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wintaerbaer · 10 months

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seven storms (jjk) (m)

summary: As a young woman of considerable wealth, it has always been your father's expectation that you would marry one of the local aristocrats once you came of age. Your family's stable hand? Certainly not an option.

pairing: Jungkook x Reader

rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

genres: forbidden love, angst, a bit of fluff, also a bit of smut

word count: 9.0k

warnings: ambiguous time periods, oc’s mom passed away when she was a child, parental strain and turbulent relationships, it’s not explicitly stated but bang sihyuk is oc’s dad, find the ‘seven’ reference, BRIEF SMUT (in the form of missionary, cowgirl, and implied unprotected, which you should not do)

a/n: this one is for the obs discord server, who came up with this plot and then flattered me until i agreed to write it lol

MASTERLIST // Read on ao3

It begins with a clap of thunder.

The dark clouds had rolled in quickly during your morning ride, the rain holding off on its looming descent even as the wind picks up and throws strands of hair across your face. You try to cling to every minute you have left before the downpour, savoring your alone time and the peaceful quiet of the morning. It may even be worth getting a little wet, you think as you watch the new stable hand effortlessly sling a bay of hale over his shoulder, for the chance to savor every moment of your daily ritual before the weather inevitably forces you back inside.

You love the simple pleasures of fresh air and the soft rustle of the grass.

Jungkook glances at you from afar as he continues his work, and even at this range, you can see his muscles shifting under the fabric of his shirt. It’s been roughly a month since your father hired him to tend the stable on your family’s estate, and while he hasn’t been unpleasant, giving you a friendly but silent nod each day as you prepare for your ride, he’s mostly kept his distance.

Today, however, is a different story entirely as a boom sounds out above your head. Your horse, a young stallion named Bam who is still being broken, startles at the noise and begins to nervously pace, tamping down the dirt under his hooves. The reins wrap tighter around your fingers as you attempt to take firmer control, but when a second crack emanates through the sky, the horse begins to buck in an attempt to throw you off.

The laws of physics cease to exist, time simultaneously speeding up and slowing down as you work to maintain your balance, clenching your muscles around the horse's back. A particularly violent whip of his head rips the reins free, and all you can do is try to flatten yourself to his back and hold on for dear life.

A pair of unfamiliar hands shoots into your peripheral vision, stroking firmly at the stallion's head and neck until he's easing back down, his erratic motions steadying until you can safely sit back up and face your rescuer.

"Are you alright?" His eyes scan your body for injury, moving from your face all the way down to your toes and back up.

You use the time to perform your own appraisal. The first thing you notice is that while he had immediately struck you as handsome when you first saw him around the property, he’s even more attractive up close: all soft eyes, perfect lips, and a tiny scar on his cheek that only adds to his allure. Add to that strong arms, broad shoulders, and a section of clearly-chiseled chest peeking out of his shirt, and you have to admit to yourself that you’re already halfway gone.

“Y/N?” His eyebrows dip as he frowns, clearly suspecting some kind of head injury as a result of your silence.

“You know my name.”

His expression turns quizzical at your bizarre answer. “I work for you. Of course I know your name.”

“You work for my father.”

“And you by extension.”

Your spine stiffens with rebellion. “I have no interest in bossing men around.”

“Why not?” He taps his knuckles on the saddle. “I see you come out to ride every morning. I could certainly tack up a horse for you in advance.”

“Because I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

His perfect lips curl at the edges. “I don’t doubt that.”

Your heart stutters a rhythm behind your ribcage, voice muted by the appearance of a dimple that dips into his left cheek. It’s not often you find yourself speechless, and the sheer unfamiliarity of it has you on the brink of a flight response; you begin to gently guide your horse back towards the stable, Jungkook walking at your side. To your surprise, he doesn’t stay quiet.

“So how long have you been riding?”

You peek down at him, but he’s not looking at you as he scratches the stallion under his muzzle. “Since I was five,” you say. “My father arranged for private instruction after my mother died. Thought I could use the distraction.”

You figured he already knew about your mother’s passing due to her absence from the estate, and his unfazed expression seems to confirm as much. Still, in a gentle voice he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t make her sick.” Another low rumble echoes through the sky, but Jungkook is prepared, already smoothing his hand over the Bam’s neck again. “What about you? How long have you worked with horses?”

He chuckles, and your belly warms. “Since before I could walk. I grew up on a ranch. Have probably spent more time around horses than people—not that I’m complaining.” A shrug pulls his shirt tight across his bulging shoulders. “Animals are better company, in my opinion.”

“You say while striking up conversation with a stranger.”

Pink blooms on his cheeks, but, to his credit, he recovers quickly. “Beautiful women are the exception.”

Heat rises to your own face, and you choose to ignore his comment as much as it has butterflies taking off behind your bellybutton. “I understand what you mean though. That’s why I’m out here every day.”

“You like the outdoors?”

“Very much,” you say. “The smell of the wind, the feeling of the sunshine on my skin and the earth under my shoes. I like to ride down to the sunflower fields and watch how they turn themselves towards the light. There’s a strange sense of kinship there.” You’re not sure what drives you to share all this with a man you’ve just met, but the way he nods along as if he agrees sets your heart at ease. “And the horses are, in fact, good company.”

He laughs again, tipping his head back to look at you. His dark hair brushes his forehead, jaw cutting so sharp a line that the temptation immediately hits to trace it with either your fingers or lips—you’re not sure which. You don’t even care if you’ll bleed.

It strikes you at that moment that you’re in a world of trouble.

The skies open up, the rain instantly pouring down in fat drops as you briskly rush your horse the rest of the way into the stable, Jungkook hot on your heels. You dismount once you’re inside and begin to untack the stallion, moving the reins up and over so you can remove the bridle first. Jungkook quickly steps in to help unhitch the saddle, and while you’d normally be inclined to make a fuss about how you can handle your own gear, you find that you much enjoy his quiet companionship. You like watching the way his gentle hands artfully work to simultaneously manage the equipment and relax the horse, giving the sense that he’s offering assistance only because he loves his work and not to patronize you as a woman (you’ve seen one too many men try to step in because they believe you to be incompetent).

Once Bam has been settled into his stall, you turn back to your companion and are met with big brown eyes already gazing at you, hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Thank you for your help today,” you say. “I may be an experienced rider, but that also means I know enough to understand that you likely saved me from an injury earlier. So thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He looks suddenly subdued, nervous now without the horse as a buffer. “And if I may be forward, I hope I made a good first impression. I wouldn’t want a beautiful woman like yourself to think I overstepped.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned beautiful women now. You speak with them a lot?”

“Not recently,” he says, dimple making another appearance. “Only one.” His voice drops a decibel, flirtation giving way to sincerity. “But truly, I do just like to help. I am sure you are perfectly capable, but just because we can do something doesn’t mean we always need to do it alone. If I can help ease a burden, then I would like to do so.”

Warmth floods through you like the rain currently running off the roof, and before you can even think about it any further, you find yourself nodding. “Very well.”

The smile he gives you brightens your day more than a hundred miles of sunflower fields ever could.

“I won’t keep you then.” He begins walking backwards towards the troughs where most of the horses have currently congregated. “But I do very much look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

You do, too. And when you show up to the stable the next morning (and the next, and the next), you already have a horse saddled up for you, a single sunflower resting on the seat.

Raindrops clatter in endless sheets off the metal roof of the stable, the ringing sound blending with the blasts of thunder and lightning overhead to mask your groans as Jungkook steadily thrusts into you.

It’s been three months since your flirtation culminated in you asking him to join you for a ride one morning.

Three months since he accompanied you down to the sunflower fields, pulled you into their depths, and kissed you like his life depended on it.

Three months since the rain became your closest friend, providing you the cover you need for your more intimate moments—such as this evening when you’d arrived at the stables to find him laying down a fresh layer of straw, the flex of his arm insisting that you needed him now.

The patter of the rain ensures his moans are for your ears and your ears alone.

“Do you think the horses mind?” he mumbles into the sensitive skin of your neck as he presses even deeper into you and steals your breath, his hands cupping your ass as he grinds his hips.

“I doubt it,” you gasp, digging your nails into his back. “They’ve kept secrets for me before.”

He laughs, and you relish in the feel of the vibration of his chest pressed to yours, as if the sound is being passed directly from his lungs to your heart. “Am I your secret then?”

“My favorite secret.”

He pulls back to look at you then with wide eyes. You don’t know when it happened, when he became the absolute center of your universe, but you also know that you’ve never been this happy in your life, never felt as whole as you do with him. So you stare at him right back, absorb every angle of his face as he brushes the hair away from your eyes and kisses you with an unusual delicacy in comparison to the rough pace of his hips.

“I love you.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, but your blood heats as if the words are brand new.

He rises up above you then, leans back so he can bend your knees to your chest and pound into you in earnest, and you’d swear the roof has disappeared and you can see every star in the sky. Galaxies swirl, planets align, and it’s not long before you’re falling over the edge and he’s following you with a deep groan—a harmony to the thunder that surrounds you.

The two of you collapse into a heap, and he pulls you into his side, your cheek pressed to his still-heaving chest. It’s serene, the consonance of his breathing alongside the tapping of the rain and the occasional snuffle from the horses.

“So, the horses are keeping secrets for you, huh?” It’s a quiet question, vulnerable as he gazes at you with tender devotion. The same stars you saw minutes ago twirl in his eyes. “Can I be told one?”

“Are you a horse?”

A breath of a laugh: “Well you’ve certainly ridden me before.”

He has a point there.

You hum to yourself as you think before asking, “What is your dream?”

“What does that have to do with—“

“Answer mine, and I’ll answer yours.”

Calloused fingers trace patterns on your hip, a faraway look taking over his expression as he envisions some distant future. “To own my own farm,” he says. “I want to be my own boss. No more having to serve others.” A smile dances at the corners of his mouth. “And I’d be able to provide for my family—have a few kids and teach them the ropes, just like my dad did with me.”

Your brow dips in confusion. “You won’t inherit your father’s farm?”

“No, it’ll go to my older brother.” He squeezes your hip on a sigh. “If I want my own farm, it’s up to me to earn it.”

“You’ll do it,” you say, and you believe it with every fiber of your heart. “I know you will. You’re the hardest working man I’ve ever met.”

It’s not a lie by any stretch. You’ve spent plenty an afternoon telling your father that you’re going to read out on the veranda as it gives you an inconspicuous way to watch Jungkook work. He’s diligent, tireless, and you’ve often used the need to bring him water as an excuse to go down and spend time with him, seeing the sweat drip off his forehead as he single-handedly trains and cares for the horses.

His eyes become glassy, a gruff clearing of his throat as he pushes the tears back and grazes his lips over yours in a gentle kiss instead. “Thank you.” But before you can deepen the kiss and distract him, he shifts ever so slightly away, a glint in his eye. “Now you.”

You puff a sigh into his chest—bold of you to think you’d be able to sneak one past such an observant stare. Still, your secrets don’t usually come forth easily, buried deep within the cavity of your ribcage so even you don’t have to dwell on them too long.

Something about those doe eyes, though, render you ever vulnerable.

“Mine is similar to yours. I want to be my own boss.”

His brows pull together. “No one would expect a lady like you to work.”

“Not for a job, for my life,” you say, irritation forcing the words from your lips now. “I don’t want my father to dictate the path my life takes. I want to choose it, whatever it is, for myself. To be in charge of my own fate.”

Jungkook is quiet for a long moment, teeth dipping into his lower lip as he considers your words. It’s something else you’ve grown to love about him, the way he stops and thinks before he reacts. So unlike your father who has always been nothing but big emotions and snap judgments.

“What would you choose?” is the question he eventually comes out with, and the pads of his fingers trace the jut of your hipbone like he’s memorizing it.

Well that’s another matter entirely. “I don’t know. Just not what my father wants for me.”

“And what would that be?”

“To marry one of the rich dandies in town,” you blurt, and his hands still. “That’s always been the expectation that’s been set since I was a girl—that my family would arrange a suitable match for me.” You’re practically spitting now, anger simmering through you. “Suitable, of course, meaning wealthy.”

“Is that so bad?” He asks it quietly, insecurity poorly masked in the way his voice trembles ever so slightly. “Some people would do almost anything to be in your position.”

You scoff. “There’s more to life than money.”

“Like what?”

“Fresh air, sunshine, the smell of the morning dew.” You tap his chest with everything you list off, as if they’re all housed within the framework of his torso. “The sound of the rain bouncing off windows, the bright yellow of sunflowers after their first bloom, watching a foal get its legs under it for the first time. Love.” You press your hand to his heart with that one, feeling the strong beat of it under your palm. “That’s the greatest thing.”

He snags your fingers, bringing them to his lips and kissing each one in succession before his hand slips into your hair so he can join his mouth with yours. The kiss is slow, thorough, his tongue trailing along your lower lip with determination as he drags you across his body until you’re straddling him.

“You’re right about that,” he murmurs before gripping your waist tightly so he can push back into you, the rain pouring on and on.

“No!”

Your father stands up so suddenly that his chair topples over with a crash, Jungkook sitting across from him wearing a look of even-keeled surprise; his eyes widen a fraction, but his overall posture remains resolved and confident.

“You dare have the audacity to even ask—“ He chokes on his words, spit flying from the edges of his lips, before pointing a finger towards where you stand stunned in the corner. “And you! You’ve been fraternizing with this riffraff? After everything I’ve taught you? Everything I did to raise you? You go and choose to associate with this—this—“ You’re worried his eyes might fall out of his head with the way they bulge as he grasps for a word, vein in his neck visibly thumping as he finds it. “Lowlife!”

“You’re wrong!” you scream as Jungkook continues to sit quietly at the dinner table. You’ll be damned if you’d just stand by and allow him to be spoken about in that way. “He’s an incredible man. He works hard, he’s respectful, and he loves me, Father. Not because of my money, but because I’m me.” Your steps echo off of the tall, looming arches of the ceiling as you move closer to Jungkook. “And I love him.”

“No, no, absolutely not. You’re only twenty years old. You don’t even know what love is,” your father barks before turning his beady eyes on Jungkook again. “You’ll never marry my daughter. You do not have my permission nor my blessing. That’s final.”

“Father—“

“You’re also fired,” he spits. “You can say goodbye and that’s the end of it. I want you off my property.” Then he’s storming out of the dining room, leaving you and Jungkook in heavy silence.

It’s only a handful of seconds before Jungkook is rising to his feet and striding from the room and out the front door, you hot on his heels. The steady drizzle soaks your clothes in a matter of moments, but you don’t even feel the way they cling to your skin, focused solely on the man in front of you.

“Jungkook!” you call, but he doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn to face you until you manage to grab ahold of his hand and tug.

You thought he’d be distressed, angry, perhaps even crying. Instead, you’re met with intensity, a fierce determination simmering under the warm brown of his irises as his gaze bores into yours and almost has you faltering.

“Jungkook, I…” You wring your hands in front of you, watch the rain run in rivulets off the ends of his hair. “We can make it through this. I can convince him—“

“You can’t.”

You huff in frustration. “Then we’ll run away together! I’ll come with you and we’ll—“

“No, Y/N.” He stills the frantic movements of your hands with his own, drawing you towards the warmth of his body until you’re nearly chest-to-chest. “I have no savings right now, no way to support the two of us. We’d be out on the street in a matter of days.” He shakes his head, brushes a kiss to your knuckles. “No. You need to stay here for now. But this isn’t the end of us, I swear to you. I am going to work myself to the bone—until I have nothing left to give. Until I can buy my own farm, my own house, and give you everything you need.” Your foreheads press together, drops of water clinging to his lips and drawing your eye as he speaks. “I will provide for you someday, love you to the best of my ability. Just give me time.”

The heavens open above you, the relentless downpour backed by the cacophony of the skies as you finally move to kiss him. He tastes of rainwater and sweat, the fragrant aroma of sunflowers and nights spent tangled together in the stables. You savor the feel of his lips against yours, commit to memory the way his tongue begs for entrance, the way you grant it with a groan that feels like both a prayer and a curse.

With a final, resounding crack, he’s pulling away as you cling to the rough skin of his fingertips until the very last fraction of a second, arms stretched to their absolute limit. And when he turns his back on you, shirt plastered to his skin, you’d swear you can hear the horses raging in the stable, the rumble of hooves and agitated whinnies ringing in your ears long after he’s disappeared from view.

The first letter comes on a Wednesday roughly six week later, written on carefully folded parchment paper in small, neat handwriting. It surprises you, coming from a man who spends all day tending horses and tossing around hay bales. You receive the letter from the carrier quietly, rushing it up to your room and waiting to read until the concealment of night has fallen and you’re confident your father has gone to bed.

My Love,

I must admit that I am not quite sure how long it has been since I last saw you. Perhaps only a handful of weeks, surely, but every hour, minute, and second has felt like an eternity. I miss you, sweetheart. I miss the sound of your laugh. I miss the way you’d look each morning, strolling down from the house with a bounce in your step and the early sunshine bouncing off of your hair. Or perhaps you are just that radiant. I would believe it, you know, that light emits from your very smile, and I know I feel warmer whenever I am around you.

Look at me; look at the man you've turned me into. I've always considered myself a simple being, glad to indulge in the dirt and physical labors of the outdoors, and yet you have me waxing poetic like one of the men in those romance novels you would always pretend to read on the veranda. (Yes, my dear, I noticed. Your stares are not so subtle.) I am lovesick, homesick, and it’s all because of you. Because my life truly began the day I looked up and saw Bam struggling with you on his back and just knew I had to help you (tell that dear beast that I miss him by the way).

Now, I must live my life forlorn, but not without purpose. Please know that I am doing everything in my power to get back to you, and I will not rest until I am holding you in my arms again. I have secured a job at a ranch several towns over; it’s good work with decent pay, and every cent that does not go towards the barest necessities is being saved for us. One day, my love. One day we will have a house and a farm, and I will be able to love you openly, with no need for secrets or the cover of rain.

In the meantime, just know how terribly I miss you, and though we are separated by distance, I hold you in my heart each day. On my way each morning from my lodgings to the ranch, I pass by a field of sunflowers. I know it cannot possibly be true, but it feels like every golden face turns towards me as I go, and darling, I’d swear I see you in every one.

One day, my love.

Until then, always yours,

J.K.

It becomes something of a ritual: while you used to spend your days out on the veranda pretending to read so that you could watch Jungkook from afar, you now settle on the front porch with a book each afternoon in the hopes of catching the local mail carrier. Jungkook’s letters come slowly but consistently every couple of weeks, and each time a letter does arrive, you spend the night drafting your own by candlelight to send back to him.

He tells you about his new job, how he’s working on a larger farm now with several other laborers. The veterans are kind to him and teaching him a lot, he says, and it eases the ache in your heart a fraction to know that he seems happy where he is and well taken care of. You write back about your favorite books that you’ve been reading and how the horses have been (you insist that you can tell Bam misses Jungkook too). But both of your letters are saturated with sentiments of love and how dearly you miss each other, reminding yourselves that every day that passes is one day closer to you two being reunited, whenever that may be.

Your father, meanwhile, proceeds as if Jungkook never existed, hiring a new stable hand who begins his work mere days after Jungkook has left. This man is middle aged, gray already streaking through his hair, and you can’t help but feel it’s a deliberate choice on your father’s part lest you fall for another lowly laborer. And though you know it is not his fault, you barely speak with the man outside of a few curt pleasantries when you go for your ride each morning.

You persist in your morning rides out of habit, but you find that they don’t bring you the same kind of joy that they used to. The grass isn’t quite as green, the air is often stifling, and the sunflowers droop where they used to stand tall against the blue skies. On one day, roughly six months after Jungkook’s firing, you’re once again forced back inside early due to rain, the storm dampening your already dreary mood. It takes a turn for the worst when you hear your father call your name the moment you step in the door and plummets entirely off a cliff when you trudge into the dining room to see a man sitting at the table.

Seokjin is not entirely unfamiliar to you—your families run in the same circles after all—but he is ultimately little more than a stranger, the two of you having only exchanged a handful of polite words at dinner parties and the like. All that you truly know of him is that he is the heir to the wealthiest trading company on this side of the country and that his father is expected to transition the entire operation to him over the next few years.

Even so, Seokjin greets you with a sense of intimate familiarity, standing at your approach and brushing his lips against the back of your hand before you can stop him.

“A pleasure to see you, Y/N, as always.”

You know that social etiquette requires you to return the sentiment, but instead, you find yourself looking between Seokjin and your father, trying to figure out his purpose here.

“What is going on?”

Your father grimaces at your rudeness but opts to ignore it. “Seokjin has come here with a rather exciting opportunity, Y/N, if you would take a seat and listen to him.”

However, you remain standing, spine stiff and wary eyes shifting to the man in front of you with his finely tailored clothes and perfectly combed hair. He, for what it’s worth, doesn’t cower under your stony gaze, maintaining an air of utmost confidence as he states, “Y/N, I would like for you to marry me.”

“No.”

Your answer is immediate and blunt, coming so quickly that Seokjin barely reacts—only the tiniest dip of his mouth as if he doesn’t believe he heard you correctly. But your father leaps to his feet, face red with shock and frustration.

“Y/N, you sit down and listen to the man.”

“I don’t need to listen,” you snap. “My answer is no.”

Seokjin registers your words then, face morphing into a deep frown of disbelief as your father hurries to intervene, grabbing you around the arm to pull you out of the dining room and turning on you the moment you are out of earshot.

“Insolent girl! That man will soon be one of the most powerful in the country—nay, the world! Do you understand the opportunity he is offering you? The life he is offering? How dare you refuse him!”

“Whatever life he is offering is one I want no part of,” you argue, pulling your arm from his grasp to wrap them across your chest. “I have no interest in being married to a man like that. I want to be with someone who loves me.”

He goes deathly still for a moment, drawing connections in his head until you see the moment the realization hits him. “This is about that lousy stable boy, isn’t it?”

You say nothing, only hug yourself tighter and try to swallow down the sudden lump in your throat.

“That’s it, yes? You’re still holding onto some hope that he will come back for you and what? The two of you will go off and live in some hovel? What could he possibly offer you?” he snarls. “No, Y/N. That vermin is gone. You have a chance—a real chance—at a future here, and I’ll be damned if I let you throw it away for the idea of some lower class scum.”

As his words sink in, a chill passes through your body that’s quickly replaced with a white-hot anger, your hands dropping to your sides as you straighten your back in defiance.

“Whether Jungkook returns or not,” you assert, “please be assured that I will never, ever, marry one of your suitors. I will die before I become a mere pawn for your business deals.”

Your father stares at you incredulously, eyes practically bursting from his head. “Business deals? I am looking out for you. So that you can live the luxurious life a child of mine deserves.”

“The life I deserve is the one which I want,” you exclaim. “And these rich dullards are not it.”

Final word given, you spin on your heel in emphasis and march off to your room, leaving your father to clumsily patch things up in the dining hall with a humbled and deeply befuddled Seokjin.

The letters stop two years in.

A month passes, then two, then three before you begin to really worry. Another four gone in a blink before you start to consider that you may never actually hear from him again.

For a while, you continue to write to him, thinking that at the very least, if he’s moved to a new job, someone from his old ranch may forward them along if they know where he’s gone to. But after a year of silence transpires, the mail carrier shaking his head at you each day as you rush to meet him outside your house, true dread sets in.

Your address hasn’t changed, which means that he’s stopped writing to you for some reason. Is it possible that he’s moved on? Met another woman perhaps and chosen to settle down? Or…could it be something worse? Your mind hesitates to even go down this path, the terror seeping into your bones, but the thought creeps in late at night when you’re at your most vulnerable that something may have happened to him. Work accidents, illness—any number of dangerous things could have taken him from you without you even knowing. Then again, he sounded healthy in his final letter to you, no word at all of him being ill, and you’d like to think he would’ve arranged for someone to contact you if some tragedy had befallen him.

You conclude, then, that he must have given up. And really, after years of hoping for a shift, for some change in fortune for your futures, you cannot entirely blame him. If anything, you just wish you had seen the signs sooner, sensed some kind of shift in tone that would have prepared you for his sudden silence. His last letter, though, had been much of the same—more updates on his ranching job mixed in with poetic phrases about his love for you. You read it endlessly, poring over the words for some indication that his feelings for you had waned, sitting huddled in a hidden corner of the stables as rain pounds down against the tin roof. Instead, it just makes your heart ache to remind you of love found and lost, his final words haunting you as time continues to drag on to your dismay.

As the months tick by, you keep your promise to your father, steadfastly refusing each suitor that comes to call for you: Jung Hoseok, Kim Namjoon, and even Min Yoongi, who shows up in your dining room every evening for a fortnight before finally accepting your refusal. Meanwhile, you move through your days as if by design, going through the motions without feeling like you’re actually alive. Food is tasteless, your books void of thought, and the skies have certainly lost their color. You find that you actually prefer rainy days now, often taking walks through the drizzle and allowing the droplets of water to slide over your skin and caress you as he once did. Sometimes, it almost makes you feel as if he’s there beside you—memories of thunder and slick kisses enveloping your thoughts and soaking you from the inside out.

No fewer than seven years pass this way, with you haunting the premises of your home while your father begins to complain about you becoming a leech and a burden. You begin to question it yourself, wondering if it may be too much to waste away like this, when, three days after your twenty-seventh birthday, a discovery has you running from your father’s house and never looking back.

It’s another dreary, rainy day, and you, wanting to soak in the full effect of the emblematic weather as it pertains to your mood, have once again parked yourself on the front porch with a book. Your father passed you on his way out earlier, casting a scathing look that you didn’t even bother to grant any attention—you’ve long grown accustomed to his contempt and futile glares.

A little past midday, you glance up at the sound of a person approaching, their footsteps ricocheting off the front steps. Park Jimin comes to a halt under the porch’s cover, gazing at you curiously as if wondering why you are outside in this weather at all. However, if he finds your behavior strange, he doesn’t say anything, a choice which comes of no surprise to you. One of your father’s youngest business partners, you’ve always liked Jimin during the times that you’ve interacted with him. He’s quiet, polite, and has never made an attempt at courting you, always respecting the boundaries that many other young men have tried to cross over the years.

That being said, you’re inclined to at least offer him a greeting, acknowledging his presence with a mannered, “Hello, Mr. Park.”

“Good day,” he responds with a small bow in your direction. “Is your father at home?”

“No, he had to attend a business meeting with Mr. Kim this morning.” You frown as his face falls, a touch of panic widening his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

A delicate finger rises to rub at his temple. “Ah, I’m supposed to be finalizing a contract with Hybe Trading Company later this afternoon,” he says. “Your father told me to come pick up the documents beforehand.”

“He may be back soon,” you guess. Your father didn’t give an indication of exactly when he would return, but you do know his meeting with Kim Taehyung wasn’t supposed to last all day.

“I may not be able to take that risk.” He chews at his lip, thinking. “Is it possible that he left the contracts for me somewhere? Might you be able to check?”

Your jaw drops a fraction at his request—you could count on one hand the number of times that you’ve been in your father’s office. “I don’t think—“

“Please, Y/N,” Jimin begs. “We can’t afford to lose this partnership.”

The desperation in his expression has you acquiescing, and so you lead him inside and tell him to wait in the entryway as you head to your father’s office on the second floor.

The room is arguably the grandest in the house, with magnificent windows that give a full view of the estate’s grounds and tall bookshelves packed with your father’s collection of texts. The finest rugs protect the hardwood under your feet, and at the center of the room sits a monstrous yet beautiful mahogany desk with a plush chair at its back.

You move to the desk first, skimming the documents scattered on top for something that has the trading company’s name on it. But all you see are invoices, shipping records, and maps of different trading routes marked with your father’s notes, and lightly shuffling through the papers comes up fruitless as well.

The first desk drawer you open contains a series of highly-organized ledgers, so you quickly move on to the second, which has the same. The third drawer reveals a reserve of desk and writing supplies, while the fourth, finally, contains a mess of paper.

You rummage through the clutter, still not finding anything that seems to be the contract Jimin is looking for, and are about to give up when a stack of letters buried at the back of the compartment has you freezing, the small, neat handwriting chilling you to the bone.

Pulling the stack out with shaking hands, you quickly realize that there are a few dozen, all postmarked no more than two months apart between each one. Collapsing backwards into the desk chair, you read frantically, quickly realizing just how wrong you were about Jungkook giving up on you:

My Dearest, it’s been a while since I’ve heard from you, but I pray your letters were simply lost in transit…

I’m incredibly pleased to let you know that I’ve received a promotion. The owner of the farm, Mr. Lee, has taken a liking to me and has shifted me to a more considerable role with additional pay. I’m saving every bit I can…

My Love, I miss you deeply. And while your silence pains me to no end, I hope it is a mere misunderstanding. If you do not wish to hear from me ever again, only say the word and I will stop writing to you and remove myself from your life entirely, albeit with a heavy heart…

I still have some ways to go, but my savings are increasing exponentially, and I am learning more than ever. Mr. Lee has been teaching me about the business side of things and helping me make connections. What a wonder to have a boss who fully supports your aspirations! He insists he will be able to help me in my endeavors, and call me naive, but I believe it to be true. Rest assured, love, that I am steadfastly working hard for you, for us, and for our future…

My Darling Y/N, my heart aches to not read your words and hear your thoughts. But since you have not yet rejected me outright, I can only assume that your silence is involuntary or that it comes with deep hesitation. Whatever the reason, please know that I love you, I miss you, and I am not giving up on us unless you tell me so…

And finally, the shortest letter dated almost year back:

Y/N,

I don’t have the words to describe my feelings so I will keep it brief: I did it. If this letter finds its way to you and you wish to find me, I eagerly await you at our home…

The location is scribbled in a tangle of text, his usually neat writing askew as if he was shaking when he wrote it, and the words land with the force of a thousand bricks in your chest—the weight of seven years apart, the agony of your separation, finally culminating in this revelation.

The door to the office bangs open, and you look up, heart already racing with the discovery of the letters, to see your father looming in the doorway, face painted with rage.

“What in the hell are you doing in my private office?!”

You’re on your feet in an instant, storming across the room and shaking the final letter in his face. “What is this?!”

He pales a fraction as he registers what you’re holding before stepping further into the room and slamming the door shut. “I should have burned them,” he sneers. “I did what I did to protect you.”

“From what?” You wave your arms wildly, anger and adrenaline winding their way through your limbs. “From happiness? From a man who has spent years working hard to be able to provide for me?”

“I have worked hard to provide for you! And I will not see my legacy be thrown aside for some silly crush!”

Steeling yourself, you pull in a steadying breath for courage. “Then you won’t.”

“And what does that mean?” your father scoffs, trying to look dismissive and intimidating, yet seeming smaller than you’ve ever seen him.

“You won’t see any of it. I’m leaving.”

“What?”

Time stops for a moment, your declaration holding the air in the room hostage as your father fully absorbs your words.

“You ungrateful idiot girl!” your father suddenly exclaims. “After everything I’ve done for you? Fine then! Go live with the dogs, with the filth and slime you apparently love so dearly. I have had it with your thanklessness and impertinence and will be relieved to have you from my sight.” He steps into your personal space, pointing a finger directly at your face so close that you can feel the heat of his ire radiating off of his hand. “But know this: the second you step out of these doors, you will never be welcomed back. Never.”

You waste only two seconds longer, locked in a stubborn stare-down with your father before you rip your gaze away and tear from the room with Jungkook’s letters still in hand. Rushing to your room, you gather his other letters from your desk and stuff them into a bag along with the modest sum of money you had accumulated in case you ever needed to run.

And then you’re a bird in flight, sweeping down the stairs and out the door with nothing but a simple, “Good day, Mr. Park,” as you pass an absolutely bewildered Jimin in the front hall.

The rain is cold and heavy as it soaks through your clothes and hair almost immediately, but you barely feel it—the freedom in your heart and the scribbled location in your bag more than enough to keep you warm as you charge towards home.

The house is beautiful.

Modest, compared to the mansion you grew up in, sure. But arguably more beautiful—with a compact two stories, white wood, and neatly painted green shutters. There’s a wrap-around porch overlooking the acres upon acres of farmland, and even through the rain falling in sheets and blurring your vision, you spy two rocking chairs sitting side-by-side under the awning.

It’s been a long two weeks of journeying to get to this spot, relying on the kindness of strangers to help you navigate to the location Jungkook had written down. Now, standing at the end of the dirt path leading up to what is presumably your new home, you think that you would do it all again in a heartbeat. The past two weeks, the past seven years, all worth it to experience the hope currently blooming in your chest like the sunflowers you spent so much time admiring in the past.

You’re trudging up the path, the dirt and mud smearing along your shoes, when a darkened figure steps out from the fields to your right, hand raised in greeting.

“Good afternoon, miss. Are you lost? I—” He grinds to a halt like he’s walked straight into a brick wall, eyes wide and lips parted as he absorbs the sight of you soaked and disheveled on his property.

“Y/N?” he says it like a prayer, like he believes you’re some kind of hallucination—a phantom come to haunt him through the haze of rainy memories.

You stare at each other through the downpour, and you find yourself studying him, observing the changes that have taken place in the time you’ve been apart. He’s taller and broader than you remember, shoulders stretching wide and drawing your gaze down towards biceps that protrude below his drenched shirt. The lines of his face have sharpened with age—losing some of the youthful roundness that had endeared him to you so quickly—but he’s still starry-eyed as ever, the charming young man from your memories undoubtedly gazing back at you.

“Jungkook,” you murmur, and the spell is suddenly broken. You surge towards each other, meeting in the middle with a flash of lightning. Your arms go around his shoulders, and Jungkook pulls you into him so desperately and with so much force that he lifts you right off your feet, your mouths coming together with a heated urgency.

He’s everything you’ve dreamed of, every desperate memory you’ve been clinging to come back to life. And with every touch, every pass of his hands over your body, you feel yourself rapidly coming back to life too—joy making its way into your lungs and through your bloodstream for the first time since you were twenty years old and kissing this man in your family’s stables.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes against your lips when you finally part. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“You have no idea–”

“I do. Jungkook, I do.”

“You stopped writing—”

“My father,” you rush to say. “He intercepted the letters. I thought you stopped writing. Thought you gave up—”

“Oh, my love, never.” His hands rise to cradle your face. “I never stopped thinking of you. Never stopped dreaming of this.” He kisses you again, slowly this time, savoring every movement of his lips against yours.

You shudder against his chest, the thrill of your reunion rattling your nerves just as a cool wind blows through, and Jungkook pulls back with worry.

“You must be freezing,” he murmurs sweetly. “Come. Let’s get you warmed up inside.”

With an arm wrapped around your waist, as though he’s scared you’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep a hand on you, he guides you the rest of the way to the house, up the front porch steps, and through the front door.

“Welcome home,” Jungkook says.

You’re met first with the smell of pine and cinnamon and an impossibly comforting warmth. The first floor is comprised of a wide-open space, with a small kitchen and dining room to your left and a sitting room to your right that has tall windows and a fireplace that is currently roaring. You move around the room slowly, taking it all in, and when you notice the vase of bright sunflowers sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, you just about melt to the floor.

“I know it’s smaller than you’re used to,” he sheepishly mumbles from the doorway. “But we can expand in the future—”

“It’s perfect, Jungkook.” And it really is, every panel and floorboard evidence of how hard he’s worked, how fiercely your love has endured. “It’s absolutely perfect. I love every bit of it.”

He brightens at that, smile stretching wide. “I’m glad.”

“How did you find it?”

“Well, I bought the property after finally saving enough money. Mr. Lee helped me with the buying process.” He shrugs. “And then I built this.”

You freeze, absolutely stunned. “You what?”

“I built it,” he says simply. “I had some help, of course. But the design is all mine.”

“I…you…” It makes your thoughts spin—the idea that he did all of this. He built a house for you.

“Here, look.” He takes your hand and pulls you into the living room, gesturing at a set of empty shelves against the back wall. “For your books.”

You laugh incredulously, fully overwhelmed at this point. “I didn’t bring any with me.”

“Then we’ll start you a new collection,” he says softly, drawing you towards him.

You reach up to trace his jaw, his brow, his cheekbones—memorizing every line of this beautiful man who dared to make your dreams a reality. “I can’t believe this. Can’t believe you. The things you’ve done.”

“All for you, my love.”

Your heart thumps a steady rhythm in your throat, love and the relief of finally—finally—having him in front of you overpowering your senses until all that exists is you and him; the strain of your former life feels worlds away.

Hands find his chest in a slow migration downwards as the chill of the rain gives way to the heat of the fireplace, and it’s not long before his large hands are wrapping around your hips, a darkness in his irises that wasn’t there a second ago.

“There’s an upstairs, too, I’m assuming?” you whisper, fingers teasing a button on his shirt.

“There is.” He swallows, and you watch the bob of his Adam’s apple like a lure. “Would you like to see it?”

You lean in, skimming your mouth below his without fully joining your lips. “Please.”

Tangling your fingers in his, he practically runs upstairs with you trailing in his wake.

Finally, you think, as he pulls your clothes from your body, climbs over you on the bed, and presses into you with such tender deliberation that you think you’ll combust.

Finally, as you spend the rest of the night wrapped up together, endlessly whispering I love yous back and forth.

Finally, as you wake up in his arms the next day, his face the first thing you see.

Finally, as he pulls out a small box at breakfast, the dainty diamond ring easily the most precious piece of jewelry you’ve ever possessed.

Finally, as he takes you out on the farm and shows you the small field of sunflowers he planted just for you.

Finally, you think, as you sit in one of the rocking chairs on the porch and watch him work from afar. I’m home.

Years Later…

“Mama! Mama look!”

You glance up from your book to where Jungkook and Haneul are currently journeying in the yard. It’s a bright sunny day—the wide expanse of blue sky above unmarred by even a single cloud. Sunshine beams down onto your son’s smiling face where he sits on the back of one of the horses, a too-big cowboy hat on his head and his father at his side for support.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart!” you call. “Just be sure to listen to Papa!”

Jungkook flashes you a grin, the excitement radiating off of him in waves. He’s been talking about teaching Haneul to ride since the day he was born, so you know this means a great deal to him, especially seeing your son’s own energy and enthusiasm. Haneul has always liked the “horsies,” toddling happily around the stables ever since he could walk.

Then again, given who his parents are, that wasn’t much of a surprise.

Jungkook and Haneul finish their loop around the yard, and you hear your husband shower the boy with praise as he lifts him off of the horse’s back.

“Again, again!” Haneul cheers, bouncing in place and causing Jungkook to laugh.

“We will! Just let me check on your mother first.”

He moves comfortably, leisurely as he climbs the porch steps and comes to a rest in front of where you sit. Looming over you, he leans in until he can press a gentle kiss to your lips, reverent in his motions.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. His fingers brush lightly over your belly and its new curve.

“I’m alright,” you say, guiding his hand until his palm is resting flat. “This one is kicking up a storm though.”

As if on cue, you feel a tiny jolt—Jungkook giving a breathless chuckle as he feels the jab himself.

“Go easy on your mother,” he says in the direction of your stomach, rubbing a soft circle into your flesh. “No storms. Clear skies and sunshine.” Then his eyes are back on your face. “Speaking of, I have something for you.”

He reaches behind his back and produces a single sunflower, tucking it behind your ear before giving you one more kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too.” More than the day you met him. More than the day he left. And more than the day you finally made your way here.

“Now I should get back to Haneul before he starts yelling for me.”

You laugh out the brightest sound that’s ever come from your lungs. “Go.”

A warm breeze ripples through the trees, the sound of your son’s giggles and Jungkook’s cheerful exclamations finding their way back to where you sit.

What a beautiful day, you think, setting down your book and getting up to join your family in the golden sunshine.

a/n: thanks for reading! pls don't forget to like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed!

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #jungkook imagines #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #bts angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts fic #bts fanfic

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queen-of-fanfics · 1 year

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Stay Away From Him

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Prompt: Miguel is jealous of your closeness with Hobie and tells you to stay from him.

A/N: Well I have had too much free time at work and all I've been doing is writing. Kinda love it. Also, how did y'all like Across the Spider-Verse? I saw it four times in theaters, it's like a drug in my veins. Anywho I figured I wanted to do a fanfic in a world that I haven't done yet so here it is!

Part 2

“Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey, Peter!”

“Hey, Y/N”

“Oh hey, Peters.”

“Oi! Y/N!” Recognizing the accent, you look up in the air and see Hobie swinging his way over to you.

“Hobie! What are you doing here?!”

This was your second week working inside the Spider-Verse headquarters. You were the only person there who wasn’t some version of Spiderman. One day, Miguel O’Hara was in your universe for a job, bing bang boom, next thing you knew, he offered you a job. Your job here at headquarters was to act as his assistant of sorts. Help him with errands, help him on missions, and fetch him lunch because the poor man will work until he starves. That was exactly what you are doing now. You had finished locating the latest anomaly and went down to the cafeteria to grab him some empanadas.

Working at headquarters was like a living dream. So far, everyone seems to like you and you’ve already made friends. Hobie and Gwen welcomed you with open arms and the three of you became inseparable. During your time working with Miguel, you may have developed a little crush on your boss. You never told anyone about how your heart starts beating faster or how your breath gets shaky when he stands a little too close. Though, you never had to say because everyone could see it. And everyone warned you away from the infamous Miguel O’Hara.

“He’s not for you. He’s obsessed with his work and barely knows what having fun or being nice is. I doubt he even knows there’s a life outside of this place.” Gwen said one day during lunch.

“Who’s not for me? What are you talking about? I’m just here to work.” You shovel food into your mouth in an attempt to hide your face.

“Mmhmm, sure. You can deny it all you want but if you keep staring at him all weird like that, even he’s going to start to notice. Just trust me, you should just try to stay away from him. Which I guess isn’t possible since he’s your boss but you know what I mean.”

“Though it does raise the question as to why he recruited her, don’t it?” Hobie chimes in.

Hobie jumps on your back and it pulls you back to the present.

“I’m here for it! Whatchu think? I would willingly come here? Nah.”

“Actually! We just finished a mission so we just came to check in with Miguel.” Gwen swings down and lands right next to you. The three of you continue walking side by side down the hall to Miguel. Hobie throws his arm casually around your shoulder, keeping you close to his side.

You walk into the main room and see that Miguel is standing on his platform up in the air. There are a few people milling around the room, minding their business. People tend to hover around Miguel in case any missions come up or if he needs help.

“Miguel! I got you some empanadas!” You yell up at him.

He turns and barely glances over his shoulder at the three of you. He grunts and rolls his eyes in annoyance but his platform starts its slow descent. Gwen runs over to Jessica and they start talking. Hobie walks with you over to your little desk that sits on the ground floor …. like a regular person.

“So we still on for tonight?” Hobie asks.

“What’s tonight?” You turn and ask Hobie. You lean your butt against the desk to look up at him. He gets in close, places his hands against the desk on both sides of you, and cages you in with his arms.

“Whatchu mean what’s tonight? Did you forget already? Thought you and Gwen were staying in my place tonight!” Hobie teases you.

“Oh, Hobie! I forgot about that, I can’t come over.” Gwen yells over before she turns back to her conversation.

“Guess it’s just us then.” He mumbles and gives you a wink.

Before you could respond, Miguel’s voice booms through the large chamber.

“Y/N isn’t going anywhere tonight.” Looking over, you see that Miguel has lowered his platform as far as it could go and he is staring directly at the two of you with a deadly look on his face. All the conversations in the room died down and you could tell that everyone's eyes were looking between you and Miguel. Everyone treads carefully around Miguel … everyone except Hobie.

“What? You keeping her hostage now?”

All of a sudden feeling nervous, unsure as to what put Miguel in a foul mood and not wanting to make it worse, you try to straighten up and stand in attention but Hobie isn’t moving.

“We’ve got work to do here, Hobie. Unlike you, some of us have things we have to do.” Miguel crosses his arms and stares down at Hobie.

“What work? We caught all the known anomalies already. Plus I was going to work on my bike, give it some more bells and whistles.” Jessica pipes up.

“There’s more work to do than just waiting around for things to happen.”

“Then what do I gotta do, hmm?” Jessica sasses back to him.

“Nothing. I, uh, just want to do some surveillance. Never know ”

“And what Y/N got to do with it, then?” Hobie asks, giving Miguel a weird look.

“Y/N is my assistant. Y/N must assist me. And get off of her Hobie.”

“Right, but it don’t sound like there is any real work to do. I don’t see why Y/N gotta sit here and suffer being around you. And, uh, I’m actually quite comfortable where I am.”

“No no, I don’t mind. It’s my job. I can stay” You rush to say as you start pushing at Hobie’s shoulders.

Hobie turned slowly to look at you without budging and you just stared up at him. “Move.” you mouth to Hobie with beseechment in your eyes. But all he does is smile at you and barely visibly shakes his head ‘No’. Eyes wide, you think to yourself, I’m not going to have a job after this. The room is still silent and no one speaks as the tension rises.

“Everyone out!” Miguel booms, “Looks like no one wants to work anyways. It’s not as if we’re trying to save the entire universe or anything.”

“Oh! Miguel, we wanted to check in about the-” Gwen is cut off when Miguel turns back around to his monitors and yells, “OUT!”

Everyone exchanges nervous looks around the room while they pick up their things. The whole time though, Hobie is looking down at you with a knowing smirk on his face. “What are you smiling about?” You hiss at him as you push him up so you can grab your bag and head out.

“Oh just something I think you should find out for yourself. And you might soon.”

“Ugh, I’m going to kill you.”

Hobie throws his arm around you and leads you out, “Yeah sure, but hey, looks like you can come over after all, aye?”

“Everyone except for Y/N!” You whirl around at the sudden sound but Miguel is still just looking at his monitors.

“Damn, looks like you’re going to find out real soon. See ya sweet cheeks.” Hobie gives you a wink and walks out with everyone else.

You stood in the doorway waiting for Miguel’s instructions but after a few beats, you realized that he wasn’t going to turn around and talk to you. Slowly walking back to your desk, you couldn’t help but notice how the tension in the room did not leave along with everyone else. It still lay thick and heavy in the air. Taking off your bag and placing it on your desk, you turn around to face Miguel. You open your mouth to say something to break the silence but he cuts you off.

“Come up here and help me look at this.”

Your eyes grew wide and you hurried over to the dais. Your heartbeat started quickening with excitement, you have never been invited onto the platform before. Miguel looks down his nose at you with a disgusted look on his face as you struggle to even get your leg on the platform.

“Sorry, don’t got webs like y’all. Give me a second.”

You finally heave yourself up and flop over on your back, gulping down deep breaths of air. “You know, I’m starting to think I’m out of shape.” Figuring that it was time to actually get to work, you jump up to your feet and face the monitors.

“Alrighty, so what am I looking at?” All of the monitors were showing different videos of different universes. Some other monitors had new articles and alerts of potential disturbances.

“Just, uh, keep an eye on some of the security cameras we have posted around. See if you catch any suspicious activity.”

“Were you expecting something to happen tonight? Did you get a tip?”

“No, just doing our due diligence to keep everything in line.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion and you gave Miguel a side-eye look. This is what he’s keeping me here to do? To watch some cameras?

The whole time he was talking to you and giving you instructions, he did not glance at you, just busily pressing buttons and typing something.

About 10 minutes went by in absolute silence with Miguel working and you … “working”. Getting bored and tired on your feet, you start leaning around the table and let out a sigh. Miguel looks at you over his shoulder but turns back to his work. Another 10 minutes go by before he asks, “So you and Hobie are friends?”

Surprised by the question and surprised he even spoke, you responded, “Yeah, I would like to think so. He’s nice, I like hanging out with him.”

“You two have gotten close?”

Getting confused by his line of questioning, you give him a weird look that he doesn’t see. “I mean, I don’t know about close. We hang out with Gwen too. It’s usually the three of us.”

A few silent beats fall between the two of you before he responds, “I didn’t know you were visiting different universes.”

“Hmm, I’m not really. Besides my own home universe, I’ve only just been to Hobie’s. I haven’t seen Gwen’s though not even she goes back there.”

Again he doesn’t reply immediately and the comfortable silence continues.

“I would advise you to stay away from Hobie. He could be a bad influence on you or something.” He mumbles so quietly that you almost didn’t catch it.

“I’m sorry?” You asked, turning your body full to look at him now.

“I said ‘you should stay’-”

“No, I know what you said. But I don’t understand why. What’s going on with you? Are you stressed about something? Do you not like Hobie? Because Hobie has been nothing but nice to me and he’s a friend. He keeps me safe even when I visit his universe.”

“And exactly how many times have you visited his universe, hmm? You two seem pretty comfortable flying across universes together.” It was his turn to turn and face you. Standing at his full height, the tops of your head barely came up to his collar bones.

“I-I- … I don’t know. A few times I guess? 4? Maybe 5 times? But-”

“5 times?! You met him not even two weeks ago and you’ve already been hanging around him that much?” You were trying to explain to ease whatever caused his temper to rise. However, with every response you give, it only seems to anger him more. With every response, he is taking a step closer to you and walking you backward.

“I guess? But he’s my friend! And I’ve always been safe if that’s the issue. He keeps me safe. I know I’m not a Spider-Man like you but-” Miguel ignores your argument and cuts you off again.

“Right right and he keeps you safe which I am sure he is more than happy to do seeing as how he’s always getting up in your space. And what exactly do you do in his universe? You run around town like some hooligans and go back to your home universe when it’s late enough to be considered morning?”

“Ah- No, we hang out at his place and have dinner and stuff, I don’t know! And when it gets late I just stay over at his place!”

“Stay over?! What? Like overnight? He’s got guest rooms now? He’s hosting house parties?” There’s sarcasm dripping in his words but your brain was running too fast to notice.

“N-No he doesn’t. He’s not. He just lets me use his bed when I’m too tired to go home and I’d just wake up the next morning to come here.”

All of a sudden, he takes one last step forward and you take one step back but your backside hits the table. He drops his hands on either side of you, exactly like how Hobie had you pinned against your desk earlier but this is different. This feels different. The tension is palpable. With Hobie, it was friendly and playful. With Miguel … it feels like you’re getting hunted and just got caught.

“He what?” Miguel’s voice isn’t loud and angry anymore. No. It’s low and deadly. His question comes out always like a whisper as he leads in so close that your noses are practically touching.

“I don’t understand what’s happening. Hobie is just my friend. Why does this feel like it’s a problem?” You whisper. Miguel doesn’t reply. He simply stares at you with such intensity in his eyes, you’re surprised you didn’t evaporate. Suddenly, he’s looking at your lips. Acting almost instinctively, your tongue shoots out to wet your lips and his eyes immediately shoot back up to yours. There’s the intensity in his eyes again, only this time, it’s different. Definitely not anger.

Suddenly, an alarm from Miguel’s monitor goes off and the sound is thunderous in the silent chamber.

After a few beats, Miguel drops his forehead on yours, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. The whole time, you never take your eyes off of him. Your heart is beating so fast and the blood is rushing in your ears. Very abruptly, he pushes off of the table and whirls around to the monitor. He turns off the alarm and starts typing away, completely ignoring you. Slowly pushing up from the table, you turn back to your own monitor and stare blankly at the empty alleyways and random buildings.

Where there was comfortable silence before, now, the silence is deafening.

“You should go home Y/N. I can finish this up on my own.”

Not sure of how to act or how to respond, you slowly climb down from the platform without saying a word and fetch your things.

“And I mean home, Y/N. To your home universe. To your own house. To your own bed.”

Looking back up the dais, Miguel is still facing his monitors, not even looking at you when he talks. Hitching your bag higher up on your shoulder, you respond, “Of course. Goodnight, Miguel. And … for what it’s worth … he always slept on the couch.”

And with that, you take off running down the hall and teleport back home.

#fanfiction #fanfic #spiderman imagine #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman fanfic #spiderman #spider man #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara one shot #hobie #hobie brown #spider punk #spiderman x reader #spider man 2099

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hier--soir · 9 months

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a lover's pinch | seven

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute. word count: 11.1k jesus series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.

Tuesday.

It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.

It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.

You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.

There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.

Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.

It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.

Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.

You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.

He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.

You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.

Still nothing.

Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.

You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.

First from yesterday afternoon:

Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x

And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:

It’s raining and miserable here

Wish I was still in new york

With you

Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.

You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.

No. You don’t think about that at all.

When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.

The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.

It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.

He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.

“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”

You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.

“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”

A family matter?

Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.

Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.

Numb fingers type;

Are you okay? Where are you?

But no response comes.

No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.

The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.

Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.

A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.

Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.

Thursday.

Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.

This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.

The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.

The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.

Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.

So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.

And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.

He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.

He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.

Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.

He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.

Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.

Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.

Where were you today?

You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.

Wednesday.

A week goes by with no word from Joel.

No word from you either.

You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.

So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.

“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”

“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”

An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.

The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.

“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”

A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.

The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.

He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.

And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.

You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.

‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.

Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.

For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.

Joel says your name then.

Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.

And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.

Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.

Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.

“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.

“What?”

“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”

“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”

“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.”

“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”

“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”

“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.

“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”

“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.

“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”

And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.

And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.

One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.

“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”

You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.

“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”

Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.

Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.

“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”

Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”

“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”

“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”

“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”

And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.

The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.

You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.

“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.

“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.

“Are you hungry?”

You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”

Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”

It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.

The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.

He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”

You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”

Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.

“Full?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“Is this your house?”

“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”

A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.

Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.

“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”

When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”

You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.

“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”

“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.

“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”

He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.

And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.

“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”

Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.

“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”

“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”

“Do I?” you scoff.

“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that—”

“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”

You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.

“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”

“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”

And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.

“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”

“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”

You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.

“Then why do you keep letting me?”

“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”

“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”

You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.

“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”

He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"

“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”

He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.

You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?”

Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”

You blink.

Daughter.

Daughter?

“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.”

You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.

His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.

You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.

Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.

Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.

There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?

“Please say somethin’.”

There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.

Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.

“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”

“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.

“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”

“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.

“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.

“Is she okay?”

“Ellie?”

“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter. “Yeah.”

“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”

“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”

“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.

“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”

“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”

“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”

And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.

“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.”

You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.

“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.

Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.

It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.

And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.

He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.

He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.

“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”

The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.

“Said you were sick?”

“Mhm.”

“What kind?”

“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”

In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.

“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.”

And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.

At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.

His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.

“So are you, Joel.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.

“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.

“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”

“She just said it so well.”

“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”

“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him

“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.

And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.

He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.

The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.

Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.

It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.

“You should rest.”

But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.

“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.

“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”

His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.

His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.

And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.

Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.

Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.

The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.

He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.

Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.

Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.

It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.

His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.

He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”

Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.

“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.

“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”

“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.

“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.

“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours.

He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.

“Hmm?”

“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”

“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.

Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.

It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.

In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

Thursday.

Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.

Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.

A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.

There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.

An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.

A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.

You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.

Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.

You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.

“Good morning, cowboy.”

Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.

“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”

“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.

“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.

“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.

Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.

“I could get used to this.”

“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.

“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”

“And what exactly is the whole experience?”

“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”

Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.

“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.

He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.

“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”

“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.

As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”

Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.

“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.

“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”

“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”

“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”

Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Is that right?”

“S’right.”

“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”

And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?

You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”

“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.

Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.

Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”

“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”

Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.

“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.

Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.

But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.

Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.

Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.

At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.

You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.

Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.

“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”

A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.

“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.

“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.

He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.

And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.

He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.

The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.

“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.

Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.

“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.

“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.

“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”

Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.

He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.

“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.

“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.”

When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.

He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.

The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.

And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.

Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.

But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.

Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.

A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.

“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.

“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”

The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.

The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.

Our little secret.

a/n refs:

in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.

the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]

the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']

the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]

eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]

thank you for reading! x

#finally am i right?#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut

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strvberrydoll · 25 days

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Omg i absolutely loved rosemary!!! Also the fact it’s based on a Sierra Ferrell song is amazing. That brings me to my request to maybe an Arthur fic based on her song “I Could Drive You Crazy” 🤭🤭🤭 I feel like that song is so Arthur and his darling girl coded

I COULD DRIVE YOU CRAZY

cw: fluff, hunting, pre-canon, two idiots in love, arthur is crushing so hard it’s actually embarrassing

wc: 3,3k

a/n: the way I SCREAMED when I saw your request anon !! i loove Sierra Ferrell she’s one of the few artists i have constantly on repeat. Sorry I took my sweet time replying but I had to make this piece good. This is a little insight on Arthur and his darling girl pre-relationship dynamic ! Thank you for requesting and I hope you like it <3

The late noon sun bathed the camp in a cold, bright light, casting the long shadows of the nearby douglas fir trees stretching all around you as it began its slow but steady descent behind the rolling hills of the Tall Trees region as afternoon approached. The smell of woodsmoke and simmering stew filled the air, mixing with the earthy scent of pine and the faint aroma of freshly turned earth. You stood beside Pearson, by the cooking wagon. Your hands busy chopping vegetables while the man stirred the stew pot, his gruff voice occasionally muttering to himself as he adjusted the few seasonings Miss Grimshaw desperately requested to add into his infamous venison stew. Abigail stood nearby, cleaning the dishes used in the morning. Her laughter light as she shared stories about young Jack with you.

“Jack’s been askin’ after you,” Abigail said with a fond smile. “Ever since he learned how to say your name he’s been saying it non stop. Makes me miss the time when the only things he could say was ‘mama’ and random bubbling noises”

“He’s a sweet kid,”

“Yes, and a spoiled one too. No matter how much I try, he refuses to go to sleep until he hears your voice telling him a goodnight story”

You chuckled, feeling a warmth in your chest at the thought of the boy’s eager face. “I’ll have to think up a good one for him tonight, then.”

The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew your attention away from the conversation. You glanced up just in time to see the men returning from their latest job. Dust and sweat clung to them, their faces weary but carrying the unmistakable look of men who had just succeeded at their mission. Among them, a particular figure caught your eyes. Arthur Morgan dismounted with practiced ease, his broad shoulders slumped slightly by the fatigue of the day’s event. Even from a distance, his presence was commanding, a strong aura following him as he led a tired Boadicea toward the hitching post.

Even from a distance, there was something about Arthur that drew your eye—his quiet strength, the way he moved with precise purpose, his steady presence that always seemed to bring a sense of security to the camp. You watched as he handled the reins, hitching Boadicea and patting her dark brown mane, undoubtedly praising her for a job well done.

Was it possible to be jealous of a horse ?

His gaze briefly scanned the camp before it landed on you. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met, and you felt a flutter in your chest. You quickly returned your attention to a particular interesting piece of tomato you had cut, wishing for your burning cheeks to calm.

“Mister Morgan!” Pearson’s booming voice cut through the air, making you wish the earth would swallow you whole. “We’re runnin’ low on meat. Reckon we’ll last two more days with what little I have.” Pearson’s voice lowering to a more quiet tone as Arthur inched closer to the wagon. “Can you head out and bring somethin’ back before it gets dark?”

Arthur looked over at the stew pot, his face churning with an unreadable expression, then back to Pearson with a nod. “Sure, Pearson. I’ll head out now.”

As he turned to leave, something inside you stirred. You weren’t sure if it was the desire to escape the mundane tasks of camp, to immerse yourself in the unknown beauty of the wilderness or, more than that, the desire for a chance to spend time with Arthur, to learn from him, to be close to him. Nonetheless, before you could second guess your action you placed down your knife, stepping forward, the words hurriedly leaving your lips as in fear you might stop them if they took a second longer to pronounce.

“Mister Morgan,” you called out, your voice a little hesitant. “May I come with you?”

He paused, turning to face you fully. A faint hint of surprise washed over his face. His aqua eyes, always so full of depth and intensity, softened slightly as he considered your request. “You sure ‘bout that? Huntin’ ain’t exactly a walk in the woods.”

“I’d like to learn,” you insisted, your heart beating faster as you met his gaze under his worn gambler’s hat. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a gesture that seemed almost shy. He nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s get goin’.”

It took an immeasurable amount of strength to refrain yourself from smiling brightly at the man in front of you. You promptly returned to your cutting station, untying your apron in quick movements. Abigail came closer to you, taking the apron from your hands and putting it on ready to replace you in your work. As you two locked eyes, a knowing smile adorned the brunette’s face, making you flush.

Your steps were quick as you followed Arthur to the hitching post, your Hungarian half-bred just a few feet away from Boadicea. You gently pat her, giving her a stalk of celery you stole from Pearson. Circling around to tighten the strap of your saddle you felt the heavy gaze of the outlaw follow your every move. His muscular form already mounted on his horse. You mounted your horse, not wanting to trouble Arthur and make him reconsider his decision. He cleared his throat before speaking,

“We’ll go through the woods on the left near the lake,” he stated, tutting at his horse to move forward “Mac told me he found a few deer tracks down there.”

You simply nodded, not trusting your voice to give away your feelings.

The air was cooler than the already crisp air in camp. Beneath the canopy of trees, the sun’s rays filtering through the needles of the pine trees in dappled patterns on the forest floor. The smell of pine and earth was much stronger here, mingling with the fresh scent of moss and the faint musk of animals that had passed through earlier. Arthur led the way, silent and sure, while you followed close behind, too occupied by taking in the view to initiate a conversation.

Passing through a particularly steep path Arthur signaled you to stop. He hopped down from his horse, walking a few feet forward before stopping. You copied his action. The ground beneath your boots was soft, a carpet of moss and pine needles that muted your footsteps.

“First rule of huntin’,” Arthur began, his voice low and steady as he crouched down to examine a set of tracks in the soft dirt, “is patience. Animals can sense when somethin’ ain’t right, so you gotta move slow and stay quiet.”

You nodded, kneeling beside him as you peered at the tracks. They were faint, just a few indentations in the earth, but Arthur pointed them out to you with practiced ease. The proximity of him, the way his voice dropped down on to a near whisper, sent a thrill through you that had little to do with the hunt and everything to do with the outlaw beside you.

“There,” he said, his hand brushing against yours as he pointed. “That’s a deer track. See how the hooves dig in? Means it was here not too long ago. We follow these, and we might just catch up to it.”

His touch was fleeting, but it left a warmth on your skin that lingered long after he pulled his hand away. You nodded again, trying to focus on the task at hand, reprimanding your mind for wandering to such thoughts. But it was difficult with Arthur so close, his presence almost overwhelming in its quiet intensity.

Together, you moved through the woods, following the tracks with Arthur’s guidance. You moved in silence. The woods offered you the calm noises of the rustling of leaves, the distant call of a bird, and the soft crunch of your boots on the forest floor. Every now and then, Arthur would pause, his head tilting slightly as he listened for any signs of movement, his sharp eyes scanning the space surrounding you.

Finally, after what felt like hours to you but was probably only a few minutes, you spotted the deer—a lone buck grazing in a small clearing, its head down, completely unaware of your presence. Arthur’s hand came up in front of you, motioning you to stop and you both knelt down behind a fallen mossy log, using it for cover.

He handed you his rifle, his hands steady as they helped you position it against your shoulder. His touch on you gentle, guiding you with the same care and precision he used in everything he did. You could feel his breath on your neck, making the small hairs on your nape stand up. The brim of his hat grazing your hair as the heat of his body so close to yours made your heart beat so violently that you were sure Arthur could hear it.

“Alright,” Arthur whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in even close. “Here’s where it gets tricky. You gotta stay calm, keep your breathin’ steady, and line up your shot. Don’t rush it. As long as we don’t make a sound the deer will be there. Let the moment come to you.”

“Steady now,” Arthur murmured, his voice low and soothing. You took a deep breath, the crisp air filling your lungs. “Just like that. Breathe in… and out. Always pull the trigger on empty lungs”

You tried to focus, tried to steady your breath as he instructed, but the closeness of him, the deep rumble of his voice in your ear, made it difficult to concentrate. You aimed at the deer, your finger brushing the trigger, but your hands were trembling ever so slightly.

“Breathe,” Arthur reminded you, his hand coming to rest lightly on your shoulder grounding you, steadying you from the imminent recoil of the rifle. “You’ve got this.”

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest, and then you squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, echoing through the trees.

A second passed where it was deadly silent, you opened your eyes to check on your target but your aim had been off. The bullet whizzed past the deer, embedding itself in the trunk of a nearby tree. The deer’s head shot up, and in an instant, it bolted, disappearing into the underbrush before you even had time to lower the rifle.

Your shoulders slumped in disappointment, and you let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, Mister Morgan,” you muttered, gloomily handing the rifle back to him.

But Arthur wasn’t upset. Instead, he gave you a reassuring smile, his eyes warm as he shook his head with a strange myrth. “Don’t be sorry. You did good for your first try. Takes time to get the hang of it. Deer’s easy to track but a damn tricky target, especially when you’re just startin’ out.”

His words were kind, but you couldn’t help the sense of failure that settled in your chest. You had wanted to impress him, to show him that you could be just as capable as any of the men in the gang, but instead, you had let the moment slip away making a fool of yourself in front of him. You lowered your gaze to your lap, playing with a stray cotton strand of your blouse.

“Come on,” Arthur said, standing and offering you his hand. “Let’s see if we can track somethin’ else. We’ve still got some daylight left.”

You took his hand, feeling the roughness of his warm calloused palm against yours as he pulled you to your feet. The warmth of his touch, the easy way he smiled at you, made it hard to stay upset for long. There was something about Arthur—something steady and reassuring—that made you feel like everything was going to be alright, even when things didn’t go as planned.

You dusted off your skirt, it definitely wasn’t the best clothing choice for hunting but you had little to no time changing into a more comfortable outfit. You thanked whoever was above that this week wasn’t your turn to wash the camp’s clothes. Karen sure had a great load of work ahead of her.

The two of you mounted back up on your horses and continued deeper into the forest, the trees growing denser as the light began to fade. Arthur was patient, showing you how to look for signs of wildlife, teaching you how to move quietly through the underbrush without making yourself known to the animals you were tracking. His calm demeanor, his quiet confidence, made you feel more at ease, and slowly, you found yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the hunt.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting the forest in a soft, amber glow, you spotted something moving in the distance—a wild boar, its dark shape partially hidden by the underbrush as it ate the roots of a bush near a fallen log. You felt a surge of excitement, your heart beating faster as you pointed it out to Arthur.

“There,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you hopped down from your horse. “There’s a boar!”

Arthur followed you down his horse. His eyes followed your gaze as he nodded, his gaze narrowing as he assessed the situation. “That’s a good target. Boar’s got tough skin, but he’s not too fast. You ready to give it another try?”

You nodded, your grip tightening on the rifle as Arthur handed it to you once more. This time, you felt more confident, more focused. Arthur had shown you what to do, had taught you how to read the signs, how to stay calm and patient. You could do this. You needed to do this.

You crouched down behind a bush making sure you had a clear view of the target. Arthur stayed close, his presence a steadying force as you lined up your shot. “Remember,” he said softly, his voice just above a whisper, “breathe slowly, keep your hands steady, and don’t rush it. You’ve got this.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill your lungs as you focused on the boar. It was still rooting around, completely unaware of you and Arthur watching from the shadows. You steadied the rifle, your finger brushing the trigger, and then, with a calmness you hadn’t felt before, you squeezed.

The shot rang out, sharp and clear in the evening air. This time, your aim was true. The boar let out a sharp squeal, its body jerking as the bullet hit its mark. It staggered for a moment, and then it collapsed, its movements ceasing as it fell to the ground.

For a moment, you just stood there, staring in disbelief. You had done it. You had actually done it.

“I did it,” you whispered, a smile slowly spreading across your face as the realization sank in. “Arthur, I did it!” you said turning to face Arthur. You couldn’t believe yourself. You actually hunted down some game. A laughter came up to you, heartily and genuine.

Arthur’s face lit up with a grin, his eyes shining with pride as he clapped you on the back. “Good girl. Nice work. That’s some fine shootin’.”

His praise warmed you more than the fading sunlight ever could, and you felt a surge of joy and accomplishment. But it wasn’t just about the hunt—it was about the way Arthur was looking at you now, with a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if he was seeing you in a new light.

The two of you approached the poor boar, and Arthur knelt beside it, inspecting your handiwork with a nod of approval. “Perfect shot,” he said, glancing up at you from under his hat with a smile. “Damn, you’re a natural.”

Your heart swelled with pride at his words, and you couldn’t help but brightly beam at him, feeling a warmth in your chest that had little to do with the successful hunt and everything to do with the man beside you.

As Arthur worked skinning the animal and preparing the boar to transport it back to camp, you found yourself stealing glances at him. Although he was now covered in blood you couldn’t help but find him even more attractive. You watched the way the fading light played across his features, highlighting the strong lines of his jaw, the curve of his plump lips, the intensity in his eyes that seemed to soften whenever he looked your way. There was something different about the way he was acting around you now, a quiet affection in his gaze, a tenderness in his touch that hadn’t been there before.

Once the boar was ready, the two of you began to head back to camp, the weight of the animal stowed on the back of Boadicea as you carried its pelt. The forest was quiet now, the sun nearly gone, leaving the trees bathed in the soft, dusky indigo light of twilight. As you rode, side by side, you could feel the connection between you and Arthur growing stronger with each step, an unspoken bond that neither of you had to put into words growing evermore.

“Thank you for teaching me, Mister Morgan” you said softly, stopping your horse just a few feet away as the camp came into view, the warm glow of the firelight welcoming you back. The distance giving you both one last moment of privacy. “I’ve always wanted to learn, but I didn’t think I’d be any good at it.”

Arthur glanced over at you, his expression thoughtful. “You don’t need to be so formal with me now, you can call me Arthur,” he started. “Besides, you’ve got a good eye,” he said, his voice sincere. “And you listen, which is more than I can say for most people in this godforsaken gang. You did real good out there.”

The praise made your cheeks warm, and you ducked your head slightly, feeling a little shy under his gaze. “I had a good teacher.”

Arthur shook his head at that, hiding his face under the brim of his hat as he mumbled to himself something you didn’t quite catch.

“Maybe we’ll do this again sometime,” he said, his tone casual but with an underlying amusement that betrayed his carefree tone

“I’d like that,” you replied, your voice soft as the two of you approached camp, the sounds of the gang's usual chatter welcoming you back. “I’d like that a lot.”

As you helped Arthur carry the boar to Pearson, who greeted you with his usual gruffness but a nod of approval, you couldn’t help but feel that something had changed between you and Arthur. There was a new understanding, a deeper connection, something that went beyond the simple companionship you had shared before when you occasionally chatted while you worked on the camp’s chores.

As the evening wore on and the camp settled into its usual rhythm, you found yourself glancing over at Arthur, who was seated by the campfire, his gaze occasionally drifting your way. And each time your eyes met, there was a spark—a shared smile, a lingering look—that hinted at something more.

And in that moment, you knew that this was just the beginning. The beginning of something special, something that neither of you could quite put into words, but that you both felt growing with every passing moment you spent together.

#.rira’s posting ౨ৎ ⋆#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead fandom #rdr2 fanfic #divider by fairytopea

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fawnforevergone · 1 year

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The Ultimate List of Dante References in Hozier's "Unreal Unearth" !!

Hello and welcome to my new-and-updated ultimate compilation of all 'Inferno' references I found in Hozier's new album! If I think of anything else, or if anyone else suggests something, I will be sure to add it, but, for now, enjoy this ridiculously long (you've been warned) list I made!

Since I didn't wanna make a post for every individual song and spam you all, the songs are separated by their respective circles! I hope that organises stuff a bit more :]

Usual disclaimer: I could be wrong about some stuff! I've read 'Inferno' and try to stick to the objective references, but sometimes I let subjective interpretation bleed through. If anyone has any corrections for anything, just lmk!! Okay, cool <3

DESCENT:

"De Selby (Part 1)"

We start the album not in the circles, but instead at the Gates of Hell. One of the main themes of Inferno is darkness, and these first two songs are embodiments of that.

The lyrics mention the idea of this being a "new empty space", suggesting that Hozier is being introduced to the feeling of Inferno through the relationship he's singing about, and, so, we begin the descent.

"The likes of a darkness so deep that God at the start couldn't bear." God is obviously a large theme of Inferno and is, biblically, the creator of light, hence the absence of it in Inferno. In fact, the first three stanzas all reference the heavy darkness of the threshold and its estrangement from God.

The Irish/Gaeilge lyrics roughly translate to: "Although you're bright and light, you arrive to me like night fall. You and I, together. You and I, metamorphized. Although you're bright and light, you arrive to me like night fall. The art of transformation is a dark art." The imagery of light and dark mixing together mimics the idea of walking from the brightness of Earth into the darkness of Inferno.

This entire album appears to be the recounting of a relationship and how it feels like walking through Inferno. Here we see the beginning of this relationship, of Hozier losing himself to the threshold.

"De Selby (Part 2)"

Part one appeared to be the step through the gates, whereas part two seems to be Hozier being enveloped by the threshold. In 'Inferno', Dante says the entrance to Hell is a darkness that no stars could shine in. We hear this shift from Earth to Unearth through the production alone; the weightlessness of part one falling into the heavy grunge of part two.

"Your heart, love, has such darkness, I feel it in the corners of the room." The theme of dark continues, as it will through the entire album, but, this time, Hozier feels it radiating from within his lover rather than the space around them. Though, him saying his lover carries darkness is not an insult. This extra depth to his lover is something more to know, something more to love. This idea actually differs from Dante, who sees the darkness as deceitful.

"I want to be so far from sight and mind." Inferno is a lawless place. He would be far from sight due to the darkness, and far from mind due to the insanity that persists within the circles.

"Let all time slow, let all light go." This lyric shows me that he has been submerged in the threshold. Again, the lack of light, but also the slowing of time. Punishment after death is eternal, something that time has no grasp on. Hozier is willing to let these aspects take a hold of him.

"I'd still know you not being shown you, I'd only need the workin' of my hands." Christianity is a heavy theme of Inferno, and this lyric plays on the proverb 'Idle hands are the devil's workshop', a proverb Hozier also hinted at in his song "No Plan" (from 'Wasteland, Baby!') - "My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand."

Now, though, Hozier's hands aren't idle, instead the opposite, his hands are working as God intended. Drawing us back to that idea we were given at the end of part one, we get the feeling that Hozier is bringing something light/Godly to Inferno, and he and his lover are fusing the ideas of Heaven/Earth and Hell.

FIRST (LIMBO):

"First Time"

We now enter circle number one, 'Limbo'. Limbo is an uneventful circle for those not worthy of punishment but also not fit for Heaven. It is mainly for those who do not believe in God, the unbaptised.

Firstly, to get to circles, Dante and his guide, Virgil, must be chaperoned by the Greek Psychopomp Charon down the river Acheron, and we see that in Hozier's first couple stanzas.

"And the soul - if that's what you'd call it, uneasy ally of the body - felt nameless as a river, undiscovered underground." This appears to be Hozier mentioning the river Acheron, one of the five rivers of the Underworld that surround Hades, and, in 'Inferno', are used to transport the souls of the dead to their respective circles.

"The first time that you kissed me, I drank dry the river Lethe." The river Lethe is another one of the five rivers, and is one that causes anyone who drinks from it to forget everything they know. Hozier is simply saying that kissing this person wiped his mind clean, similar to the end of "De Selby (Part 1)" where he mentions partaking in a transformation.

"Some part of me died / Some part of me came alive the first time that you called me 'Baby'." Relating to the previous quote, souls that drink from the river Lethe usually do so before being reincarnated, so they forget their past life. Hozier seems to experiment with the idea of being reborn by his partner's love for him - an idea prevalent throughout his entire discography.

"To share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering, but fighting off - like all creation - the absence of itself." This lyric tells us that we should not ignore the privilege of living just out of the fear of dying. This lyric is reminiscent of "All Things End" and the circle of Heresy. Since Limbo is home to those who don't believe in God, the theme of Heresy is a very fitting one.

SECOND (LUST):

"When I was young, I used to guess 'Are there limits to any emptiness?'" The punishment for those in Limbo is to exist eternally with the curse of a hollow, empty feeling meant to represent the lack of God in their lives. This punishment seems referenced in this lyric.

[ i ended up thinking about this song more so if you want even more "first time" content, here ya go: "first time dante references." ]

"Francesca"

Into circle number two, 'Lust', we have the story of Francesca Da Rimini, a woman Dante spoke to during his visit to circle two. Francesca fell in love with her husband's brother, Paolo, and when her husband discovered the affair he murdered them both.

Hozier seems to be singing from the perspective of Francesca/Paolo but throughout the album we see Hozier liken his lover to aspects of Inferno - darkness in "De Selby (Part 2)" or Lucifer in "Unknown / Nth" - so the story of Francesca and Paolo is fitting as another metaphor here.

"Do you think I'd give up? That this might've shook the love from me?" Even in Hell, Paolo and Francesca physically cling onto another. They do not let their death affect their love.

"My life was a storm since I was born. How could I fear any hurricane?" The punishment in Lust is an eternal storm meant to replicate the throws of passionate love - a storm also depicted in the production of the end of this song. Hozier/Francesca/Paolo says that it's impossible for them to care about this punishment when life was already as treacherous as it was.

The whole chorus emphasises the imagery of Francesca and Paolo not being able to let go of each other.

"When the heart would cease, ours never knew peace. What good what it be on the far side of things?" Francesca and Paolo lived their love secretly and anxiously, so what good would peace be in the afterlife when they've already become accustomed to difficulty?

"Heaven is not fit to house a love like you and I." In the opening songs of the album, Hozier describes his lover as darkness, akin to something God cannot bear. Due to the depth of his lover, the mix of light and dark they've made, he believes Heaven would crumble beneath the weight of their relationship. That something as corrupt as Inferno is the only place suitable for them to live.

"I, Carrion (Icarian)"

Still in circle two, Hozier plays on Dante's own metaphor. In Canto 17, Dante refers to his own dread of descending Inferno to the same dread that the 'ill-fated Icarus' must've felt on his fall from the sky.

Hozier twists this, instead comparing his love to the hope Icarus must've felt as he flew towards the sun. He said, during a live show, this song is based on the idea hat Icarus never realised he fell, and woke up dead, too clouded by joy to realise what had happened.

"If the wind turns, if i hit a squall, allow the ground to find its brutal way to me." Again, we mention the storm of circle two. Lust is also said to have treacherous terrain - sharp rocks and jagged stone - that seems to be hinted at in the second half of this lyric.

"While you're as heavy as the world that you hold your hands beneath." This imagery seems reminiscent of the Greek Titan, Atlas, who holds up the Earth on his back. Dante talks about seeing Titans and Biblical Giants at the transition point of circle eight to circle nine, 'Fraud' to 'Treachery', which makes this lyric a sad hint to where Hozier will end up finding his lover; Taking the place of Lucifer in the deepest part of Inferno.

THIRD (GLUTTONY):

"Eat Your Young"

We enter the third circle of Inferno, 'Gluttony'. There are no specific references to Inferno, but the concept of gluttony is apparent. Hozier does what he frequently does throughout this album; He refuses to see the sin as "right or wrong" as Dante so stubbornly implies.

Hozier often divulges in a grey area, a spectrum or sale of severity, when it comes to the sin. Hozier's perspective seems more nuanced than Dante's, seeing sin as layered rather than objectively bad. In this specific song, he displays the different sources of hunger in humans, and where the line should be drawn.

"I'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to something, let me wrap my teeth around the world." We start, and reference back to in verse two, a sexual hunger, a harmless passion between two people. This is an innocent side of the sin, not deserving of the punishment of Lust which is to be ripped apart by Cerberus (the three-headed dog from Greek mythology) for all eternity.

However, Hozier moves onto the hunger of politics.

"Pull up the ladder when the flood comes." The government refusing to help the people when the sea levels rise.

"Throw enough rope until the legs have swung." When you don't have a ladder, you use a rope. This lyric plays on the notion of when governments give the impression they are helping, but are only making things worse - a take on the saying 'Give someone enough rope and they'll hang themselves', since what else are they meant to do with it?

"Skinnin' the children for a war drum, puttin' food on the table selling bombs and guns." The hunger for power manifests in war.

"It's quicker and easier to eat your young." Here, Hozier uses the common saying in a more literal sense, saying that if these politicians are hungry enough to destroy the world, they may as well physically eat their young, since it'll have the same effect.

FOURTH (GREED):

"Damage Gets Done"

This song takes place in circle four, 'Greed'! The title of the song alone is already very meaningful. In circle four, the main punishment is that the inhabitants are split into two groups and are forever forced to charged into each other and fight. Dante describes them are being so injured and damaged that they have become 'unrecognisable'.

The song is about greed within the changing of the world. It's about growing up and losing the naivety and innocence you once had, no longer able to ignore the burden of politics and money. Hozier and Brandi sing about the excitement of being young and in love, but, with the rise of inflation, it's hard to exist like that anymore - You need greed to survive.

"Wish I had known it was just our turn being blamed for a world we had no power in." This seems to be a reference to two things. One, the idea that governments blame the people for their own poverty, and Two, the idea of arriving in circle four by no fault of your own. It's not their fault they wanted more money with the world being how it is, but, nevertheless, they're being punished for it.

"I haven't felt it since then. I don't know when the feeling ended, but I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done." They talk about the enjoyment of the love they're singing about fading, and how they miss that, but they know that, again, this is not their fault. They know they didn't change, the world did, and they won't take responsibility for their 'sin' when all they did was adapt.

As aforementioned, the inhabitants of the fourth circle suffer extreme injuries, so Hozier saying "I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done" is him saying "I know that we are not at fault for being served the punishment of Greed."

FIFTH (WRATH / ANGER):

"Who We Are"

We enter the fifth circle, 'Wrath', where the inhabitants spend their time fighting to stay at the surface of the river Styx, another one of the five rivers of the underworld.

"Falling from you drop by drop." / "To hold me like water." These lyrics obviously give the idea of water, representing the river Styx.

"Or, Christ, hold me like a knife." This lyric comes in quite loudly, Hozier's voice strengthening with it. The subtle blasphemy of "Christ" and the violent imagery of "knife" comes across as a sort of anger. Being held "like a knife" is representative of how those is Wrath must feel - like they are something particularly dangerous, but still desperate to be held.

"We're born at night, so much of our lives is just carving through the dark to get so far." Again, this theme of darkness that is so frequently displayed in Inferno is mentioned again. After this song comes "Son Of Nyx", which Hozier said was the transition into the darker half of the album, and Nyx is the Goddess of the Night. Being "born at night" would make Hozier the son of the night, the son of Nyx. This gives the impression that, if the album is following on chronologically, this is the point where the relationship portrayed in the album begins to fray as Hozier starts to be consumed by the darkness.

"And the hardest part is who we are." Those in the circle of Wrath possess a 'savage self-frustration' that Hozier seems to represent throughout this whole song - A fierce annoyance with the way he and his lover let things go: "We sacrificed, we gave our time to something undefined", "Chasing someone else's dream", Etc.

SIXTH (HERESY):

"Son Of Nyx"

We have no lyrics for this song (though you can hear him faintly saying some things, one of which is him saying "who we are...") but we know it takes place in circle six, 'Heresy'. Heresy is a belief or opinion that is contradictory to religious doctrine, especially Christianity. As aforementioned, Hozier said this track is a transition song meant to replicate a descent into the darker half of the album.

Nyx is a Greek Goddess and is often known as the personification of night. She had many children all representing different things but the title would essentially mean 'The Son Of Night', and, as dissected in the previous song, we can see that Hozier sees himself as reborn into the darkness.

Once again, darkness is a large theme of Inferno, but Hozier saying in circle six that he is the Son of Night is particularly meaningful due to the association of light with God. He has been reborn as something that could not be further from God, something that opposes the idea of God, something of a Heretic.

Nyx was feared and respected by all, including Zeus, and, though I believe there is no reference to her in Inferno, she was described as residing in the dark recesses of the Underworld, which is heavily incorporated into Inferno.

"All Things End"

This song does not have many overt references to circle six but definitely incorporates the idea of heresy. As mentioned, heresy is an idea that contradicts (especially, but not always) Christianity. In this song, Hozier talks about the ephemeral nature of all things, particularly romance.

"When people say that something is forever, either way it ends." Whether it be death or a break-up, God doesn't plan for you to be able to spend eternity with your lover.

"Movin' on in time and taking more from everything that ends." Hozier, however, argues that things still have meaning beyond their end. That, even after moving on, we will remember and learn from the things we have lost.

"Just knowin' that everything will end should not change our plans." Throws back to the idea of the second verse of "First Time". If you avoided something just because it was going to end eventually, you would never achieve anything. That's like refusing to finish a movie just because you don't want to get to the credits.

When this concept of ignoring the end comes to death, we ultimately cross the concept of God. There are many rules people follow in religion, avoiding certain things because they are against 'God's Will'. Although this practice can be kept in moderation, it can quickly become self-imprisoning.

Not living your present life out of fear for an unproven afterlife can be limiting, especially if you dictate who you love due to what supernatural punishment may or may not follow. Hozier sings that we should not let God's plan interfere with what we need from life, allowing ourselves to indulge in love even if it will end - ultimately, Heresy.

SEVENTH (VIOLENCE):

"To Someone From A Warm Climate (Uiscefhuaraithe)"

This song places in circle seven, 'Violence'. Violence is split into three subcategories, or 'rings'; Violence against others, violence against self, and violence against God. I believe this song gives an overview of all three.

With this song, we recognise that the title says "To someone..." and Hozier said this song was a gift to someone who was from a geographical warm climate, but there is also a lot of heat in circle seven.

"A joy, hard learned in winter, was the warming of the bed." Throughout this song, Hozier describes himself as cold, and his lover as warm. The idea of warming the bed is a concept Hozier mentioned in his song "Nobody" (From 'Wasteland, Baby!') where he sings that, if he had a choice between the warm bed of his lover or performing on stage, he'd go home to the bed. Since this song comes after "All Things End" (the break-up song), this call back to "Nobody" could be instead referencing a permanent distance, rather than a temporary one (like the temporary distance in "Nobody").

"And, darlin', all my dreaming has only been put to shame." This could have two meanings. One, Hozier waking from a dream about his lover to find them not here. Or, two, Hozier's expectations of his lover falling short as their relationship has finally fallen through. These expectations could be a form of violence against self, the second ring, as he set himself up for heartbreak.

"And I wish that I could say that the river of my arms have found the ocean. I wish I could say the cold lake water of my heart- Christ, it's boilin' over." As mentioned, Hozier is cold, his lover is warm. His wishes he could find something to to fill the loss of his relationship, but he still feels the heat from his lover in every part of him.

"It's boilin' over." References the river of boiling blood in the first ring, violence against others, Hozier could be talking about the way his partner loved him, how that was almost an act of violence with how hard it is to now let go.

"Butchered Tongue"

This song has less references to 'Inferno', and is more of a commentary on the act of violence itself. Hozier sings of places and cultures lost to the violence of man, and he mourns this deeply.

"To say 'Appalacicola' or 'Hushpukena', like 'Gweebara'. A promise softly sung of somewhere else." This grieving for a time when native land wasn't colonised and culture wasn't violently erased is prevalent throughout the song.

In the second verse, he sings very strongly of the brutal acts inflicted upon Irish rebels by the British forces in the Wexford Rebellion of 1789. As we know, Hozier is from Ireland, and he incorporates both the Irish language and history into this album, and recounting such violent acts for this song feeds into the grieving of what has been lost: "Between what is lost forever and what can still be known."

In the context of 'Inferno', it feels as though Hozier is listing the sort of actions that would land someone within the circle of Violence whilst also appreciating the efforts those above ground take to preserve erased culture. Altogether, the song is a very moving commentary on modern violence.

EIGHTH (FRAUD):

"Anything But"

The eighth circle is 'Fraud', split into ten subcategories that are positioned around the circle in trench-like ditches, known as 'Bolgia'.

"I wanna be loud, so loud, I'm talking seismic," follows up with, "I want to be as soft as a single rock in a rain stick." Who he wants to be fluctuates between moderation and severity. He is changing, unreliable, possibly referring to bolgia one, Panders and Seducers. Seducers tend to 'lead astray', as Hozier's unreliable narration does.

The punishment of bolgia one is to be marched backwards and forwards rapidly whilst being whipped, very much evoking the imagery of a stampede: "If I were a stampede, you wouldn't get a kick." This alludes to the fact that if Hozier were sent to hell for the various sins he commits for his lover, he wouldn't resent them for it at all.

"If I was a riptide, I wouldn't take you out." The second bolgia of Fraud is for Flatterers, 'the act of giving excessive compliments, sometimes for romantic courtship'. Obviously, the song is filled with these compliments.

"I hear He touches your hand and then you fly away together. If I had his job, you'd live forever." The imagery of "fly away" gives the idea of ascending, perhaps to Heaven, as hinted at again by the idea of the longevity of living. Bolgia three is for Simoniacs, those who would sell church roles, offices, or sacred things. This seems to fit with Hozier saying that if he had a divine role, he wouldn't follow protocol, he would allow his lover immortality.

Simoniacs were sinners because they were disobeying God's trust, because the selling of divine roles would lead to corruption in the Church. Hozier is using this hyperbolically, saying that if someone were to sell him the role of God, he would most definitely be a corrupt power.

"I'd lower the world in a flood, or better yet I'd cause a drought." In bolgia four we have Sorcerers. Although Dante used this term in a more logical sense for fraudulent sorcerers - false prophets, fortune tellers, those who lied about the plans of God - Hozier uses the term in a supernatural sense. Sorcerers were punished for trying to interrupt God's prerogative, whereas Hozier is blatantly saying he would summon another flood, usurping God's plan overtly.

"I'm talking seismic." The bridge that leads to bolgia seven was collapsed by the great earthquake and, as we know, seismic activity leads to earthquakes.

"Worry the cliff side top as a wave crashing over." There happens to be a cliff near the entrance of circle eight that a large waterfall plunges over.

"Abstract (Psychopomp)"

This song appears to be the crossover point from circle eight to circle nine that I mentioned when discussing "I, Carrion (Icarian)". Before we get to that, the title itself is significant.

A psychopomp is a chaperon of death; Someone like the Grim Reaper, or Charon from "First Time", or Dante's guide through Inferno, Virgil. Here, Hozier is describing the act of hitting an animal with your car as taking on the role of a psychopomp, whilst also relating this idea to the act of letting a relationship die, leading it from life to death.

In the crossover point from eight to nine, Dante and Virgil stand and look at the large well that leads down to circle nine, 'Treachery'. The Titians and Giants burst out of the well, to big to fit, but their feet stand stubbornly in Treachery. I believe that, at this point in the album, Hozier stands here, too. He's visited all eight circles, and has one last place to go before he leaves Inferno, and ultimately his lover, behind. This song is him realising he has to let his relationship end, he has to act as a psychopomp for his love.

"Sometimes it returns like rain that you've slept through." Circle nine, 'Treachery', is a frozen over lake, aka a memory of water, similar to the residue of rain. With viewing this song as the predecessor to "Unknown / Nth", we can take this as a hint of what's to come.

"The Earth from a distance." Since Inferno is arranged in rings (like a circular staircase), Dante could feasibly look up and still see where he started his journey. The same way Hozier could look up and see where his relationship began, "De Selby (Part 1)", The Gates.

"Streetlights in the dark blue." We have the mix of light and dark again, as mentioned in the opening track, referencing back to Hozier and his partner falling in love.

"Darling, there's a part of me I'm afraid will always be trapped within an abstract of my life." Of course, Hozier is talking about the memory of the animal hit with the car here, but the way this relates to circle nine is beautiful. As we'll properly dissect with "Unknown / Nth", sat within the most central point of circle nine, the deepest part of Inferno, is Lucifer, the fallen angel. Lucifer was thrown down to Hell from Heaven, and found himself trapped in Treachery, his body too big to escape. Dante says that the more he struggles, the more stuck he becomes.

That moment he was struck down to hell is a moment he finds himself forever stuck in, just as Hozier is saying here. In the next song, Hozier relates his lover to Lucifer, but these lyrics are a gorgeous mirroring of Lucifer's experience, and another hint at the final circle we will now head to.

NINTH (TREACHERY):

"Unknown / Nth"

Okay, buckle in.

The ninth circle, 'Treachery', is also one split into subcategories, yet Hozier appears to be singing about the centre. The frozen over lake of Treachery gets more frozen the closer you get to the centre. The inhabitants start half-submerged in ice to fully plastered in it. Throughout Inferno, and the deeper we descend, a soft breeze becomes a strong wind, that, as we reach the centre, we find is caused by the violent flapping of Lucifer's wings. Here he sits, stuck and chewing on Judas, another one of God's biggest betrayers.

After "Abstract (Psychopomp)" Hozier is now exploring the final stage of his relationship. The circles of Hell had mirrored the love he once had, and Treachery is where it shall be buried. He also represents his lover as Lucifer, though not maliciously. In interviews, Hozier spoke about the song being about a heavy betrayal he suffered from someone he truly loved, and likening this to God and Lucifer is just heartbreaking.

"You know the distance never made a difference to me." The song is about knowing someone in their entirety, discovering their best and worst parts. Hozier uses Inferno to talk about the tiresome journey of finally knowing someone. He says he would've made the trip all the same, that he would've walked this far for his lover no matter what.

"I swam a lake of fire, I'd have walked across the floor of any sea." This mirrors the previous lyric, but also references specific parts of Inferno. The are many fires in Inferno, particularly in circle seven, 'Violence'. The sea floor lyric reminds me of the lake of Treachery. Though a surface, not a floor, the lake would still be below any seabed, since Inferno is geographically below the Earth.

"Funny how true colours shine in darkness and in secrecy." You guys are probably sick of hearing me say it but... Darkness is a big theme in Dante's Inferno. It is meant to represent the deceiving nature of humans when light is not being shone. Secrecy is a running thread through 'Inferno', too, as Dante finds many people he thought had done no wrong residing there. Hozier is simply saying how (sarcastically) funny it is that he only truly knows his lover in the remains of their relationship; How he only knows them after seeing them in their cruellest form.

"Where you were held frozen like an angel to me." There are many angel lyrics, but this one specifically references the ice of Treachery. The fallen angel is indicative of Hozier's experience: Seeing someone he regarded highly, even heavenly, falling from that pedestal and turning into something that couldn't be further from God's work.

"You called me angel for the first time, my heart leapt from me. You smile, now, I can see its pieces still stuck in your teeth, and, what's left of it, I listen to it tick. Every tedious beat going unknown as any angel to me." Hozier references his ex-lover chewing on his heart the way Lucifer chews on Judas. He listens to it somehow still ticking, however slowly, and at the end of the song we hear something akin to a heartbeat. The beats are "going unknown as any angel to me" since he can no longer recognise his own heartbeat after it has been mangled by another, and, since he mistook someone alike Lucifer to an angel, the idea of angels must be "unknown" to him.

"Do you know I could break beneath the weight of the goodness, love, I still carry for you? That I'd walk so far just to take the injury of finally knowing you?" We again have this imagery of walking far, referencing the journey of Inferno, and, even though he's aching with the realisation of who his lover truly is, he can't help but be grateful that he does now know them, no matter how painful that may be. That he would do this all again if it meant he at least got to the answer of who they are.

His weak heartbeat follows him through to final track as we begin the Ascent.

ASCENT:

"First Light"

The title is very meaningful for the Ascent. The song references both Dante and Virgil's ascent and the creation of light by God himself. Dante and Virgil leave Inferno through a tunnel that Lucifer left in the Earth as he was thrown down to Hell, and they emerge on the other side of the hemisphere. This song signifies Hozier stepping away from the relationship as he also makes that journey out.

"One bright morning changes all things." Dante is disorientated when he exits Inferno. He'd become so accustomed to the darkness that he asks Virgil, 'How is it that the sun progressed so rapidly from evening to day?' Hozier seems to recognise here that his relationship is no longer fit for him, that the darkness has become too encompassing, just as Dante realises on his ascent.

"The sky set to burst, the gold and the rust, the colour erupts...the sun coming up." Not only does this give the imagery of the birth of light, but it also represents Dante's view on his exit: 'Until...I saw the lovely things the sky above us bears. Now we came out, and once more saw the stars.'

"Like I lived my whole life before the first light." Hozier says that the darkness from his lover was so overbearing that it was hard to believe he'd ever felt light before - that light could not have exists with a darkness this heavy alongside it. It is a call back to "De Selby (Part 1)" - "A darkness so deep that God at the start couldn't bear."

"One bright morning comes. Darkness always finds you either way, it creeps into the corners as the moment fades." He speaks of bringing light to a moment between them, but has it quickly smothered by the darkness inherent in his partner. Another call back, this time to "De Selby (Part 2)" - "And your heart, love, has such darkness, I feel it in the corners of the room."

"After this I'm never going to be the same, and I am never going back again." This lyric is heart-breaking. Hozier states that Inferno has changed him, but he has no wishes to re-enter it. At the beginning of this album, he was begging for the likes of Inferno - "De Selby (Part 2)": "Let all time slow, let all light go." - and now he is desperate to get away from it. In "Francesca", he said, "At the end, I'd tell them, 'Put me back in it.'", yet, now, he's at the end, he's ascended, and he has no desire to go back at all.

He is letting go of his lover because he recognises that this pain was not worth it, that this love was not worth the punishment he received, so he leaves.

---

That was Hozier's Inferno !! I hope this was helpful to some people since it was very fun to make (I'm exhausted) and it's very enlightening to see how these lyrics relate to Inferno (I'm heart-broken) !! Okay, wooooo !! Enjoy !!!

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chuuyrr · 5 months

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𓂃 ࣪˖ ִ 𓆩 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐈 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 ‧₊ 𓆪 fallen angel! dazai osamu , f! angel! reader . . .

dazai osamu descends from heaven's heights, burdened by his own demons and desires. amidst his descent, he encounters you, a beacon of purity. regardless of his dark past and the weight of his transgressions, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to your innocence and light, and so the fallen grapples with the ultimate sacrifice, to fall from grace for the chance at true love.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ on-going, slow updates . . .

𝐂𝐖(𝐬) ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ angels! au, religious themes: inspired by éloa (1824), a poem about a f! angel falling for a "stranger", which is also inspired by the hades and persephone myth, mostly sfw, only one chapter will contain nsfw and it can be skipped

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ i can fix him (no really i can), but daddy i love him, guilty as sin?, false god by taylor swift

‧₊ ࿐ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 .ᐟ

𝐢. 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋, 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄

sfw. in which he sought to reclaim his lost light, and like a moth to a flame, he found it in you, an angel of light

𝐢𝐢. 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍, 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄

nsfw. amidst tangled bedsheets, you yearn for his love and grace, echoing their own longing for acceptance.

this chapter can be skipped .ᐟ

𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑, 𝐈'𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄

sfw. despite all, he chooses you, and you choose him too, even it means to fall again just to take you with him

𝐀.𝐍. ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ this is my official submission for @kentopedia's "love through the ages" collab event. it was supposed to be a oneshot fic only for fallen angel! dazai osamu, but i just recently decided to turn it into series fic .ᐟ

#bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #dazai osamu x reader #dazai x reader #dazai osamu x y/n #dazai osamu x you #dazai x you #dazai x y/n #dazai x fem reader #bsd dazai #dazai x reader smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs dazai #bungo stray dogs smut #bungou stray dogs x y/n #bungou stray dogs x you #bsd x reader smut

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stargirlfics · 2 years

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IRON

got a request awhile back for Battinson + pussy eating and l couldn’t resist!

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, size/strength kink, slight exhibitionism, reader is a bit of a brat! smut: oral (reader receiving), manual restraints, praise kink, body worship, mask kink

Word Count: 2.5k

One could hardly say it was your fault.

Bruce had left you here, in the Tower, all by your lonesome. You couldn’t be to blame, it was simple as that.

Though you didn’t protest his departure (you knew how important his work for the city was, how he’d answer that beacon shining high in Gotham’s stormy skies whenever it appeared) you also couldn’t help but sulk and pout about missing him.

He could be out there all night and as selfish and indulgent as it was, you had plans, ones that involved as minimal amount of clothing as possible and his lips on yours, these desires being something you had started to tell him when it became clear he was needed in the city tonight instead.

You could only hope the slight pinching grip of his hands on your waist as he left you with a tender kiss to your cheek meant he wouldn’t forget about your needs.

It was raining now, just a little under a steady downpour and time seemed to move entirely too slow, barely an hour having passed with your next glance at the large grandfather clock in the foyer.

Huffing a sigh, you wandered over to the bookshelves lining the alcoves in Wayne Tower’s main room, browsing amongst a few of your favorite novels that had found a new home here before you were pulling one off the shelf and snagging an old throw blanket, heading downstairs to Bruce’s hidden workspace to curl up in your usual spot and wait for his return.

Funny, how casual this felt, like it was any other weekend night but most people in Gotham weren’t waiting up for the vigilante they called a lover to come home were they? And yet it was exactly where you wanted to be.

For better or worse you were tied to Bruce and therefore tied to The Batman, swiftly coming to fall for both, to want both and all of who Bruce is, even when he made you worry.

He promised both you and Alfred that he’d be careful and did every time he went out but he knew you would worry anyways, neither of you asking the other to change, loving each other too much to ask of it.

Somehow you fashioned another fitting piece to the ever shifting puzzle that was Bruce Wayne and you weren’t going to trade it for the world.

The descent below ground brought a change in temperature, cool chilly air sweeping across your skin once you stepped onto the expanse of the abandoned terminus.

But the familiarity of it and the blanket draped over your shoulders was doing a fine job at keeping you warm, and the sleeping bats hanging above you were a fond presence with how much time you spent down here now.

You were right at home.

Curled up on the sofa tucked into one of the spare corners in the workspace you chewed at the nail of your thumb, finding that the novel you’d chosen wasn’t helping your antsy, increasingly needy mood.

The novel bordered on erotic and it made you squirm, heat creeping up from your chest to settle in your cheeks, your thighs pressing together without thought.

Mind wandering, dreaming of a steamy kiss, of being scooped up by him and made to feel good, the ache in your core finally being sated.

You kept reading into the midnight hour, eventually unable to stop thinking of the details, his towering form, large, strong, and sure hands that gripped and held you so sweetly, so tightly, and how good it felt to be taken apart by him too.

Bruce was unassuming like that, shy and reserved, awkward even, until he wasn’t, making it a point to discover all the ways he could fluster you, make you whine, and beg for him again and again.

He was good at it too, had gotten especially skilled with that smart and stubborn mouth of his, and tonight, that’s what you wanted most.

Wanted to grind yourself against his lips, his tongue, your clit bumping against his nose until your brain went quiet and all you could feel was the pulsing of the pleasure he loved giving you.

Distracted by your fantasies you almost missed the soft whirring of the terminus gate opening, the book dropping closed in your lap when you realized he was back.

It was late in the night now, it had been hours but you never felt more energized, letting the blanket pool around your middle as you watched the sleek black muscle car roll in, streaked with rain, the rumble from its engine reverberating against your chest in thrilling comfort.

You stood up then, stretching out your limbs, a sly smirk threatening to stay on your lips as you watched Bruce step out of the car, his inky black cape draped around him, cowl shiny with moisture, and oh those eyes, shrouded in painted on shadows, his gaze finding yours immediately.

“Thought you might be in bed by now,” his voice gruff but gentle as he spoke to you, a tone reserved especially for you.

“I considered it but thought waiting up for you here would be a lot better,” an innocent sigh left your lips while you busied yourself with folding the blanket, turning your back towards him, putting a nice little tilt and bend to your hips when you leaned over.

The heavy footfall of his boots coming closer sent another thrill running up your spine, “Indeed it is, missed me that much, hm?”

Bruce was indulging your antics, always one to entertain your moods, your fantasies, wired on the adrenaline of his late night work in the streets, it made for such a potent mixture and you were delighted.

“Mhm, cause someone’s skills were needed elsewhere, I had to make due all by myself,” you feigned a pout, trying to hide your smile when you spotted the briefest widening of his eyes at your words.

He took another step towards you but you skirted away, dodging his hulking figure, the plated armor of his Bat suit still a little intimidating to you, your core clenching around nothing at the thought of being handled by those hands clad in Batman’s gloves, to feel his strength, the brute force in his biceps and forearms, pinning you down to do what he pleased with you.

It’s all you could think about.

Maybe it was the heightened level of your desire that made you feel a little bolder tonight, more eager to tease, to get under his ever-so-stoic skin, because you were making your way over to the car now, your hand trailing over its frame, walking, swaying almost till you were standing at the hood of the car, facing Bruce again who’s eyes were fixated on you.

No words needed to be said as you smiled sweetly, your hands falling to your sides, tracing the edges of the satin slip dress hugging your body, fingers slipping under the hem, dragging it up your thighs a little.

Chest tightening at his steady, measured steps toward you, one of your hands coming down to swipe over your inner thighs, touching yourself before he could reach you all the way, a giggle slipping out when you heard him grumble in frustration.

It wasn’t often that you leaned into your brattier tendencies, but tonight, you were in that kind of mood, something sparking low in your tummy seeing him in the cowl, the suit making him appear bigger, taller, and underneath that you knew he had the strength to carry all that gear, to move and fight in it and it made you feel so much smaller in comparison, finding a thrill in pushing buttons.

“Move your hand, baby.” his command came gently, a warning in itself of sorts, telling you he was going easy on you, giving you a chance to behave.

Any other night you would have yielded, knowing just how good he could give it to you when you listened to him, but tonight you wanted the less inhibited side of him so instead, you kept your hand between your thighs, fingers finding slick skin with ease.

“You have to wait your turn, sir,” you flicked your eyes up towards his playfully, heart jumping into your throat at his expression, the tick of his jaw.

Bruce was pressed against you now, hands moving up to cage you against his chest, your breaths heavier, already losing the battle.

It was so easy for him to break your tough girl act, knowing full well you were just as desperate as he was, knowing your weak spots and using them to his advantage.

Like now, for instance, using your distracted state to catch you off guard, his hands finding your waist and lifting, placing you up onto the warm, wet hood of his car, a delighted squeak filling the air as he lay you back.

You were dough in his hands, shaped by the roll and press of his fingers, the weight of them making you whine as he pushed your legs apart, all but growling at your lack of underwear.

The sight of him settling between your thighs, his body over yours filling your entire field of vision unlocked something for you, your heart beating wildly at the feeling of the suit again your skin, cool droplets of water landing on from the ears of his cowl as he lowered his head to your ribs.

His lips were warm as they kissed down your torso, his hands keeping your thighs spread out for him, open so his mouth had a clear path to travel down, your breath hitching the lower his mouth went.

A needy whine slipped out when he stalled, just hovering over where you wanted him most, his huff of laughter making you squirm from sensitivity.

“Look who can’t wait their turn now…you’re lucky I’m in a generous mood.” Bruce chuckled lowly, catching you by surprise and making you ache for more.

“Please-oh!” you weren’t too proud to beg, his mouth finally touching down on puffy folds.

The move turned your plea into a moan, hands jerking, slipping on the rain droplets now soaking your dress, grasping anything for purchase as your hips rocked with his movements.

Curses and half stifled moans filled the air as he buried his face into your heat, his tongue lapping and swirling around your clit, moving further down to taste you properly.

Your muscles ache from the strain of flexing against him, your body chasing the sensations he was giving you, the building pressure in your abdomen, the way he groans against your pussy, drinking you down, it all made your brain hazy in the best way.

“Taste so fucking good…fuck.” the words left his lips with ease, finding them easier to come by when he was under the suit, when he was most himself.

Trembling hands of yours creep down to grasp at his own hands still keeping your thighs held apart wide, and then move down, timidly tugging his head closer, crying out at the change in pressure, all your nerves tingling.

Something about only being able to catch glimpses of his eyes, the sharp edge of his jawline as he ate you out, and the rest covered by the mask made you open up for him further, your desires reaching no end.

Your hands pushed at his arms until he caught your wrists, holding them back with one hand, pinning them to your tummy, leaving you panting, unable to help but grind yourself against the patterned flick and swirl of his tongue.

The added thrill of being so exposed, though this was a private space, how open it seemed, made you feel on display, another wave of heat flooding your body.

Goosebumps travel down your arms as the cool brush of his free hand caresses your frame, grabbing dewy flesh, feeling your breasts, your waist underneath his grip, loving how you molded to his touch, how perfect you were in his arms.

He could spend all night like this, making you feel good, pulling those high pitched whines and gasps from your throat, making your thighs tremble like they were doing now. It’s all he could think of, all he could do.

“Please, please, keep going, yes!” more whimpers fall prettily, your body turning soft and pliant under the sweet pressure of his lips, the way his tongue sweetly nudges inside you, licking your essence, building you up higher and higher.

Every now and then he’ll slow it down, teasing you just a little for his own self indulgent reasons before heeding your heady whimpers for more, building you back up again, enjoying the way you seemed to drip from his tongue, how he could make such a mess of you.

He knows you’re close, can tell by the way you flutter around his tongue, can feel the frenzied aching in your limbs as it begins to happen.

“Come on, let go. Now. Let me feel you,” the assertion in his tone left no room to argue, the gruff, grit out encouragement giving you the final push you needed.

Your orgasm reaches you quickly as his tongue returns to your clit, dragging out the sensations, making you shake even more, almost exhausted by the force of it.

What a sight this must be, being spread out so sinfully and all for him, something Bruce intended to savor, the fact that you were all his, that rough exterior shedding a little more easily now that he knew he’d given you what you needed.

His lips were still leaving kisses on your throbbing clit and sensitive inner thighs, staying close, bright eyes peering into yours, wanting the close contact to go on a little longer.

That was just fine by you, he could have whatever he wanted with the way he just made you feel, and still, amusement twinkling for just a moment in his eyes at seeing you struggle to catch your breath.

Pushed up onto your elbows now you peer down, cheeks burning again at seeing just how messy you’d become, rain and your arousal damp on your inner thighs, shining around Bruce’s lips and chin.

“God…that was so good, thank you, baby,” your praise and gratitude were soft spoken, holding all the usual affection you had for him, none of your earlier antics remaining.

You watched him smirk at your content sighs, pulling the cowl off with ease, a practiced move that was second nature now.

It wasn’t fair that he could look so handsome, rain soaked and hair disheveled, black paint still smudged around his eyes too but it was a look that fit him well and had much too strong an effect on you, feeling the muscles of your thighs jump once more.

“Anytime. I’m always ready to straighten out that attitude for you, beautiful. Just say the word.”

Maybe it was the unmistakable glint in his eye or the way he spoke to you then that had you laying back against the car again, trying to hold back whimpers and giggles when he followed close after you, wanting, no needing another taste, needing to see you fall apart again.

“Think you can be a good girl and keep those legs open for me?”

“Mhm, just don’t want you to stop, please.”

“Never…have to make up for all those hours I was gone, right.”

You shared his sly little smile and lay back for him once more, the searing kisses unleashed upon your still tingling skin dragging you back under, right where you wanted to be, under the skillful fangs of The Bat himself.

————

A/N: Well it had to be done! Cause I can’t be told otherwise, Rob’s Batman eats it like a starved man and I will stand by that! Period! Lol thank you for reading this fun little fic, lemme know what you think! Any and all thirsty comments welcome! 🖤

some tags, no pressure! @flamingdisputes @littlekidsteve @eupheme @saradika @allaboardthereadingrailroad @yelenas-lova @tarrenterror25 @moreofem @squidlywiddly87

#amalia writes #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne smut #the batman smut #battinson x reader #battinson smut #batman x reader #batman smut #battinson x you #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne imagine #batman fanfiction #the batman 2022

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m1sa-w1sa · 2 months

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hay so I was just wondering if you would do a sahsrau where all the PC's (playable characters) are obsessed with reader but when reader gets inside of hsr they are Immediately captured and sold as a slave and the PC's (maybe topaz or himko) fine the reader recognize the reader and all hell breaks lose for who idk

Also if I can can I be a emoji anon (if yes then I'll be 👹 anon)

Forgive us!

Sahsrau x Reader

Tw: Yandere themes, Mentioning ofAbuse ( not going in depth ), NOT PROOFREAD Death/Lil Describing of gore, I am aware that there might be two more mew characters, but they won’t be included becuase I don’t know them all to well at the moment!

I do not support people that think they are ‘ real yanderes ‘ or act on any of the things mentioned, if you do or think about these things please get professional help

A/N: Ty for requesting! I have a lot so they are a little slow but they are still all going to get to! And I’m happy to call you👹 Annon!

•You started playing Hsr when it first came out, you loved the designs and a characters! •But they certainly loved you back! I mean why wouldn’t they? Your just a sweetheart to them! •Kafka and Silver wolf the first ones knowing feeling your presence, hearing your soft voice complimenting them •Next, The Trailblazer, March 17, and Dan Heng knew next then Hiyoko and welt then so and so on •The characters you gotten is when they knew you were there, they KNEW you were with them •They heard your worried voice when one of them is low on health, apologizing over and over •Gepard and March 17 always try to make their shields better, Bailu and Natasha try’s to heal as much as they could, Hiyoko and welt trying to make you proud •Huohuo try’s to be more brave for you, Dr. Ratio always does harder in his studies •Serval playing her best at concerts in your honor, Clara makes sure she prays to you every day •They worshiped you like no other, every place had this one single law ‘ Don’t hurt the divine one.. ‘ •Simple, right? Wrong. When you got transferred to the game you were about to walk around, until a cloth was over your mouth •You woke up in a cage, weak, scrunched up like a dog curled in its own bed as you groaned ‘ She will make us a whole lot of money… ‘ We just can’t get caught.. ‘ ‘ You worry to much… ‘ •2 Women and one Man you heard, one of them pulling you out, throwing you at the wall as you fall down with a loud ‘THUMP!’ •They burned you, cut you, broke bones hardly fed you, blood all over your body •You were hosted at one of the prizes at a auction, Himiko and Welt was there as she looked around, her eyes spotted you, weak, legs shaking (Not what YOU think…) your body bruised, burned, painted with cuts and scratches •Welt quickly saw aswell, his eyes widened, Their grace… Abused like an object..? Slowly golden blood leaked from your forehead, you gotten more dizzy last thing you heard was a stern voice

‘ 1 Million Credits! ‘ •They took you back, not even paying the fee, but, your their god, their CREATOR, your more than just some stupid credits.. •March 17 stayed at the astral express with you, word got out about what happened… everyone was FURIOUS •Bailu, Loucha, and Natasha going to the express to try to help heal your wounds and to keep watch •Clara and Savorog keeping watch outside the room, Argenti, Archeon, Blade, Dr. Raito going to hunt the people down •Jing Yuan and Imbibitor Lunae, Figuring out the gruesomeness ways to make the people suffer •Kafka and Jingilu doing most of the dirty work, blood splattered everywhere •You woke up at so many people by your side it was overwhelming, Being able to talk to your characters made you smile, something you didn’t do in a long while •They are so sorry for not being there for your proper descent, they will do any for your forgiveness your grace

#pearlsrequests #honkai star rail #self aware honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail #sahsrau #yandere hsr x reader #yandere hsr #hsr x reader #self aware au #self awareness #Silly 👹 anon

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moamidzyism · 27 days

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[12:15am] (c.sb)

☆。.:*·ﾟwc 1566 angst + smut ౨ৎ minors DNI ୨୧ soobin x unnamed fem!oc, husband!soobin x fem!reader, infidelity, toxic relationship, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex [masterlist • reblogs + feedback appreciated]

playlist — alligator tears, beyoncé ; pretty little birds, sza ; i wish i hated you, ariana grande ; riiverdance, beyoncé ; pretty, kennie ; easy to love me, hope tala ; the other woman, lana del rey

part one

soobin knows the way to her place by heart. it is a small, unassuming house just outside of town, a stark contrast to the home he shares with you. he pulls into the driveway like he owns the place. it is a routine now – driving here, parking in the same spot, and heading straight for the flowerpot where she leaves the spare key for him.

the familiarity is comforting, almost too easy. it is as if this is the place he is truly meant to be.

he pushes open the door, half-expecting her to be waiting for him in the dimly lit hallway. but the house is silent. he takes a moment to take in the space, a house so devoid of personality it almost feels intentional, like it is staged. there are no family photos adorning the walls, no scatter of throw pillows on the couch, no scented candles or wallflowers to perfume the air. but it doesn’t bother him. in fact, there is something about the simplicity that makes him feel at home in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

as he moves towards the bedroom, he can feel the weight of the day finally starting to lift. the tension, the lies – it all seems to fade as he approaches the only place where things don’t feel so complicated. he finds her there, lying on the bed in one of his old t-shirts, her face dotted with pimple patches. it is strangely endearing.

“you’re late,” she remarks, her voice flat, as she catches sight of him standing in the doorway.

“i told you i was coming,” he replies.

“yeah, and you’re ten minutes late,” she shoots back, her eyes narrowing slightly. “and i’m tired now.”

“you know i had to make sure she was okay first,” he says. the mention of you hangs in the air like a lead weight. “but i’m here now.”

she rolls her eyes. “come on, baby, let me make it up to you,” soobin murmurs, inching closer to the bed, desperate to close the distance between them, both physically and emotionally.

when he reaches her, he pulls her into a kiss (mostly to placate her, but also to silence his thoughts). she smiles into the kiss, a small, satisfied curve of her lips that tells him she’d let it slide this time.

for now, he is hers, and that is all she needs.

he kisses her again, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between them. his hands move instinctively, caressing her back as he deepens the kiss, trying to lose himself in her warmth, in the simplicity of this moment.

his lips begin their slow descent from her mouth, tracing a path down her neck, lingering on the sensitive skin there as he relishes in her soft sighs. it’s intoxicating the power he holds over her. he continues, his kisses trail lower, over the curve of her breast, where the old t-shirt is pushed aside, revealing more of her skin to him. he savors the ways she arches slightly towards him. he lets his hands roam her sides, feeling the rise and fall of her breath.

then, as he reaches the lacy band of her underwear, he pauses for a moment to take the sight of her beneath him – vulnerable, wanting, and his. there’s a part of him that wishes he could stay in this moment forever, where nothing exists but her, but he knows, just like all the moments they share, it’s fleeting.

he kisses the lace softly before he starts to peel the fabric away, ready to lose himself in her completely.

“you’re so unreal,” he whispers as he spreads her legs apart, positioning himself between them.

his lips find her clit, and the moment his mouth makes contact, she lets out an ear-splitting moan, her body arching into him. her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging at the roots with abandon. she melts under the pleasure he gives her, reacting instinctively to each flick of his tongue against her sensitive, swollen bud.

with each movement, he pushes her closer to the edge. when he moans against her, the vibrations send shockwaves through her body. her vision blurs, and for about a minute, she is lost in the blinding ecstasy of her orgasm. she jerks beneath him, her back arching as she releases over his face, and he greedily laps up every last drop, his mouth moving down as he prolongs her pleasure.

even after his mouth and fingers leave her, the aftershocks of her climax linger.

he aligns himself with her entrance, and with a slow, deliberate push, he presses his cock into her. the stretch burns at first, but soon the pain fades, replaced by a pleasure so intense it nearly overwhelms her.

she moans as he pulls out, only thrust back in, harder and sharper. he gives her a moment to adjust, his thrusts faster, deeper. her gasps and moans fill the room, but they’re incoherent, her mind too far gone to form words.

“‘m yours… all yours, baby,” soobin whispers breathlessly, his voice rough. her eyes roll back in response as she grinds against him, completely consumed by the feeling of him inside her. a guttural groan escapes him as he picks up the pace, fucking her harder, deeper, until she’s on the brink again.

“s-so close,” she manages to gasp out, her body trembling with the force of her impending release.

his thrusts grow erratic, his breathing harsh and labored. she can tell he’s just as close as she is. “cum for me, baby. please, just cum all over my cock,” he pleads desperately.

she cries out as her body seizes, her orgasm ripping through her with brutal intensity. her pussy tightens around him, trapping him in the pulsing heat of her orgasm. he’s overcome, lost in the sensation of her gripping him so tightly, and the only thing he can do is press his hips flush against hers, filling her with everything he has.

as he pulls away from her, the warmth of his body leaving hers, she instinctively curls into him. the rawness of the moment slowly begins to settle into a familiar ache in her chest. her heartbeat steadies, her breathing slows, but her mind races. she turns her gaze upward, her eyes soft and pleading as she whispers, “can you please stay?”

he meets her eyes, offering a tender smile as he strokes her hair. “i am staying,” he reassures her. but she knows the truth. she feels it in the way his hand hesitates before touching her again, in the way his gaze flickers away from hers. he means he’s staying for now, for the night. she forces a smile. “good,” she murmurs, snuggling closer to him, trying to absorb this moment. to make it last.

he holds her tightly, his lips brushing against her forehead in a series of soft kisses that felt more like an apology. she knows the truth she’s been trying to ignore. soobin loves her, yes, but not enough. never enough to actually leave you. the thought cuts through her like a knife, sharp and cold.

despite the doubt gnawing at her, exhaustion eventually pulls her to sleep, his body still wrapped around hers. she dreams of a future that she knows will never come to pass.

the next morning, she wakes to an empty bed and the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. for a moment, she allows herself to hope that maybe today will be different. but when he emerges, dressed in the same clothes he wore last night, her heart sinks.

“you’re leaving?” she asks. her voice is small as she sits up in bed. her fingers clutch the comforter as if it could keep him there.

“i have to go home,” he replies, the words heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. to my wife. but he doesn’t say it; he doesn’t need to. she knows. he walks towards the bed, leaning down to kiss her. she feels the finality of it in the press of his lips.

she catches his arm as he pulls aways, desperation creeping into her voice. “i was hoping we’d get breakfast or something. have a slow morning?”

soobin sighs. “i know, but i have to get home. we’re having guests next week, so we have to go shopping this weekend.”

her heart clenches at his words. that doesn’t sound like something you do with someone you’re planning to leave. in fact, it sounds like the life of a man who is firmly committed with no intention of changing his situation.

“don’t frown,” he says, his thumb brushing over her furrowed brow. he leans down to kiss her again, this time a quick peck, as if to soften the blow. “i’ll make it up to you.”

she watches him with fear and frustration bubbling up inside her. “at least stay for breakfast,” she pleads, reaching for him one last time.

“i–i have to go.” his eyes dart away from hers as he steps back.

as he walks out the door, leaving her alone in the cold, empty house, she feels the familiar sting of tears welling up in her eyes. you get the dates, and the wedding ring, and the family reunions. you get him. and all she gets is the hollow echo of his absence.

fill out this form to join my taglist! author's note :: this is the part two!! I really hope you enjoyed this <33 I know it's not the satisfying she leaves him ending but I thought it shed light to the dynamics in these relationships. if you have any questions, comments, etc , please please please feel free to ask me !!

#fay's works #txt smut #txt angst #tomorrow x together #tomorrow x together angst #tomorrow x together smut #soobin angst #txt x reader #soobin smut #choi soobin #choi soobin smut #choi soobin angst #soobin x reader

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artemis32 · 7 months

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yandere superfam drabble i

listen, i have a ton of ideas for the batfam. really, i do. but come on. superfam.

dc masterlist

Thinking about Clark and his family as yanderes.

Individually, they're enough of a headache, but together? Damn.

Clark Kent sees himself as your father. The problem with him as a yandere is, he's genuinely terrifying. I mean, ignoring the fact that this man is literally Superman, he's also incredibly delusional.

I think most people downplay, or forget exactly how strong this man is. He's strong, fast, and so insanely smart. All that being said, there is literally zero chance of you avoiding him, under any circumstances.

The only saving grace in this situation is the fact that he's, like I said, delusional. Not in a 'oh, I know this is kind of wrong, but I can justify it as being right' kind of way. Rather, he wholeheartedly believes he's helping you, doing the best thing for you by allowing his obsession and thoughts of you overtake your life.

You don't even have the luxury of a slow descent into the situation. His mindset regarding you shifted really quickly, and by the time you were clued in on it, you'd already been stolen away to a farm in the middle of nowhere, ripped away from your life without warning.

The only aspect of his mindset that doesn't quite fit in with the delusional yandere archetype is the fact that, if you push the right buttons, he will absolutely fly off the handle. That in itself proves that, no matter how much he insists otherwise, he knows what he's done to you is wrong.

Jon Kent is a carbon copy of his father. He firmly believes that your place in life is with them, as a part of their family. The fact that you weren't born into the family means nothing to him. If you weren't meant to be with them, the your paths would never have crossed.

The only difference between him and Clark is that Jon has no doubt in his mind that what they're doing is okay. Clark is delusional; Jon is deranged. A part of you believes you can't really blame him - he's a child, a product of his environment. If that's what he was taught his whole life, by the people he loved and trusted, then of course he didn't see a problem with it. But the larger part of you still hated him, hated the fact that he saw you as the crazy one, as if his family hadn't abducted you from your crappy Metropolis apartment in the middle of the night.

And the fact that he was a few years younger than you didn't stop him from treating you like a child. Granted, he was insanely strong and fast, but that didn't mean you had to enjoy him manhandling you as easily as his father and brother whenever he thought you were getting too fussy.

Conner Kent, a few years your senior, isn't like Clark or Jon. He's completely aware of what they're doing to you, of how invasive and creepy it is. He just doesn't care.

I'd almost argue that him being fully aware of how wrong it all was might've been creepier than the shared delusion of Clark and Jon, especially since he could stare you dead in the eye, blank faced at the sight of your tears, and tell you in the most monotonous voice you've ever heard that he didn't care about what you wanted.

Besides a few uncanny moments with him, he was mostly pretty cocky and snide, with this keen way of getting under your skin. It's almost as if he revelled in the fact that you knew he knew they were wrong, the fact that he could do something to help you get away from all this, but he just... didn't.

The worst part was, if he hadn't, you know, kidnapped you, you might've liked him. He was easy to like, if you ignored the annoying sarcasm and ever-present smirk, the type of person you might've wanted to be friends with.

Too bad he spoiled all that by being batshit crazy.

Lois Lane, to her credit, was against the idea at first. She acted as the voice of reason in the family. Or, at least, she tried to. But the men in her family were nothing if not determined.

She realised how crazy, how morally wrong it was to rip someone away from their life for what you thought might be best for them. She also realised how terrified you'd be, surrounded by people, beings who were so much stronger than you, able to subdue you with little more than the tip of a pinky finger.

But, in the end, they won her over. The idea of someone to take care of, someone normal in the family - someone like her, and a daughter to boot - the offer was too sweet to pass up on. She's an odd mix of mindsets, a point somewhere between Clark's delusion and Conner's unwavering sanity, and that makes her scarier than the rest of them, somehow.

The fact that she knows it's wrong, but is able to convince herself it's for your own good - that's terrifying.

Though, she is great in the motherly role, acting as neutral ground for whenever one of the others overwhelm you past what you can reasonably handle. She seems to have a sixth sense for your threshold too, appearing as if out of thin air whenever you're close to snapping at one of the three men who are always in your hair.

Out of all four of them, you'd admit to liking her the most, though admittedly, it's for a selfish reason. She's the easiest person to slip by - the rest of them have super sight and hearing, and even if you could slip away, they'd catch up to you in a few seconds flat. Lois, as much as you may dislike her, was only human. Yes, she had this weird sense for when you'd try to pull something, but for the most part, you had more leeway with her than anyone else.

As a result, you stuck to her like glue, which lead to Jon whining that you were playing favourites. Jon, you could understand. He was a child, one who was used to getting his way most of the time. Clark, however, also tended to develop a strangely endearing pout whenever you ignored him, one that had even Lois caving and forcing you to spend time with someone other than her.

One thing all of them had in common was the fact that they were so damn clingy. They seemed magnetically drawn to you, hanging off of you like children at all hours of the day. It was infuriating, constantly having your personal space intruded upon.

Even at night, when you tried to sleep, you'd wake to find Conner or Jon sliding in beside you, or, even worse, you'd mysteriously wake up in Clark and Lois' bed the next morning. That always made you uncomfortable - how had they managed to move you several rooms down without you once waking up?

Your only saving grace was that all four had their own lives outside of the household, often leaving for work or school, or even patrols, so you very rarely had to deal with all four at the same time. Your favourite days were the ones when it was just you and Lois. You could slip away in the morning, right after Jon caught the bus to school, and spend the entire day away from the prison-like household.

They at least trusted you enough to let you roam around the farm freely. Well, not trusted, exactly. More like, they knew you couldn't get far before one of them caught up to you.

The perks of living in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.

On the bright side, they acted as if the entire household revolved around you. You could decide what everyone ate for breakfast and dinner, you could decide the 'family activity' of the week. They tended to give in to what you wanted pretty easily, on the condition that you gave them something in return, whether it be attention, affection, or some crudely handmade gift that wasn't worth much.

Despite their joyful front though, they could all be terrifying, especially Clark. You'd learnt that the hard way when they'd first taken you. One of them snapping usually only happened if you put yourself in harm's way, but there were other circumstances where they (Clark), felt punishment was warranted.

You'd once made the mistake of making genuinely hurting Lois (or, her feelings at least), to the point of making her cry. Once, and never again.

But since then, you'd learnt how to play your cards, how to skate by in the Kent household with only a small dose of anxiety. You'd managed to avoid being metaphorically (and literally) shackled to the bed, like when you'd first arrived. Time had made things easier - time, and getting to know them.

As much as you were loathed to admit it, getting to know them had made it easier to handle them. It'd been a hard pill to swallow originally, but as the months went by, you'd had to accept the fact that you weren't going anywhere, and it was better to adapt to the situation than remain sullen and miserable for the rest of your life.

They seemed to believe you were slowly but surely coming around to the idea of being a part of their family. You definitely acted like it. But deep down, you were biding your time, waiting, planning for the perfect moment.

You'd leave, run and hide, go to furthest corner of the earth to get away from them. You always thought you would, and one day, you did.

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girlsworldillusion · 7 months

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CLAIM - by Aemond Targaryen

+18 (seriously, no minors)

author's note: my first time writing for him, even though I've been in the fandom for a while now. (I hope this isn't the only one).

There you go, Aemond thinks with some bitterness.

Bright, innocent, pure. Tempting in annoying ways. Certainly a cute little thing to look at, though.

Unfortunately, he's not the only one who noticed this.

A warm, tingly ball curls in his stomach the more he watches you and your pathetic excuse for a partner during the waltz. Every delicate twirl you make around the grand ballroom sends shivers down his spine. The flushed dust high on your cheeks leaves his throat dry. The gentle smile you offer the Lord who smugly leads you through the dance makes his fist clench so tightly around the wine glass that Aemond is actually surprised he hasn't shattered the thing into a thousand pieces yet.

Aemond is not jealous, however. Aemond doesn't get jealous - being jealous is wanting something someone else has, and he has everything he needs, a lot of enviable things, to be honest. (That's what he tells himself, sipping some wine and sending icy daggers toward the man who insists on holding your waist tighter and tighter).

He's not jealous. He just doesn't like it when others covet what's his - or what should be his.

You, another Lady with a prestigious name. Theoretically there were many like you, it's true. But to Aemond, you always stood out. Unique, special. It is a great inconvenience that others also think this way.

Aemond was trying to be a gentleman here. He was purposely going slow so as not to scare you; innocent walks in the garden, subtle conversations about a book you both recently read, an unassuming invitation for afternoon tea (although he doesn't even like tea).

He was already exhausting the limits of his own patience and he still didn't get any real sign that you reciprocated his interest in you. You are kind and lovely, of course. But that's how you are with everyone around you. This, in itself, is no guarantee of absolutely anything for him.

Aemond was trying to be patient. Gods, he really was. But with each passing day he found himself more and more tormented by thoughts and fantasies about you. His mind is playing tricks on him, pushing the limits of his self-control to the point where he feels like he might snap like a stretched rubber band.

And it is on these nights, when everyone in the Red Keep is already asleep and he is absolutely certain that he is finally alone with his own demons - that he gives in.

He closes the only eye he has left to keep from seeing the shamefully needy descent of his hand beneath the waistband of his sleep pants, only for it to become a fleeting, innocuous thought a few seconds later, because there it is again; that all-encompassing, overwhelming feeling that makes him see stars every time.

He palms his straining erection wet with precum, imagining it's your tiny hand there - or your pretty mouth, your tight pussy. The mere thought of it sends a bolt of pleasure down his spine and makes him part his lips in a husky sigh.

He thinks of you, over and over again; in hurried and repetitive steps, like someone lost in a maze.

Your cheeks flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses, your eyelashes fluttering with pleasure, your sweet voice begging for him...

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond-

Aemond writhes on the sheets, panting, shaking with it, his toes curled against the bed; his hips twitching with each wave of pleasure along his shaft trapped between his fingers. In the waves of euphoria, he throws his other arm over his eye, hides his sapphire and his personal decay like a secret, panting, getting close, so close, fuck, fuck...

It's sweet torture, after all. Spills out onto his own stomach and sheets instead of where he really wants to be.

But he can handle it. All to be a gentleman for you. All to endure the long, agonizing (and embarrassing) wait while you happily accept his invitations to teas and walks in the gardens and entertain him with your witty anecdotes about the latest book you read -

Although you never give him a concrete answer about your feelings for him.

He's trying to hold on.

But you need to pressure him, don't you?

He grits his teeth and narrows his gaze when the man waltzing with you leans down to say something close to your ear.

This isn't new to him, of course.

Aemond is used to having to fight to get what he wants. Nothing really comes easy for him. But there is something about the arduous trajectory of his personal achievements that no one is able to deny.

Once claimed, it's his forever.

That's it, enough of trying to be a gentleman - Aemond hums as he uses the rim of his wine glass to hide the wicked smile tugging at his lips.

"Oh, baby."

He is against you.

Pressing his crotch against the curve of your ass so you can feel how hard his cock is in his pants.

He's laughing in your ear.

Mocking.

"You like that, don't you, girl?" he asks, in a dark whisper after cornering you in one of the castle's corridors, blocking your walk to your chambers. He deposits words laced with malice and honey into his husky voice, whispered against the shell of your ear.

You shudder against him.

He's rubbing himself against you. His cock rubbing explicitly against the curve of your ass, while his fingers squeeze your throat, pulling the back of your head to his shoulder.

"You're mine," he says, his voice full of possessiveness. Like he was on the verge of losing it. He already lost.

You cry out softly, feeling him squeeze your throat again. Harder this time.

"Nobody touches you from now on. Got it?"

He's nuzzling into your hair. Lost in the tickle of your strands on his face, in your sweet smell in his nose.

You shake your head somehow even with his firm grip on your throat and he laughs against your hair.

A low, harsh laugh, a wicked sound that rumbles straight from his throat as he leans down to leave a single kiss on your cheek, intertwining his fingers with yours to give a light tug.

"Good girl."

You open your mouth to say something, anything - an apology, a well-rehearsed argument, words too soft and genuine to compete with the sound of Aemond's hips slamming violently between your thighs - but all all you can do is a low, breathless meow.

"You smell like him," Aemond huffs coldly, though it's more of a breathy grunt.

Maybe there is a certain amount of exaggeration in his words, you don't smell like him. Not really. But the simple memory of that man's hands on your waist and his face close to yours to whisper anything was awakening a dangerous euphoria in Aemond's veins.

He tries hard to at least pretend to be easy, to at least pretend to have some control over the situation. Struggling silently to remain composed, as if he wasn't finally fucking the woman he's wanted for a long time at a brutal pace, as if your scent and your tears weren't permanently staining his sheets right now, as if he wasn't squeaking his teeth to keep from spilling too soon at the mere thought of having permanent physical proof that you were here - right in the bed where he sleeps every night. Aemond feigns an indifference and coldness that are not real.

But he's trying.

He is under the intense watch of your drunken, half-closed gaze, and tries hard not to embarrass himself any more than he already has. He struggles to breathe through his nose, trying not to blink too often; carefree, not a hair out of place. And, in the midst of his personal battle for dignity, he finds some amusement in how you seem to be going insane beneath him; as if you seams were being torn apart with each breath hissed through your teeth.

"I-it was just a dance..."

“He was desperate,” Aemond cuts you off, squeezing you so that your words turn into nothing more than a pathetic groan at the end of the sentence. His fingers dig into your throat, anchoring him as his hips work furiously against yours. His hair is falling to your shoulders and breasts, raising goose bumps on your skin with each thrust of his body against yours. “And that smell is really offending me, girl.”

“I-I, I’m so sorry-” you stutter, hands gripping his wrist as he resists the urge to sink his teeth into the crook of your neck, exactly where everyone can see it tomorrow, “I told him I already had someone and -"

He barely hears your confession before he interrupts. Thick words spilling from his lips as the grip on your body doubles in intensity.

"He thought with that sticky smile that he could just have you? That he would be the one to take your purity? This is for me, he should know. You belong to me. Only for me - only for me." He shakes and sputters to the wild pleasure coursing through his veins, some of his self control slipping as he bows his head and bumps his forehead against your sweaty shoulder, panting heavily into your skin at the feeling of your tight walls gripping his cock like a lathe.

"Yeah - only for you", he distantly hears you moan above the roar in his ears, feels your little fingers tangle between the silver strands of his hair until you manage to give a sharp tug, right at the base of the back of his neck. He groans into your skin at the sensation.

The liquid heat building inside him is almost overflowing, so close that he can't stop his trembling hips from meeting yours with shallower thrusts. He's almost rubbing himself against you, over and over, frantically. “Aemond, p-please,” you murmur, cherry-colored tongue wetting your plump bottom lip. "I can't anymore, I can't - ngh, please-"

Aemond swallows the rest of your words with a punishing kiss, answering your broken plea by quickly grinding his hips, encouraging your orgasm to wash over you. He doesn't stop, not even when you go rigid, unable to kiss him back or do anything other than moan and cry into his mouth.

Aemond traces your lips with his tongue, nibbling them until they're soft, his own breathing becoming as frantic as the cock that's dragging without pause against your wet walls. When his orgasm washes over him, Aemond is already panting and moaning as if in pain as he rests his forehead against yours; an intense gaze observing yours, focused on every detail of your delicate features. Your hooded gaze, the wet trail of tears on your red cheeks and your uneven breathing. The purest adoration for him shining in your eyes like stars in the dark sky.

And he smiles then.

Because you are his now.

Duly claimed.

With a gentle touch on his elbow, Aemond returns to reality.

The apples of his cheeks are dyed a subtle (but noticeable) shade of red as his violet gaze scans the space in front of him, silently surprised to have been caught in the middle of his unholy reverie.

It's you.

A beautiful silk dress on soft skin. Hair tied in a slightly loose braid. So small compared to him. So beautiful. So...his.

"Prince Aemond, are you okay?"

He looks at you for a moment, debating between feigning disagreement to spare himself the humiliation of being caught or pushing you against the nearest wall.

In the end, he chooses to remain still, head raised proudly and face indifferent, although his violet gaze remains stubbornly tilted downwards, thirsty to maintain eye contact with you.

"Yes, I just got distracted," he says, voice deeper than he'd like it to sound.

You smile, sweet and soft and his heart quickens.

"That's great. Well, it's late and my feet are hurting after all the dancing." You close your eyes in an amused, relaxed expression, there's even a dimple forming in your cheek as the wide smile stretches your lips - and although the sight is enough to fill his chest with a bubbling sensation of pure warmth, a muscle Aemond's jaw jumps at the mere mention of your recent activities. "Have a good night, my Prince." You conclude when he offers no response to your comment, bowing with a respectful farewell before walking away.

He watches you leave the great hall with delicate steps, gentle smiles and nods directed at the people you meet on the way. The image of grace and innocence, without a doubt. At least until you turn your head towards him before walking out the hall doors.

The way your upper teeth sink into the plump flesh of your lower lip, your heavy eyelashes fluttering when you squint briefly, the flushed cheeks and swollen pupils aimed specifically at him...

It happens as quickly as it started. With a fluid movement you turn around again and walk through the hall doors, as if nothing had happened.

Aemond sighs; tired, irritated, burning with lust.

You keep playing with him.

The wine glass shakes and clinks loudly as he places it roughly on the table, but he doesn't care. He doesn't even care if anyone notices as he abruptly follows your steps, leaving the ballroom behind, with a hard gaze and dark features.

He would catch up to you.

And this time he'll make sure it's not just in a daydream-

He will claims you. Truly, indisputably.

#aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond imagine #aemond x fem!reader #aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #prince aemond #aemond #aemond x reader #hotd x reader #aemond the kinslayer #house of the dragon #hotd aemond #hotd

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firewasabeast · 2 months

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okay so I wrote a fic based off this post that I made earlier today so... enjoy!

read here or on ao3

Thomas Kinard is eighteen years old and he just graduated basic training.

He's standing among nearly two hundred other graduates, all filled with some form of anxiety and excitement.

They're all standing at attention, although Tommy knows everyone's eyes are searching the audience.

They've all been given their orders.

They stand at attention until a family member or loved one comes and taps them out. Only then can they be at ease.

Tommy had called his dad a couple weeks ago. Left him a message on the landline about the date and time of his graduation. He hadn't expected a call back. The payphones at basic weren't great and you didn't have much spare time to be on them, but he knew his dad would get the message.

He wrote a letter to his grandparents, just in case. His aunt on his mom's side, and his older cousins too.

They'd been proud when he told them he was graduating early, joining the service, would be celebrating his eighteenth birthday in boot camp.

Even his dad has slapped him on the back and told him he was glad he was finally becoming a real man.

Tommy's eyes scanned the crowd, but it was hard to make anyone out.

He waited patiently through the ceremony. His heart skipped a beat or two when people began making their way toward the graduates.

He stood still, only his eyes darting around as the people beside him began to get tapped out. He listened to the cries of parents who had done nothing but miss their children for the past 10 weeks. Saw grown men cry at the site of their moms. Heard the laughter from boyfriends and girlfriends who surprised their partner by showing up. Watched little kids run to their sibling and wrap their arms around them in a hug.

He was certain that only a few minutes had passed, but it felt like hours.

As more and more seconds passed, his heart continued to pound, but for a different reason now.

Surely he wasn't the only one. As he glanced around, he didn't see anyone else waiting. No, he couldn't see everybody, but he was near the back in the center row so he could see most people, and they all had somebody with them.

A hand tapped his shoulder and his head jerked to the side, eyes wide. He felt a lump in the back of his throat when he saw his commanding officer standing beside him. He had the softest look on his face that Tommy had ever seen.

Pity.

“At ease, soldier.”

Tommy takes a breath, relaxes his posture. His CO moves in front of him, shakes his hand. “You've done well, Kinard. You should be proud.”

Tommy nods. Can't find his voice to speak.

He feels tears in his eyes, but he blinks them away.

He shouldn't have expected anyone to show up anyway.

He lowers his head as he walks off the field. A part of him wonders what it was all even for?

*****

Thomas Kinard is forty-eight years old and he just got promoted to captain.

It's not something he ever thought about until the past couple of years. He wouldn't get to fly much as captain. There's more paperwork, more politics, more people to answer to.

But there's also more stability. Especially with being the captain at Harbor. A regular schedule, forty-eight on and ninety-six off.

It was safer. There had been a scare a couple years back. Engine failure on his bird. He went plummeting toward the ground and, if not for a dense area of trees slowing his descent, the chopper would have exploded the second it hit the ground.

He survived, obviously, but his injuries were severe. He had a broken pelvis, fractured leg, thirty stitches down his arm, cranial bleeding, and ended up in a coma for nearly two weeks.

The recovery was long and so, so painful but he had Buck by his side every step of the way. Even the times he'd push Buck away, tell him to please just leave him alone, Buck stayed. He stayed and he learned all the physical therapy techniques and he loved Tommy through all of it.

Flying hadn't felt the same since. He was relieved when he had fully recovered. When he took his recertification classes and passed with flying colors.

But the freedom he had always felt with being in the sky changed into something completely different. There was anxiety. Relief when he was back on solid ground.

He stared out into the crowd, at the little girl sitting on Buck's lap.

Juniper. Six years old and looking more grown up every day. She was glancing all around the room, her eyes never staying in one place for very long. She kept pointing at things, leaning back to whisper into Buck's ear. He'd nod, smile, then whisper back. Tommy was sure they were swapping facts.

So much like her father, he thought.

He'd never forget the day he got home from the hospital. Juniper, only four then, staring at him as he was wheeled into the house. She was clutching onto Eddie's hand, her knuckles snow white. She hadn't gotten to see him in nearly a month, besides an occasional Facetime call.

Once he had gotten settled into the hospital bed that had been delivered to the house the day before, he called her over to him. She slowly climbed up onto the bed, Buck helping her settle beside Tommy without really touching him.

“You scared me, Papa,” she spoke quietly, eyes wet with unshed tears. “Please don't do it again.”

No, flying was never the same after that.

His eyes wander over the rest of the crowd.

A small smile breaks out over his face when he realizes he knows everyone in the first two rows.

Besides his husband and daughter, Maddie, Chimney, and Jee were there. Hen- or, Captain Wilson, now- and Karen. Eddie, Ravi, and Athena. Behind his family were all the firefighters from Harbor. They had been thrilled when they heard Tommy would be the new captain. He'd been taking cues from Bobby recently, starting special dinners with the crew and getting to know them better before he even became captain. He wanted his team to know he'd be there for them, that they could count on him. From the excitement they showed when it was officially announced that he'd be the new captain, he was fairly certain he'd done a good job so far.

The only person not in the audience today was Bobby. But, that was simply because Chief Nash was the one leading the ceremony.

Tommy takes another look around at the family in front of him. He waves at Juniper. She grins wide, showing off her missing front teeth, waves enthusiastically.

His eyes meet Evan's. Tommy gives him a wink. Buck smiles, winks back.

He straightens his posture as the ceremony begins.

He thinks, this... this is what it's all for.

#bucktommy #911 #tommy kinard #evan buckley #tevan #kinley #yes juniper makes an appearance because of course she does #this can all be in the same universe as my uncle eddie fic but this has absolutely nothing to do with eddie lol #also i promise i did more research than tim and co will ever do but im sure i got some things wrong so... oh well we must survive somehow

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idkyetxoxo · 19 days

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Aegon Targaryen - No Control

Summary - Two souls entwined in their respective marriages, bound by societal expectations yet unable to resist each other, play a dangerous game of seduction and longing, where every stolen moment becomes a battleground of desire, guilt and risk.

Pairing - Aegon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!!), Infidelity

Word count - 2082

Masterlist for Aegon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

He was someone else's, and I was someone else's, but that didn't stop us. It also didn't stop the carnal need we possessed for each other.

Bound by duty and circumstance, yet irresistibly drawn to each other, our clandestine meetings became a sanctuary where we could escape the confines of our respective marriages.

"I must take your leave, the king has requested his council," my husband Tyland said as he hastily reclothed. His voice, tinged with urgency, betrayed the pressure of his responsibilities.

"I will return shortly," he added, placing a reassuring hand on my cheek before swiftly departing our chambers.

As the door closed behind him, I allowed myself to fall back onto our silk sheets, their luxurious coolness a soothing balm against my heated, naked body. The room fell into a hushed stillness, the only sound the soft rustle of fabric as I shifted on the bed, savoring the brief respite from my role as the dutiful wife.

Suddenly, the chamber doors swung open, startling me from my reverie. I yelped, instinctively covering myself, only to see Aegon standing in the doorway, his familiar smirk playing on his lips.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," he remarked casually, his eyes roaming over me with a possessive gleam.

"We can't," I whispered urgently, my heart racing. "He'll be back soon."

Aegon shrugged, a nonchalant air about him as he stepped further into the room. "And?" he replied, his tone dismissive of the risks we faced, as if daring fate itself to intervene.

Despite the danger, the magnetic pull between us was undeniable. As he approached, I felt the familiar thrill of anticipation, the intoxicating mix of fear and desire that accompanied our secret liaisons.

Aegon reached out, his hand tracing a slow, deliberate path along my arm, leaving a trail of tingling sensations in its wake.

"We've never let that stop us before," he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper.

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the inevitability of our connection. Here, in the privacy of my chambers, we could be ourselves, unrestrained and unashamed.

"Aegon," I warned, my voice trembling as his hands moved to remove the sheet covering my body. The fabric slid away, leaving me exposed and vulnerable beneath his gaze.

"Tell me," he began, his eyes dark with desire as he slowly removed his own clothes. Each movement was deliberate, a silent assertion of his control.

"Has he ever satisfied you the way I have?" he asked, his tone low and enticing, as he climbed onto the bed and straddled me, his presence overwhelming and intoxicating.

"Has he ever given you the attention you deserve?" he continued, his lips brushing against my ear before trailing down to kiss the side of my neck.

Each touch sent shivers through me, igniting a fire that only he could stoke. He continued his descent, his mouth leaving a scorching path from my neck to my chest and down to my torso.

"No," I stammered, the word escaping my lips in a breathless whisper. The feel of his lips against my skin left me gasping, my body arching towards him in a desperate plea for more.

Aegon's hands roamed over me possessively, each caress a reminder of the unparalleled passion that flared between us.

"I didn't think so," he murmured against my skin, his voice a velvet purr.

He paused to look up at me, his eyes burning with an intensity that made my heart race. "You deserve the love of a dragon."

I could only nod, lost in the sensations that Aegon's touch provoked. His lips found mine in a searing kiss, claiming me with an urgency that matched my own. In his arms, I felt truly seen and desired, in a way I never had with Tyland.

"Look at you, trembling under my touch," Aegon murmured against my lips, his voice a low, seductive rumble. He pulled away slightly, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of arrogance and desire. "Do you still want me to stop?"

A frown creased my forehead. His cocky demeanor was both infuriating and intoxicating, but I refused to let him have the upper hand.

With a surge of determination, I pushed him off me, catching him off guard. He stumbled back, his eyes widening in surprise.

Before he could react, I flipped us over, straddling him with a confident smirk.

"Now it's my turn," I said, my voice dripping with authority. I leaned down, my hair cascading around us like a curtain, and pressed my lips to his, pouring all my pent-up frustration and passion into the kiss.

Aegon's breath hitched, and I felt his hands grip my hips, trying to regain control. But I wasn't going to let him. I pinned his hands above his head, my grip firm and unyielding.

"Do you like this, Aegon?" I whispered against his ear, my breath hot and tantalizing. "Do you like being at my mercy?"

His eyes darkened with a mixture of desire and frustration. "You're playing with fire," he growled, but there was a hint of pleading in his voice that sent a thrill through me.

"Good," I replied, nipping at his earlobe before trailing kisses down his neck, savoring the taste of his skin. "Maybe it's time you learned what it feels like to be on the receiving end."

My lips moved lower, exploring the contours of his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath beneath my touch.

Aegon's resolve began to crumble, his body responding to my every move. "Please," he whispered, his voice raw with need. "Don't stop."

I met his gaze, reveling in the power shift. "Who's trembling now?" I asked, my tone teasing yet commanding. His eyes were filled with a desperation that mirrored my own earlier.

It was exhilarating to see him so vulnerable, so utterly at my mercy.

With a wicked smile, I continued my exploration, my hands and lips driving him to the brink of madness. Every moan, every gasp was a victory, a testament to the control I now wielded over him.

"You thought you could break me," I whispered, my breath hot against his skin. "But it's you who's breaking, Aegon. It's you who's begging."

His response was a strangled moan, his body arching towards mine in a silent plea. I relished the sight of him, so strong and yet so undone beneath my touch.

It was a heady feeling, knowing that I could reduce him to this.

As I continued to tease and torment him, Aegon's hands finally broke free from my grip, but instead of reclaiming control, they clutched at me desperately, pulling me closer.

"Please," he repeated, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I need you."

I paused, meeting his gaze, seeing the raw vulnerability in his eyes. It was a powerful moment, a silent acknowledgment of our shared desire and the fragile balance of power between us.

With a slow, deliberate movement, I leaned down, aligning my hips in the position he so desperately wanted them in, and gave in to him fully, allowing him to enter me. A shiver of anticipation coursed through me as I felt him fill me.

A soft gasp escaped his lips, his breath warm against my skin as I began moving my hips, savoring the intoxicating sensation that pulsed through my body. The rhythm started slow and teasing, each movement drawing us deeper into the shared pleasure.

"Gods, you feel amazing," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Just like that. Show me how much you want it."

His hands reached out, fingers trembling slightly, before firmly squeezing my breasts. The mix of pressure and pleasure sent waves of ecstasy rippling through me.

Our bodies moved in a synchronized dance, the intensity building with each thrust. I could feel his need and desire matching my own, the room echoing with our mingled sounds of passion.

"Harder," he urged, his voice a breathy command. "Take me deeper."

I quickened the pace, lifting my hips up and down on his shaft, feeling the delicious friction that made my senses tingle.

His grip tightened on my breasts, and I could see the look of raw desire in his eyes, urging me on.

"Yes, just like that," he groaned, his words a blend of encouragement and need. "You're so beautiful when you're like this."

I responded to his silent plea, riding him faster and harder, losing myself in the moment. The connection between us was electric, every touch and movement amplifying the pleasure that coursed through our entwined bodies.

His hands, now emboldened with desire, left my breasts and slid down to grasp my hips firmly. With a swift, fluid motion, he guided us both as we shifted positions. I felt the change instantly as he moved atop me, his weight pressing me into the sheets, a new angle of penetration igniting a fresh wave of sensations.

"You feel so good," he breathed, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine. "I can't get enough of you."

Our bodies seamlessly transitioned into a new dance of passion, his movements now setting the pace. The intensity between us only heightened as he took control, driving into me with a hunger that matched my own.

The room filled with the symphony of our moans and gasps, mingled with the sound of skin against skin.

My voice broke the air, loud and needy, "Yes, right there. Don't stop, please, don't stop!"

He grinned, the look in his eyes a mix of adoration and lust. "You're so perfect like this, so beautiful. I love hearing you, love seeing you like this."

I arched my back, meeting his every thrust with a fervor that mirrored his own. His hands roamed my body, exploring every curve and eliciting shivers of pleasure.

"Don't hold back," I whimpered, my words barely audible over the crescendo of our shared ecstasy.

His grip on my hips tightened, urging me to meet his rhythm, each collision sending sparks of ecstasy through us both.

Lost in the throes of passion, I surrendered to the pleasure, feeling the tension build within me like a coiled spring ready to release. The heat between us was palpable, a potent mix of desire and longing that fueled our movements.

"I'm so close," I panted, my voice trembling with the impending climax. "Please, don't stop, I need—"

His gaze locked with mine, a silent exchange of primal need and unspoken promises.

"Cum for me. I want to feel you, all of you," he urged, his words a whispered command that pushed me closer to the edge. I responded in kind, meeting his gaze with equal fervor as I pushed against him, driving us both towards the peak of our desire.

With a final, shuddering gasp, we reached the summit of our desire, the intensity of our shared climax leaving us breathless and spent.

I collapsed beside him, exhausted yet completely satisfied. A thin sheen of sweat coated our bodies, but we remained entangled, savoring the afterglow of our passion. The room was filled with the heady scent of our lovemaking, and the cool silk sheets felt soothing against our heated skin.

Aegon propped himself up on one elbow, his fingers gently tracing patterns in my hair. He placed a tender kiss on my forehead before wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him. For a few precious moments, we simply held each other, basking in the intimate silence.

"You cannot stay," I finally whispered, breaking the tranquility. "He will return soon."

Aegon exhaled, his frustration evident in the heavy sigh that escaped his lips. Reluctantly, he untangled himself from me and stood up, the cold air immediately rushing in to fill the void where his warmth had been.

He began the displeasing task of dressing himself, each movement deliberate and slow, as if to prolong our time together.

"I hope you are not too exhausted, for his sake," Aegon said with a smirk, leaning down to kiss me once more.

I couldn't help but smile. "I'll manage," I replied softly, reaching up to touch his cheek.

As he finished dressing, I propped myself up on one elbow, watching him leave. With one last lingering glance, he slipped out of the chambers, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Left alone in the dim light, I lay back on the bed, the imprint of our encounter still fresh on my skin.

For now, I would play the role expected of me, but in the quiet corners of my heart, I would always hold a space for Aegon, the man who made me feel truly alive.

A/n - I start my hospital placements again tomorrow so most posts will be scheduled cause after working a 13 hour shift (17 hours really cause i've to wake up at 5am) I will be on the brink of death myself <3

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #team green #aegon the second #aegon targaryen #king aegon #hotd aegon

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