you can give less shiz about others its the truth. There is this quality to you like a switch in you where you can pull your sweet side like a angel or a dark side like Satan for real!!!

I'm also sensing that you will have a rags to riches path in your life. I also sense that even though in your appeal people may conclude you as like a kid who doesn't understands anything but in your truest self you are not even close to what they think or feel about you. You are someone who has this uncanny ability to read people and understand situations. I also sense there is a natural pull towards art, jazz and in abstract things. I also sense there is this dormant feeling inside you where you may empathize more with the villains because of how your truest self feels so different from everyone or may even like characters like Joker. I also sense someone of you may had substance or mental health issues. I also sense that in your truest form you are an advocate for animals and you are someone who likes animal and children a lot. I sense for this group in particular either some of may you lean towards being a celebate or indulging in that pleasure and this i am talking from an extreme angel. I also sense that even though you are kind and understanding but those qualities are often overlooked and that i also feel that sometimes you feel this compulsion inside you to be the person which people paints you to be just for the fun of it. I also see you may like to do or act in a way which surprises people. I also sense some of you have problems like ADHD or insomnia. And in your truest self i see you as someone who overcomes every challenge given your way.

This song was came to me when i was channeling your energy:

#pick a card #tarot #tarotcommunity #pick a pile #spotify

612 notes · View notes

pochipop · 1 year ago

Text

＃HOMICIPHER !! ♡ — DWELLING, ROTTING, SURVIVING (MR CRAWLING X READER).

#. synopsis! — speaking isn't the only way to understand, and he's oh so gentle .

#. characters! — mr crawling .

#. warnings! — canon-typical dark content + setting .

#. word count! — 1.7k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — hi, i posted, please stop bullying me in my inbox :(( - all jokes aside, thank you guys for all the nice messages and compliments! & happy pride to my lgbt followers! funnily enough, don't think i've ever "come out" on this blog, but if it's not obvious, i'm bisexual lol so there's that!

You found yourself pressed against a cold, damp wall in what you could only assume was a room close to the belly of this labyrinth-like building. Breaths came in shallow, frightened gasps as the lights overhead flickered ominously, like they were trying to warn you of impending danger. . . Danger that you felt sting your chest like needles poking through your skin. The oppressive silence surrounding you was broken only by your intakes of air and the soft, almost imperceptible sound of something —or someone— (or maybe a mixture of the two, in this God-forsaken place) nearby.

Squinting into the gloom, a familiar shape emerged from the dark hallway, slipping into the room with you and pausing in the doorway. You felt relief take hold of you.

Mr Crawling. . .

That, of course, likely wasn’t his real name, but you didn’t speak in the language of clicks, noises, and chirp-like sounds that he did, and he didn’t speak with your tongue either. It was for that reason in particular that you’d bludgeoned his head with a crowbar not long ago, to which he sulked in a corner, bleeding and whining, and you were left to feel terrible for hurting the first entity that had tried to go out of his way to show you true empathy in a way you understood.

Apologizing didn’t even begin to feel like enough. Probably because you were at least ninety percent sure he didn’t understand what you were saying anyway. Helping him with the wound perhaps made it slightly better. . . But also not really, because even now as he skims across the ground to where you are, there’s a sense of guilt that weighs heavy on your heart.

Pale, grey-skinned and moving like any non-human mammal of sorts, his face is mostly obscured by the long, stringy black hair that falls in vine-like, clumped strands all the way to the floor from his hunched position. There’s an unsettling, animalistic grace to the way he approaches, but you don’t flinch this time when he puts the flat of his cold palm against the crown of your head, as if trying to soothe your breathing. All of that initial fear has been replaced by a strange comfort of sorts, and you look up at him, thankful for his presence now more than ever.

He tilts his head, as if listening for something, and you watch him warily with the same crowbar clutched in your fist. A part of you felt bad carrying it around like that with his blood still smeared on it, but here, you knew it was foolish to venture around without a weapon of some sort. Not protecting yourself for the sake of his feelings was, unfortunately, not an option as far as you were concerned, but thankfully he didn’t seem to have any opinion on the matter.

“Mr Crawling,” you whisper softly, reaching out to take his hand into your own.

He seemed to really respond to physical touch, and if language was always going to get in the way, you figured it was best to bridge the gap in another manner. This was the next best thing you could think of.

His head raises, and you suppose he’s trying to meet your gaze, though you can’t see his eyes through the mess of his hair.

“I need to understand you,” you say.

Ironically, that’s a bit of a hopeless endeavor in this sort of environment. It’s not like you have all the time in the world to pick up a new, completely unrelated language to yours while fighting for your life. Still. . . Gesturing had been helpful previously, especially for directions. The hooded figure you ran into first was quick to point around, that severed hand that had guided you for a bit was just as poignant in that area, and the silver-haired entity with a blindfold over his eyes had also tried to communicate with you in that sense as well. So why couldn’t you do it vice-versa?

“Me,” you point to yourself, “you,” you point to him.

He stared blankly for a moment, then seemed to come to an understanding. His had retracted from your head to point at himself, then to you, a clicking noise coming from the back of his throat. You smile. It was a small victory amongst a series of devastating losses, but you were keen on taking it and running with it as far as you could stretch it.

“Okay,” you breathe, talking more to yourself than to him. “Let’s try this then. . .”

Feeling a surge of determination, you touch your stomach and then mime eating.

“Hungry. Eat.”

At this point, you were still too anxious to have an appetite, but you knew you’d need food eventually. You were hoping he’d be able to help you with that somehow. Up until this point, you hadn’t seen any evidence of there being food around here, —no containers, boxes, or wrappings, but he seemed to understand your gestures and mimicked you; sitting back on his knees to rub his stomach through his filthy t-shirt, then nibbling on an imaginary item.

He looks back to you, as if seeking approval. You smile, hoping he understands that to be a sign of good will, then nod your head to drive home the association. Beneath his swath of hair, he smiles too, and you catch a glimpse of his eyes through the curtain of black strands; dark and thoughtful.

“Good,” you murmur, feeling slightly relieved.

If nothing else, this was progress. You spend a while longer trying to communicate basic needs and warnings: things like yes, no, stop, come, drinking, sleeping, and a thank you in the way of patting his head. You’re not sure he understood the depth of it by any means, but he did seem to enjoy it. . . Like a puppy. The thought made you smile genuinely and absentmindedly, if only for a moment. The clicks and chirps he makes are mostly lost on you, but the noises are comforting nonetheless. This rudimentary bridge of understanding soothes you just a little, and you find yourself feeling very thankful that he’s here in the first place.

He has your face cupped in his hands now, as if he’s inspecting you. . . Or perhaps admiring? That is, until you feel his body tense and all his little sounds abruptly come to a halt. A small growl reverberates from the back of his throat and his wide smile droops into a frown. Suddenly, he’s roughly dragging you along, tugging urgently on your arms, to which you comply and follow along with him, scooting across the floor until you reach a shadowed alcove. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but he seems to know his way around this place like the back of his cold, grey hand.

He covers your mouth for a moment, then shakes his head. You cover your mouth, take your hand away, then shake your head no, just to ensure to him that you’ve understood. He pats your head then crouches in front of you, using his own body as a makeshift shield for yours. His long, spindly arms cage you against the wall. Fear rises inside you once again, though not because of him and his actions. Rather, the faint, rhythmic thuds of footsteps have begun reverberating through the hall just outside, and you recognize the harrowing pattern they click in.

Mr Scarletella.

You encountered him once before and felt every hair on your body stand on end. The way he moved through the halls with a menacing flow that sounded almost eerily melodic, and the strange, unsettling red glow that seemed to exude off him that nearly drew you in like a moth to a flame. The steps echoed off the walls of the building and your heart began to hammer against your ribs. Mr Crawling moved closer as he came into view through the doorway that lacked any actual door to close, his long, black hair tickling your nose ever so softly. Dressed in scarlet and carrying his ever-present umbrella, you decide quite readily that you’ve seen enough, closing your eyes and focusing on the cool feel of Mr Crawling’s skin, on his musky scent (like mildew and a bit of rot, which isn’t necessarily pleasant, but it’s not like he can really help it down here.)

Though you’re no longer watching, the entity dripping in scarlet moves with an unsettling, almost predatory grace, glancing about the corridors as if he’s searching for something. Or someone.

Once again, Mr Crawling presses closer to you. Now, you’re able to feel the way his body trembles with fear, and you realize that he’s just as terrified as you are, though you can’t tell if that fear is for himself, for you, or for both of you at once. And it’s not like you can ask. Still, you open your eyes just long enough to look up at him, Mr Scarletella in your peripheral as you force a smile and touch the crown of Mr Crawling’s head, offering what little comfort you can. He still quivers, but seems to appreciate the gesture, though he doesn’t risk a happy chirp.

The danger passes as the man in scarlet disappears down the hallway, then turns the corner. You let out a silent sigh of relief and Mr Crawling relaxes after several moments of continued tension, finally going limp and releasing you from against the wall. He slumps onto his knees, which seems to be his most comfortable position, and he looks at you clearly through the darkness. In that moment, it feels like you’ve understood one another perfectly.

“Thank you,” you whisper sincerely, though you know he can’t really understand you.

You’re just hoping the gratitude comes across somehow, but at the risk that it won’t, you touch your chest over top of where your heart’s still beating like a drum, then touch his chest in the same place. It dawns on you that you don’t feel a heartbeat at all, and you almost pull your hand away. . . But something stops you. Something that says even if you’re right and he’s something less (or more) than human, —it doesn’t matter as much as the kindness he’s shown you. So your hand lingers until you softly pull away.

He grabs your cheeks again and holds them delicately.

#homicipher #mr crawling #homicipher x reader #homicipher chapter one #homicipher chapter 1 #mr crawling x reader #mr scarletella #mr hood #mr silver hair #mr silver-hair #mr gap #mr chopped head #homicipher game #mr crawling reader insert #homicipher reader insert #mr crawling homicpher #homicipher fanfic #homicipher fanfiction

2K notes · View notes

alidiggory92 · 1 month ago

Text

Reach

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel and reader's beginning. A new start away from the QZ.

Notes/tags: Rating: (16+) age gap (Joel is 50s, reader 20s) prequel(ish) to His Girl, slow burn, plot is all over the place, plot doesn't make sense, time skips, no smut, reader is in a weird headspace (aka she's traumatized but not from Joel), lingering touches, mean!joel (kinda), brief spanking (not sexual), swearing, pining, sharing a bed, reader becomes a bit dependent. I think that's all?

WC: 5.5K

A/N: Thank you for all the love on my one shot! You don't need to read it in order to understand this part. This is all the beginning. Please read the tags, if anything is not your thing, that's fine! You don't have to read it. Sorry (not sorry) for the slow burn guys. There will be smut, I promise. Just working out the timeline and other things.

Dividers by: @uzmacchiato

The vine divider is not by them, but I can't find who I got it from. Message me to be credited.

Being Joel’s smuggling partner wasn’t easy. Hell, you had only begun to smuggle to get some extra money and trading cards. Doing business alongside Joel wasn’t your choice, either. He’d persuaded you into joining him. One, the reason being that a young girl getting into trading was a recipe for assault and black eyes. Two, Joel cared about you. Even if he would never say it out loud.

To you, he was the old grump who took you under his wing. To him, you were the fragile little girl who came sobbing to him after a FEDRA soldier gave you a palm to the cheek. You still remember the way Joel’s jaw clenched when he saw the red mark. He didn’t say a word, just handed you a cloth with ice wrapped inside and disappeared for the rest of the night. The soldier didn’t show up on patrol again. Ever.

And after that, Joel made it real clear: you don’t run jobs without him.

The weeks that followed were loud—sirens, shouting, curfews, lock downs. The QZ was tightening its grip and Joel had started keeping a packed bag under the floorboards.

“You paranoid?” you asked once, seeing the extra rounds and ration cards he was tucking into a duffel.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you in that way he did sometimes—like he was already planning five steps ahead of you, of the world, of everything.

The final straw came when one of your regular drop spots got raided. You were late meeting Joel. You came back scraped up, coughing from tear gas, and Joel didn’t yell. Didn’t say anything at all.

Just handed you that same cloth-wrapped ice and started packing his bag again. But this time, yours too.

“We’re done here,” he said, voice flat. “We’re gettin’ out.”

Joel entered the rustic home with a slam of the door. You look up from your spot on the ground, fiddling with the frayed strings at the end of your dress.

He sits down on the warped couch with a thud. He rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s exhausted, you can tell. It’s only been about six weeks of knowing the man. You still don’t know him all that well, and yet; you let him take you out of the QZ, and into this small house in Maine. Somehow you trusted him, but there was a rooted fear of him.

You still didn’t know why you trusted him. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at you that first night after the raid—steady, unreadable. Maybe it was the way he hadn’t hesitated to drag you out of hell. Or maybe it was because, despite the rough edges and gravel-thick voice, he hadn't touched you. Not the way you feared.

Still, there was something heavy about Joel. Not cruel. But dangerous in a way you couldn’t name. Like he could hurt someone with his hands and still sleep through the night.

He’d warned you, time and time again, about the kind of men who’d take advantage of a girl like you. Too young. Too trusting. Too pretty. You weren’t stupid. You knew he hadn’t pulled you out of Boston just because he was feeling generous.

You just prayed his reasons weren’t the same as the ones he listed off like threats.

Your chin drops to your knee as you peek over at him, watching through the corner of your eye. He sat wide-legged on the couch, still rubbing at his face, the stretch of muscle in his forearms taut beneath rolled-up sleeves.

He hadn’t looked at you once since walking in. Not yet. And that made your stomach twist a little more than you wanted to admit.

The silence stretches on. The windows rattle from the wind outside, making you shiver. Though, it’s a small comfort to you, considering it’s far from the QZ. Here, it’s just Joel with the weight of what he won’t say.

You shift on the splintered floor, hugging your knees to your chest. Joel hasn’t even taken off his jacket. He sits like he doesn’t trust the couch even.

“Are you mad?” You ask, quietly but clear.

Joel pauses the rubbing of his nose, his eyes flicking to you, then back down at his lap.

“I ain’t mad.” He says finally, gruff and low. “Just tired.”

“I didn’t mean to get into trouble with the guy at the checkpoint.”

His jaw tensed. The subtle tick. Not anger, just restraint.

“I know.” He muttered.

You knew better. You’d been the one who made the smart-ass comment. The one who almost got you both caught. Joel covered it, like he always did, being mean and loud enough to distract the guards while fisting the contraband (you) out of sight.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” You mumbled.

Joel grunted, something between agreement and a sigh.

Another pause. Joel leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He stares and the floor when he speaks again.

“You’re young.” He mutters, like the statement alone explains everything.

“You say that like it’s a sin.”

“It’s not,” he says. “It’s a danger.”

You nearly scoff, “What, to you?”

His jaw clenches again, he lifts his gaze to you, “To yourself.”

You rest your cheek on your knee, your eyes on him. “I’m not a kid.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You didn’t have to.” You snip, making Joel shoot you a warning look.

The moment slips back into silence. Again.

You’d freaked yourself out. Coming to the conclusion that Joel wasn’t a good man was hard for you. How did you come to it? You don’t know. But, you still find yourself in the woods, not far from the house, barefoot and your dress now muddy at the ends.

Stupid escape. You didn’t even plan it. But seeing Joel put locks on the windows made you freak, memories coming back from before that you didn’t want to remember.

Suddenly, Joel became the bad guy in your mind, and you needed to leave. Him taking you out of the QZ wasn’t a heroic act, it was a scary one.

You run through the muddy woods, feet slipping beneath you, breathless. You stop when you hear a twig snap, backing up against a tree.

It was nearly 4am, and you knew that Joel was asleep when you left.

Despite being with him for over a month, living with him, you could never tell if he slept deeply or not.

You facepalmed, realizing he likely heard you shut the window when you climbed out. You’re so fucked.

You look back towards the way you ran from. The house was still in sight, making you realize you hadn’t run as far as you thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“You’re not thinkin’ straight,” comes his voice– quiet, gravelly, just a few feet away.

You flinch, turning your head. He’s there, standing half in shadow, half moonlight, boots sunk slightly in the mud. His shoulders are tense, chest rising and falling as if he just sprinted. For you.

You don’t speak.

Joel takes a step closer, “You runnin’ out barefoot like that? What the hell were you thinkin’?”

Shame crawls up your throat, “I wasn’t– I just-”

“You think I dragged you all the way outta Boston to hurt you?” His voice is sharp. He almost sounds hurt. “You think that low of me?”

“I don’t know what to think.” You mumbled.

He runs a hand through his messy hair, exhaling hard. “You scared the shit outta me.”

You blink tears, “You locked the windows.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “To keep people out. Not to keep you in. You’re not a damn prisoner.”

You stare at the ground, seeing the mud squishing between your toes.

His hands are on you– not rough, not angry. Just firm.

“You don’t gotta trust me yet,” he says quietly, tilting your chin up, “but don’t run from me in the damn woods in the middle of the night. You could’ve froze, broke your ankle, got snatched–”

“I’m sorry.” You squeak.

He sighs heavily. Something in his eyes changes. His hands tighten on your arms.

“You wanna act reckless?” he asks, his voice low, “I oughta show you what happens when you pull shit like that.” He grabs you, putting you over his shoulder, fireman carry style.

You kicked, yelping a bit. A sharp smack lands on your ass, which makes you flinch and stop resisting.

He carries you all the way back to the house.

You start to cry, panicking. He was angry, you knew. It shakes you to your core, wondering if Joel’s going to snap on you or not.

Once you're inside, he sets you on your feet. His hand slips to the back of your neck, warm and steady. Not rough–but there’s no mistaking the warning in his touch.

“You know how close I was to thinkin’ you got snatched? That someone dragged you off while I was sleepin’?”

“I… I didn’t mean to scare you.” you stuttered.

“You did,” he snaps, then softens, “And now you’re gonna understand what it feels like when you do.”

He turns you gently, but there’s power behind it. You plant your hands on the wall beside the front door. He stands directly behind you, hand on your low back.

“You run off like that again,” He warns gruffly, “I won’t be so nice about it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding. Maybe you were right about Joel.

His chest brushes your back, his belt buckle pressing against your spine.

“What are you gonna do?” You sniffle, trembling.

“Whatever it takes to remind you that you know better.”

Your legs shake, both from trembling and exhaustion. Joel tsks, “Look at you,” he breathes, his mouth pressing against the back of your neck, “All muddy. Could’ve broken your fuckin’ ankle, runnin’ out there with no shoes. Killed yourself, even.”

“I didn’t think–”

“No, you didn’t.” his hand pulls up the hem of your dress, and the other comes down with a slap.

You flinch, pressing your lips together in a thin line. Memories of before flooding your brain. Joel wasn’t Joel anymore, in your mind. You let out a cry, “Dad, Please–” but he doesn’t hear you.

“You scared me.” he says again, more authoritative than before. “You know better.” he states again. “You learnin’ yet, or–”

“I’m learning, I’m learning!” you whimper, almost sobbing at this point.

Joel sighs, realizing he’s likely just scared you more than make you understand. He pauses, then shakes his head.

He releases the hold he had on your dress, smoothing the fabric down. He steps back, giving you space.

“I’m sorry.” You sniffled.

“I don’t need your sorry.” Joel shakes his head, “Need your trust.”

You still tremble. If he wants your trust so badly–which he almost had it, until you freaked yourself out, then he spanked you– why was he being like this?

“Why did locking the windows make you run?” He asked.

You didn’t want to answer that. Not when he just reminded you of the last person you wanted to think of.

“Answer me.” He commanded.

“I’ve. I’ve-” You stutter, still shaken, “Been locked in before.”

You feel him pause, even with you facing away.

“Okay.” He says after a moment.

Everything is still. Joel looks at your shaking body again.

“Shit.” he mutters, rubbing his beard with his hand. “You should’ve told me.” he said under his breath, you barely heard it.

You lean forward against the wall, heart hammering. Your fingers digging into the wood. You don’t trust your voice, not in this state.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to scare you,” Joel says, his voice thick, quieter now. “I lost my goddamn mind when I saw that window open. Thought–”

He cuts himself off.

Then, he’s pulling you back from the wall, gently. His hands around your waist, lifting you just enough to turn you around. Facing him. His expression is unreadable, to you anyways.

His thumbs rub at your sides, more grounding himself than you.

“I’m sorry,” he says. This time it’s him apologizing. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t’ve.. Jesus, I wouldn’t’ve touched you like that if I knew.”

Your eyes sting. You shake your head, feeling guilt. “I freaked out, I didn’t give you a chance to–”

“No.” he interrupts, sternly. “You were scared. You had a reason. That’s enough.”

You sniffle again, your nose scrunched. He pulls you closer, arms wrapped around your shoulders.

“I ain’t him.” Joel says. More reminding himself.

You nod, your forehead tucked against his chest.

“I trust you,” you whimper, “I just forget sometimes.”

Joel breathes deeply, “I’ll remind you better next time.” His chin rests on top of your head, fighting the urge to kiss it.

He pulls back enough to look at you. His brows furrowed, something in his expression has softened–less anger, more regret.

He mumbles something about cleaning you up. You nod, eyes still glassy, letting him guide you to the bathroom.

Joel is silent as he grabs a cloth, a bucket, and an old first aid kit from under the sink. You watch as he fills the bowl with warm water (as warm as it can be just coming from the tap).

He sits you down on the toilet seat, kneeling before you. He doesn’t meet your eyes, only taking your left ankle in his hand, checking for swelling.

“Hurts?” he asks.

You shake your head, though the scrape on your heel stings when he brushes the cloth over it. Joel notices your flinch and goes slower.

You both sit in silence as he tends to your scraped and muddy feet. Once he’s cleaned the worst is it, he tries to disinfect the best he can with the expired (and dried out) disinfectant.

“You don't gotta explain what happened.” Joel says, his voice low. “Not until you’re ready.”

You only nod, still a bit scared to speak.

Joel finishes wrapping gauze around your feet, then sets the supplies back under the sink, then rests his hands on your knees.

“It gets too much,” he starts, not meeting your eyes, “You talk to me.” He says. A command this time, not a request.

You nod again, eyes still stinging from earlier. “Okay.”

It’s been two weeks since that night. Since you ran barefoot through the trees like something feral, stupid and scared, and Joel carried you back like you were something. Something his.

Things haven’t changed in any loud, dramatic way. No tangled up nights anymore. Just… small shifts.

He doesn’t hover anymore, but doesn’t keep his distance either. When you sit too long reading in the chair near the fire, he tosses you his jacket without a word. When your hands shake trying to light the stove, his settle over yours. Just anchoring you.

You sleep in your own bed. Most nights. But sometimes, on the bad ones, you wake up and find his flannel jacket draped over the end of the mattress. He never says anything about it, and neither do you.

You find yourself starting to crave the quiet between you– the kind that doesn’t ask anything, doesn’t pressure. Just is.

This afternoon, he comes back to the house from the shed.

Joel let you outside (with his supervision, of course), and you soaked up any bit of it that you could.

He walks up to you on the porch with something in his hand.

It’s small. Square. Covered in dust and is probably as old as he is.

“I found this in the shed,” he mutters, holding it out to you. “Think it still works.”

You blink down at it. Your brows furrow.

“It’s a Polaroid camera.” Joel adds, noticing your confusion.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Just figured you’d wanna mess with it.”

Your chest tightens in a weird, unexplainable way. You take it gently from his hands, your thumb brushing against his knuckle.

“There’s film in here,” he murmurs, “Two, maybe three shots left from what I can guess.”

He leans back against the porch railing, arms crossed. You can tell he’s trying to act indifferent. Like he doesn’t care if you use it or chuck it. But he brought it to you. That alone means something.

“A little sentimental for you.” you tease quietly.

Joel scoffs. “Just figured you might want proof we made it this far.”

You pause, looking up.

Those words settle. Low in your ribs, right where all the fragile parts of you live. You want to ask if he means you, specifically. If he thinks you made it. But you don’t.

“I wanna take your picture,” you say instead, voice soft.

“Me?”

You nod.

He raises a brow. “The hell for?”

“So I can remember you like this,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Not just the grumpy old man who dragged me out of Boston.”

The silence stretches as he looks at you. God, you look like just a little girl. Not in a weird way, but in the way that he almost feels paternal towards you. Almost.

Eventually, Joel exhales through his nose and walks over to the armchair near the window, the one he always sits in after dinner to drink his coffee.

He doesn’t pose. Just sits, arms still crossed, watching you like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You fiddle with the camera, eventually figuring out how to take a photo. You lift it, framing him in the viewfinder.

He looks good, you had to admit to yourself. Taking a bit longer to position the camera just to look at him like this. He looks rumpled, a little tired, but calm. Open in his Joel way. Which is to say: not open at all, but less closed.

You press the button.

Click. Shhh, shhh, brrr.

The camera makes a loud whirring noise as the film shoots out. You take it in your palm, seeing no photo. Just white film

“Shake it.” Joel says.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“You know, shake it like a Polaroid.” he says a bit of a song in his tone.

You shake it hesitantly, and Joel nods. He doesn’t ask to see the photo. He just watches as you place it face down. “It’ll take a few minutes to develop.” Joel muttered, standing up with a grunt, nodding for you to follow him back inside. You grab the Polaroid from the porch.

Joel grunts, watching you walk inside, shutting the door behind you, then looking at you. You watch as he locks the door, then puts the key on the kitchen table. You swallow, but don’t say anything. You have gotten better with locks. Kind of.

You walk into the kitchen, placing the photo on the table, watching him look through what little food you had, and what has grown since you got here.

Joel notices your proximity to him as he bustles around. He stops, looking at you. You’re in that little white night dress again. From the night he ‘punished’ you. Now, you don’t consider it punishment, you did deserve it, in a way.

“Still stained, huh?” he asked, his hand fiddling with the strap on your shoulder.

You nod, “The mud wouldn’t come out.”

He looks at you for a moment, “It adds character.”

That alone made your lips twitch a bit. Almost a smile. Joel notices and he mirrors your expression.

“Well,” he changed the subject. “I got about… four small potatoes from the garden. And,” he looks around then points to the door, “A small rabbit that I snared earlier.”

You frown a bit. You knew Joel had to kill animals so you both could eat, but you liked rabbits. Especially when they would hop around in the garden outside, their little noses sniffing.

Joel pauses, “Hey,” he grabs your chin so you hold eye contact with him. You found out early on that that was important to him.

“I’ll tell you when I skin it, you can… go in your room and do whatever it is you do in there.”

You nod, a small frown still on your lips.

“‘Sides, you like rabbit stew.”

You did. You didn’t get it often, but you did like it.

“Yeah.” you mumbled, rubbing your collarbone.

He pauses again. “You still don’t like when I lock the door, do you?”

You glance over at it. Then back to him.

“It’s easier now,” you say. “Still… not perfect.”

Joel nods. “Alright. I’ll stop double-lockin’ it at night. Just one. You can check it if you need to.”

He doesn’t say “I trust you,” but you hear it in the space between those words.

You nod again, fiddling with your dress. “I oughta get you some pants. It’s gettin’ to be that time of the year.” Joel thinks out loud, peeling the potatoes with his pocket knife.

You only hum, staring at his hands as they work. The blade glints every so often as it slips under the skin of the potato, curling it off in ribbons. He’s done this before, with the amount of potatoes you’ve got. You can’t help but admire the way he handles the knife, slow and steady, it makes your heart beat a little faster.

Not because you’re scared. Not anymore.

But because there’s something in the way Joel moves– like nothing surprises him, nothing shakes him. Though you might’ve.

Regardless, he carries himself like if the world ended all over again, he’d still know how to cook dinner with whatever scraps are left.

And maybe that’s what unnerves you now. The steadiness.

Maybe you’ve gotten used to him. Too used to the smell of his flannel when you sleep. The way he always leaves a cup of water out for you before bed, just in case. The way he says, “you alright?” like it means more than it should.

You blink. Joel’s still peeling.

“You’re starin’, sweetheart.” he comments.

You feel your face blush. “I’m just tired.”

He nods. Doesn’t push. Just goes back to peeling the potatoes, like he didn’t just catch you ogling his hands.

Dinner is quiet. Not awkward like in previous weeks. Just warm, simple. Joel serves you first without thinking. You don’t comment on it, but it makes your stomach flutter.

You eat, curled into your usual spot at the table, with Joel sitting across from you. You were staring at him, a little too long to brush it off. He doesn’t mention it this time.

“Feet off the chair.” Joel snaps his fingers at you.

You uncurl yourself and sit up at the table. Though it was just you and Joel, he still taught you manners. He didn’t take it lightly when you sat like that at the table. Any other time was fine, but not during dinner.

You find yourself hunching again as you eat. “Slow down.” Joel said.

“This is slow.” you say, your mouth full.

He bites back a smirk, but reminds you again of posture at the table.

“Didn’t teach you to be a damn hunchback.” He grumbled.

You listen anyway, straightening up again, and he nods in approval.

You tossed and turned for what felt like hours. It was likely just half an hour, but how would you know?

You stare at your bedroom door. You huff, getting up. You don’t plan to move, but your feet do anyway.

You see Joel’s door is cracked open down the hallway, light flickers faintly from the inside. He’s still awake.

You knock softly, even though it’s stupid. Like asking permission to cross some invisible line neither of you has fully acknowledged yet.

Joel’s voice is low. “Come in.”

You push the door open gently.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, flannel draped over his lap, socks off now, his short sleeved t-shirt on display. He looks tired, and it hits you suddenly,-- how safe he looks. Safe in a way that makes you ache a bit.

“I can’t sleep.” you say.

He nods understandingly.

“You can sit if you want.”

You do. The bed dips slightly beneath you as you settle beside him, knees close but not touching. For a while, neither of you say anything.

Then Joel shifts, lying back with a quiet grunt. His arm stretches behind his head, the other resting across on his stomach. His fingers flex once, his knuckles cracking.

You don’t move from your spot.

He glances up at you, looking at your back. You’re wearing the only set of pajamas you have. A shirt about a size too big, and shorts a size too small.

“You layin’ down, or you gonna sit there all night?”

You huff under your breath. You lie down anyway. Not quiet touching Joel, but not quite separate.

The room smells like wood. The mold smell subsided the longer you’ve been here, but maybe you’re just getting used to it.

You shift as subtly as you can, laying on your stomach, a few inches between you and Joel. You turn your head to look at him. He’s still staring up at the ceiling, the dim candle light shadowing his face.

He shifts–barely–but his fingers brush yours between you, a soft touch that lingers longer than it should.

You don’t pull away.

And neither does he.

You close your eyes.

Minutes pass.

You feel it when he breathes your name–not a question, not a warning. Just your name, spoken like a habit he never meant to form.

You answer by curling your pinky around his. Sleep takes you like that.

Over the next few weeks, Joel starts to teach you more, and you.. Well, you yearn more for him. Like a lamb following its shepherd around, not leaving his side. Joel doesn’t comment on it. Though, he makes the mental note of changes in you. Back in Boston, you did fend for yourself more. Only came to him in desperate times. Now, you come to him when you get a splinter. Boston you would’ve just toughed it out.

You think back on the past few weeks, little moments that you and Joel shared.

Like the first time Joel handed you a knife.

He didn’t make a speech. Just stood behind you in the garden, the weight of it pressed into your palm.

“You hold it like this,” he murmured, voice close to your ear, rough with sleep. “No tighter than you have to. Don’t choke it.”

His hands covered yours for a second, guiding the grip. Then they were gone.

You didn’t cut anything that day, but you kept the knife.

You think about the night you left one of your dresses to dry by the fire and he tossed you a clean shirt without looking.

“Didn’t know if you had another,” he’d said, eyes fixed on the stew pot like it might combust if he blinked.

The shirt hung boast your knees. It smelled like cedar and something older– something like home.

You think about the way he says your name now.

Not sharp. Not in warning. Just… when the room is too quiet and he’s trying to make sure you’re okay.

You remember burning your hand on the kettle and how he didn’t yell, didn’t scold– just took your hand gently and ran it under water, his thumb rubbing soft circles over your wrist.

“Gotta be careful,” he said. “Can’t fix you if you break.” he’d joked. Which made your tear stained cheeks smile a bit.

And lately, he touches you more. Not a lot. Not in a way that means too much. But in ways that settle you.

A hand to your lower back when he brushes past. Knuckle grazing yours when he passes you the plate. His flannel jacket, draped over your shoulders when you’re out in the morning air.

None of it was asked for.

But all of it, you retained. You find yourself almost grateful for him.

Tonight, when the candle light burns low and the wind scratches soft at the windows, you lie beside him in silence. Again.

Lately you’d abandoned your room since you slept in Joel’s bed that night weeks ago. In his fashion, he doesn’t comment on it, or ask why you sleep in his bed. If anything, he’s a little smug that you choose to do so.

The distance between you is familiar now. Not far, but not close enough. Your hands rest over your stomach, the tips of your fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do.

Joel shifts beside you, the mattress dipping with his weight. You hear him exhale, long and quiet. He’s not asleep.

Neither are you, clearly.

Maybe it’s the warmth of the room. Or maybe it’s everything you’ve remembered–all the ways he’s touched you lately, soft and steady.

Whatever it is, your hand moves before your mind can catch up.

You reach out and press your fingertips to the back of his hand.

Joel doesn’t move.

Not at first.

Then his fingers turn beneath yours, so his palm faces up.

You hesitate, But then you slide your hand into his.

He curls his fingers around yours. Firm and grounding.

No one says a word.

But you can feel what is unsaid.

In the steadiness of his thumb brushing across your knuckles.

He’s still Joel.

But right now, he’s your Joel.

You stare at the ceiling, your heart thudding louder than it should.

“I used to think you were just mean,” you whisper, your voice barely heard in the dark.

“Back in Boston. You never smiled. You never looked at me too long. Though you hated me.”

Joel doesn’t move. Nor speak.

You breathe in through your nose slowly, then out your mouth.

“But then you’d fix things. Bring me ration cards. Trade for batteries when my flashlight died. Clock anyone who’d clocked me.” you almost chuckle.

You turn your face toward him–eyes adjusting now, just enough to make out the rise of his chest.

“I think I get it now,” you say, gently. “I think it’s just how you are.”

Still nothing from him. Not a shift. Not even a breath you can track now.

You swallow, noting at his silence, but he didn’t move from your hand in his.

“I don’t-” you start, then stop. “This is the only thing that doesn’t scare me.” You meant him. He’s the only thing that doesn’t scare you anymore.

And then, after a long pause, you continue.

“Uh, I’m okay with being yours. If that’s something you’d want.”

You don’t expect an answer. Not now. Your eyes close, then the weight of your exhaustion pulls at you.

You’re almost asleep–drifting at the edge of it–when Joel finally speaks.

“I ain’t ever stopped.”

You blink, but don’t move. His thumb brushes along your knuckles once, twice, and you know–without question–that he meant every word.

You wake up warm.

Too warm.

Your cheek is pressed to a shirt– Joel’s chest, slow and rising. His arm is heavy across your back, his hand splayed wide like it’s been there all night. He’s not asleep. But he doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Eventually, he shifts, his hand brushing your side. Not possessive. Like he’s reminding himself you’re okay.

When you sit up, he lets you go without a word.

The kitchen is bright. The light outside is gold and soft, the kind that makes everything look gentler than it is.

You’re standing by the counter, barefoot in the shirt Joel gave. It hits mid-thigh, worn at the sleeves. Joel moves behind you, not touching, but close enough to feel.

“Coffee?” he mutters, reaching for the kettle beside you.

You nod, rubbing at your eyes. “Please.”

He grabs the grounds from an old jar, then lights the stove to boil the water.

He slides a mug to you, as you both wait for the water to boil.

He leans against the counter, a few feet away from you, arms crossed.

You don’t say anything for a long time.

Then: “Did you mean it?”

Joel lifts a brow, “Mean what?”

You look at the kettle on the stove. “What you said. Last night.” Had he lost his memory? Old man.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I meant it.”

You nod, swallowing around the heat that rises in your chest.

Your eyes meet his.

His drift down. Your bare legs. Then the hem of his shirt. The red imprint of his shirt soft on your cheek.

His jaw clicks.

“Don’t look at me like that.” You murmur into your head as you rub your lips.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

He tilts his head, then scratches his beard, “You said you were, didn’t you?”

You blink, then part your lips to speak-

The kettle steams, and it jerks both of your attention back to it.

Joel grabs his mug, then yours, pouring coffee into it. As if a borderline love confession didn’t just take place. Maybe not love. You don’t love Joel. Right..?

You take the mug when he slides it back over to you. You stay still, cup warm in your hands, stomach flipping in a way you can’t name.

Because maybe you want him to protect you.

And maybe… you want more than that.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

And you know he won’t. Not yet.

Not until you reach for him again.

#joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #the last of us #joel miller smut #tlou #ali's cranium #mean!joel #dark!joel #darkish he's not that mean #hes a sweetie #he loves you baby girl #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader

256 notes · View notes