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norrizzandpia · 27 days

Note

i think this would suit lando but you being down and lando comes over later at night and takes you the park like two little kids, i can just imagine lando being a big kid at the park lmao

I’m going to need someone to love me like the fictional lando i write abt 24/7

We Can Be Kids For Right Now (LN4)

Summary: When her week has tried to suffocate her, Lando turns up at her door and forces her to remember just how worthy she truly is.

Warnings: mentions of heavy anxiety attacks, anxiety in general, language

Note: a draft bc im wrecked rn from this trip im on im so tried lol… I hate that I have to start saying this but I do not condone the reposting of my work without proper crediting or permission. If you wish to post my works elsewhere, it needs to be ran by me first by messages over Tumblr. If found that you have taken my works without my knowledge, I will report you and get my posts taken down from your blog.

Y/n never truly realized she did it until Lando, but when the man started to get close to her, he brought it to her attention that she so easily isolated herself when she started struggling. Even the smallest inconvenience and she shut down, something that irritated the hell out of Lando. Nevertheless, he loved her and the way she dealt with her emotions was something he knew she just needed to work on.

However, the problem they couldn’t get past was her ability to tell him when she was struggling. There were only so many times when he could see it written all over her face.

His comments urging her to open up to him when she was having a hard time dealing with it on her own bounced around in her head as she clutched her phone in her hands, his contact picture brightening her screen. His smile beamed back at her, almost coaxing her into tapping the call button, but her thumb hesitated. It wasn’t that she was afraid of telling him, it was that she was uncomfortable with her own emotions. Uncomfortable of leaning into them. Growing up, she was never given that ability, her parents not having the full capacity to address them head on. She never thought it truly affected her until Lando. She started realizing that he never gave her a problem to be scared, but she still was.

Her thumb had a mind of its own, though. Thankfully. And the ringing tone met her ears before she could even know what was happening. His picking up happened before she could even begin to think about hanging up the phone.

“Baby!” His cheery voice rang through the quiet room and warmed her tender heart. “What’s up? Why are you up so late? Do you want a sweet treat again?” He giggled, his TV pausing in the background.

She was silent. Her mind raced as she tried to make the split second decision of telling him or not. Though, in her silence, he began formulating an answer.

“Y/n…” He whispered, blankets rustling as she imagined him sitting up on his couch.

“Lan,” She said brokenly, albeit with an effort of trying to sound strong.

Keys rustling and his rushed, “I’m on my way, baby,” were her response.

—

Lando knew where the spare key was. It was one of the first things he asked the location of after they first said I love you. Y/n would always laugh at that memory. What she was expecting after the three words were shared was a small kiss or a hug maybe, but no, he had asked her where her spare key was. When she showed him and he very clearly took a mental note of it, she asked him what was so important about it.

“I’m your boyfriend and we’re in love. I should know where the spare key is, baby.” He had said to her so nonchalantly, as if it was societally normal to have that thought process. She just shook her head at him and took the kiss she wanted for herself. He wasn’t going to do it anyway, too entranced in the image of her spare key under her doormat. He was shenanigans bundled into one person. She loved it.

His rapping on the door pulled her from her memories. She drudged over, taking a deep breath before opening the door. He stood there in his pajamas, puffer coat thrown over haphazardly, and stared at her sympathetically. He shuffled in, arm rounding around her shoulders as he kissed her head, “Hard day?”

She sighed, “Hard week.”

He led her to the couch. The layout of her apartment was memorized in his head. “What happened?”

“I just-” She picked at her fingernails and the anxiety she usually felt when Lando asked about her worries began bubbling up. Maybe it was growth, but she thought he’s already here, isn’t he? Might as well lean on him.

So, she did. Literally and figuratively.

Lando squeezed her body as her side laid on his and she started reliving the low moments of the past few days. “Everything has gone wrong this week. I just can’t seem to win and I can’t make anyone happy.”

Tears filled her eyes and a frown appeared on her face. She cried into his shoulder when he pushed her body further into it.

Lando sat with her for a moment, rubbing her back. “That’s not true, Y/n. You make a lot of people happy. You make me really happy.”

For some reason, his comment shot fear through her body and she pulled from him. Her eyes looked anywhere other than his and the irrational idea of an expectation Lando had set for her that she did not believe in herself to meet took control of whatever plan she had to open up to him.

Lando saw it in her eyes, how distant they got. He knew this was bound to happen. It had been too easy. She had opened up to him without that much restraint and he expected a moment to come where her walls rebuilt themselves.

He just wanted her to let him in.

His hands took her face, “You deserve me. You will not let me down. You could never let me down.” He said, knowing exactly what was running through her mind.

“Y/n, look at me.” He tilted his head to meet her eyes and forced her to keep his stare, “I love you. That will never change.”

She cried harder, “I can’t even open up to you, Lan. I’m not even a good employee at a job I’m overqualified for. Yesterday, I handed in that presentation to my boss that I had been working on for weeks and when I presented it to the board of all fucking people, there was a grammatical error on one of the slides. I had confused ‘your’ and ‘you are’, Lan. It was embarrassing. They laughed and joked about it after. I can’t even fucking do my job. And I upset my mum on Wednesday. I hung up on her during an argument and now she isn’t talking to me. I’m being condemned, Lan. I can’t fucking breathe. My dad’s texting me, telling me how disrespectful I had been, but nobody hears about the parts where she called me an irresponsible adult and ridiculed me for taking a job that didn’t make me that much. Nobody wants to hear my side of the story, the part where she was so grossly unsupportive. Then, I had to cancel on Cameron on Tuesday again because I’m so fucking tired and so fucking busy. She got mad at me and now we’re in this fight because I’ve neglected our friendship. I’m a shit friend, a shit daughter, a shit worker, and it’s so obvious I’m a shit girlfriend. I can’t fucking do anything right.”

By the end of her rant, she was breathless and Lando could see she was talking herself into an anxiety attack. Her hurtful words toward herself needed to be dealt with, but he needed to stop the panic seeping into her skin.

He took her hand and kissed her head, “Come with me, my love.”

She kept crying as he led her to his car, his arm wrapped around her body securely as he whispered words of reassurance in her ear. He reminded her of how strong she was, of how much he loved her and admired her for everything she was. How wrong she was about everything she had convinced herself of.

When he softly laid her in the passenger seat, he kneeled down and kissed her shoulder, brushing her hair off the skin lightly. He looked up at her with deep green eyes filled with safety, “Don’t listen to your mind right now, baby. It’s only telling you lies.”

He lightly closed the door, running around the car to slip into the driver’s seat. When he turned the engine on, his hand settled on her thigh and began rubbing softly. He backed down and drove down the road, toward a small park at the end of her street. It was quick, maybe a minute or two, and Y/n was still crying when they parked, but it subsided momentarily when she saw where they were.

“Why are we at the park?” Lando grabbed her hand and kissed the knuckles.

He laid his cheek down on the back of her palm, murmuring, “Because it’ll be fun to be kids for right now. Not have to think about what you’re going through. We can address that later.”

A sigh of relief left her chest. The moment he had given her an opportunity to run away from it all, even for a few minutes, she almost began to feel as though she would find peace.

He always knew exactly what to do.

She gathered herself, wiping away the tears and smoothing down her hair as Lando walked back to her door, opening it and offering his hand as help for her to get out of the car. She took it. She always would. The cold air hit her body and she shivered. Lando was immediate in offering her his coat.

She shook her head, “No, I’m okay for right now.” She was just now realizing how she hadn’t gone outside in days. The cold air made her feel alive again.

Lando’s hand continued to clutch hers as they took steps toward the large structure. When she let go of his, he tensed, but he relaxed when he saw her wandering over to the slides.

She climbed up the ladder, him following behind, and found herself sat in the entryway of the whirling slide.

“Wait, wait!” Lando yelped before she could push herself down. Her head whipped around to meet his eyes.

She smiled and her body warmed when his found a seat behind her, his body consuming her and his hands wrapping around the low point of her waist. His ear right beside her ear, he kissed the top of the skin, “Now, you can go. We can go down faster, no? Seeing as I go fast for a living.”

His questionable logic made her laugh before he was pushing them off and the two were turning fast around the corner of the yellow tube. Her giggling ensued with the way he jostled them around on purpose to make the slide more exhilarating for two twenty-four year olds. And in the heat of the moment, seeing her hair float in the air and a carefree smile on her face, Lando wished she could see herself the way he did. She was superb, unbelievable. She held the strength and courage of someone so commendable. She was kind even when she had seen things and experienced trauma so young that should’ve, understandably so, made her bitter. She was merciful even when she shouldn’t be and she loved Lando in a way he had only ever dreamed of. The way she treated him, the gentleness she approached him with, was something he knew he could never let go of. She was beautiful in so many other ways than just her appearance. She was deeply beautiful and he wished she could just understand that.

When they reached the end, their bodies stopping abruptly right at the edge, Y/n laid her head back against his shoulder. He kissed her temple, “Fun?”

She nodded with a smile, “Somehow, you did make it faster.”

He shot her a look, as if to question why she didn’t believe him in the first place. He pushed her off him, sprinting to the swings and screaming for her to follow him.

“Lando! Be quiet! You’ll wake up the entire neighborhood!” She whisper-yelled at him, laughing as she ran after him.

He threw himself in the seat and began swinging his legs, no doubt gaining momentum but beckoning her over for help nonetheless.

She stood behind him, bracing herself firmly on the ground as she pushed his heavy body up off the ground. When he would meet her back on the ground, he’d lean back so his back would almost come crashing into her front. It made her laugh.

“Lando!” He couldn’t see her, but he knew how radiant she must’ve been looking. Even in his head, he continued to fall in love with her.

She kept pushing him until her arms got tired and she flopped away from him, onto the ground, in a heap of heavy breaths. When he didn’t feel her small hands on his back anymore, he jumped off the swing and joined her on the ground.

It didn’t matter how cold it was or how dirty it inevitably was, they were together and Y/n’s smile lingered on her pretty face.

Lando’s hand laced with hers in between their bodies as he softly whispered, “You’re not a shit daughter, your parents don’t know what they have and they’re too emotionally immature to realize that. You’re not a shit friend, Cameron knows that, you’re just struggling and that’s okay. You’re not a shit worker, you’re actually heavily valuable to your boss and the people around you. They’ve all told you that. And Y/n, look at me,” She turned her head to meet his meaningful ones, “You are not a shit girlfriend. You are the complete opposite. You are everything I’ve ever wanted and could ever ask for. You have no idea how in love with you I am. It’s even hard for me to understand sometimes. There is no one I have ever loved, love, or will love more than you. You are the most important thing to me, so please stop talking about yourself in this way and believing in something that has never been true.”

Everything about the moment is gentle. From the way his thumb caressed her skin to the enunciation of every word that came from his mouth, he made it clear how much love prospers for her within him every day and every minute.

She turned on her side and took his cheek in her hand, “Thank you for helping me, Lan.”

His hand squeezed her waist, “Of course, my love. You’re my favorite.”

She felt her heart blush, if that’s even possible. Maybe her face was the one blushing? She didn’t know. The way Lando looked at her as if she started life itself made her mind feel fuzzy.

Fuzzy enough to realize he was right. She wasn’t a failure or a horrible person. She was a human who made mistakes and many people loved her in spite of it. Lando being one of them.

He loved her in a way she had always craved. She both needed and wanted him. So did he. They were the beginning and end of everything for the other. It showed well that night as they held each other on the concrete of that park. It showed well because, at one am on a random Saturday, Lando had dropped everything he has doing the moment he heard the anguish in her voice. It showed well because Lando’s clear words made Y/n realize he wanted her and no one else. There was no one else like her, no one to ever replace her. Not that he would ever want that anyway. She was completely unique in the most precious way and maybe… just maybe… she was beginning to realize that too.

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aerynwrites · 5 months

Text

Bound by The Heart (And Other Things)

Dammon x Afab!Reader

A/N: yeah uh…I don’t even have a reason for this other than I have my own personal HC that Dammon would be into bondage lmao. But like…the pretty kind. Hope y’all enjoy :3

Word Count: 6.1k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY! NSFW. Smut, PiV sex, cunnilingus, oral (fem receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, unprotected sex, bondage, rope bondage, restraints, discussions of a safe word but it;s never used, aftercare, fluff.

The weathered leather book is heavy in your hands as you examine the title.

A Pleasurable Deal.

The text immediately strikes you as one you’ve seen before, and heat rushes to your cheeks when the memory of a banned books list in Sorcerous Sundries comes to the front of your mind.

You remember Gale lamenting the list, saying no texts - no matter how obscene - should never be banned.

You hadn’t given much thought to the list until now, as the book sits in your hands. And the fact that you found it hidden away in Dammon’s side table.

Despite having been with the blacksmith for months now, you’d never seen this specific tome. Either because it was a new item he’d acquired or…a well loved one he'd kept hidden away.

You’re assuming it’s the latter if the worn corners of the leather cover and the bent pages have anything to say.

You move to put the book back, not wanting to intrude on your partners privacy, but as you move to slide it back into place, another book catches your eye. This one tucked behind several other blacksmithing texts.

It looks rather ornate, the black binding inlaid with gold colored trimmings.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re already reaching for the book, fingers sliding along the smooth cover and pulling it from its place.

Your eyes fall to the cover, eyes widening as you read the title.

A Madam's Guide to Pleasure.

The cover falls open before you can think better of it, your eyes immediately flicking to the small piece of paper sticking out from a section farther into the book. You yearn to flip to that page first, but your eyes instead fall to scan the table of contents.

Your face gets even hotter as you read over the various section titles. Everything from the basics when it comes to sex to the more debauched.

Finally, you flip the pages to where the paper sticks out, only to have a few pieces of folded parchment fall into your lap to reveal the title of the section they were tucked into.

‘Bondage’

The otherwise wicked ideal behind the term is hidden by the pretty flowing script on the page. Your eyes follow the words easily, slowly feeling your heart rate pick up as you take in the text.

You’ve only made it halfway through the section when you remember the papers that fell into your lap. Setting the book down gently and open to the page you left off, you reach down and unfold the pages.

The first thing you feel is shock followed by a sudden stab of arousal as you take in the charcoal images sketched onto the pages.

It’s Dammon’s work, you’d be able to tell his artistry from anywhere thanks to the hundreds of sketches he’s shown you of blacksmithing plans.

But these…these are not blueprints of swords or daggers or armor. No…

These sketches are something else entirely. Light and dark lines coming together as he depicts various different types of bondage scenarios.

None of the pictures are lewd in anyway besides their obvious connotation. In a way…they’re quite beautiful.

You see the vague shape of a body, legs tied together with an intricate weave of rope and knots, as if it’s meant to decorate the wearer rather than restrain them.

Almost all of the drawings seem that way, the rope and bindings tied and wrapped in a way that’s almost artistic.

The one that catches your eye the most though, is a page that depicts the front and back view of a woman kneeling and sitting on her heels.

The sketch of her from behind shows her hands bound behind her back, the ropes binding her arms together in an intricately woven pattern that spans from her wrists all the way up to just beneath her shoulders.

The other view seems to be part of the same design, the ropes snaking to the front of her body, twining delicately over her breasts, sternum and chest in complicated knots and patterns.

You’ve just reached up to trace your finger over the sketchings of rope, when a startled call of your name rips you from your reverie.

“What are you doing?”

Dammons voice is raised louder than he usually speaks to you, face several shades darker than usual as he practically lunges for the items in your hands, a look of utter fear and panic on his face.

“Oh, gods,” he mutters, hastily collecting the papers before shoving them back into the black bound novel. “You weren’t supposed to see that, I-“

“Dammon it’s okay! I promise-“

He turns to you then, book clutched tightly in his hands, as he looks at you with something none other than utter betrayal. “Why were you going through my things?” He asks.

You shake your head, heart sinking to your stomach and dispelling any feelings of arousal the drawings drew forth.

“I didn’t mean to, I came up here looking for one of my books and I saw you stored some in here and so I thought-“

“You thought you’d go through my books instead?” He asks, voice now tinged with accusation as he stands, the book still clutched tightly in his hands.

“I’m sorry Dammon,” you say from your position still kneeled on the floor. “I didn’t mean to upset you-“

“I-I’m not upset, I-“ the tiefling cuts himself off, running a hand down his face as he lets out a sigh, avoiding your gaze. “I just…need some air.”

You watch helplessly as Dammon turns and leaves the bedroom, a pit of guilt stirring deep in your belly.

————

Dammon spends the rest of the day in the forge, which isn’t unusual, but it feels like an intentional choice today. One you don’t begrudge him considering you snooped through his personal things.

It’s well into the evening before he comes into the house, and you’re just finishing up dinner. You watch him between plating your meals as he hangs up his blacksmith apron next to the door before heading to the water basin to wash his hands.

You’ve just placed the last of the food onto your plates when he approaches you, taking one of the plates from your hands with a quick kiss to your cheek.

A small weight is lifted from your shoulders at that small action, and you follow him silently to the kitchen table, taking your habitual seat to his right side.

The meal is pleasant enough, you tentatively asking about his forge projects and feel the tension lift as he tells you about them. It goes on like that - like normal despite the nagging in your mind.

You don’t want to ruin the mood by bringing up the earlier incident. But you also don’t want to leave it how it was. You owe him an apology, a real apology, and…there’s something else you want to talk to him about too.

You finally find the courage to bring it all up as you and Dammon clean up after dinner, you drying the washed dishes as Dammon puts them away.

“I’m sorry about earlier, Dammon,” you say softly, not missing the way his shoulders tense as he takes a plate from you, eyes avoiding yours once more.

“It’s…It’s alright,” he says with a sigh. “I’m not angry or upset with you, not over something so trivial. I was just…” he lets out a dry chuckle. “I supposed I’m a bit embarrassed for you to have come across such things. I know they aren’t…Common desires.”

He’s still turned away from you when he finishes, stashing the last dish before his hands fall to his sides. You immediately reach for him, taking his hand in your own as you urge him to face you.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” you tell him, feeling that familiar heat creep up into your cheeks as you contemplate your next words.

“I actually…Liked them. The drawings, I mean.”

Dammon’s eyes finally snap to yours then, bright blue iris’ completely visible to you as he stares at you wide eyed, mouth slightly agape.

“You…what?”

You take your lip between your teeth coyly, courage slowly building up in your chest as you move to slip your arms around his waist, hands resting on his low back as returns the lose embrace.

“I liked them,” you repeat. “It looked…beautiful really. The intricate designs and knots and I…”

You pause then, shyness creeping in one more as you look up at your lover.

“I think I’d like to try it sometime. If that’s - if you’d want too, of course.”

You can practically see the way Dammon’s heart rate picks up, cheeks darkening with blush as his breath stutters.

“You’d…You’d try that? With me?”

A small chuckle slips past your lips. “I hope it’s with you.”

In an answer of his own, Dammon captures your lips with his in a fierce kiss. It’s needy and desperate and filled with a relief only you can understand as he pulls you tighter to him.

“I love you,” he mutters against your lips before pulling down to trail kisses down your jaw. “We can’t do it tonight,” he says. “I need to prepare.”

You try to hide the small swell of disappointment, but Dammon must sense it anyways, nipping at the spot just below your ear as he tugs you closer to his body.

“I’m still going to ravish you tonight though. For making me the happiest man in Baldur’s Gate.”

You smile, pulling him up for another kiss before he whisks you upstairs. Anticipation for tonight and what’s to come in the future simmering low in your belly.

—————

It’s only a few days later when Dammon brings it back up, asking if tonight you’d like to try what you all had discussed. When you agreed, a bit too eagerly, he had just let out a small laugh before laying out all of the boundaries.

He had you pick a safeword in case you wanted out of the restraints, as well as asking you about anything you’d be uncomfortable with. In the end you’d just told him you trusted him completely and once again stated your excitment.

Which led you here, blindfolded on the edge of your shared bed in nothing but your smallclothes.

Dammon had tied the soft silk fabric around your eyes before leaving the room to fetch something, asking that you not remove the blindfold before he got back. You obeyed easily, but as the seconds turn into minutes, you feel yourself start to grow impatient.

What is taking him so long?

Your fingers twitch against your skin from where your hands sit on your thighs before moving to be by your side instead, toying with the soft sheets beneath you. Every creak and faint footstep has your ears perking up, waiting in anticipation for Dammon to return.

Finally, you hear his familiar footsteps coming up the stairs and to your shared room, the floor boards creaking beneath his weight. His steps are softer than when he left, the sound of bare soles on the wood greeting your ears as he approaches your position.

He must have taken off his shoes. And you silently hope he took off other things as well, wanting to feel him at least a little bit before you're restrained.

“Are you still alright?” he asks, his voice much closer than you anticipated.

You jump slightly as you realize he’s right in front of you now, and you can feel the subtle heat radiating from his body. You nod, reaching out instinctively to touch him.

He allows it, sighing lightly when your hands bump against his bare stomach, flattening against the taut muscle there before sliding upwards. You can feel the faint ridges and bumps unique to his skin as you continue upwards, gliding over his chest before coming back down again, mapping him in your blinded state. You only stop when your fingers meet rough fabric - the waistband of his pants.

You hear the faint sound of his tail brushing the ground intermittently, and you can’t help but smile as your fingers curl beneath the band of his pants. But before you can get any further, familiar calloused hands stop your own, pulling you away from his skin.

“If you do that, I’m afraid we won’t accomplish what we planned to do tonight,” he says breathlessly.

You are still amazed that such simple touches drive him crazy, but you can’t help but relish in it, because you feel the same anytime Dammon touches you. As if your body can’t get enough.

Tonight might be the night that it does.

“Can you give me your hand?” he asks, and you hear him rustling around with something.

“Of course.”

You offer him your hand and he takes it, turning it palm up and placing a long thin object in your palm. He curls your fingers round it, and when he offers no complaint, you reach up with your other hand to further investigate what it could be.

“It’s the rope I’m going to use,” he informs you as your fingers trail along the braid material. “It’s…This is why we had to wait. I had to find someone who…dealt with these kinds of things.”

You let out a small hum as you run the rope through you hands, and you slowly begin to understand what he means. It’s smoother than any rope you’ve ever used, so smooth in fact that it feels like silk. It’s sturdy too, not too thick but not so thin it will dig uncomfortably into your skin if it gets tight. It’s like it was created for this purpose alone.

And perhaps it was.

You’re no stranger to the more debacuhed happenings in the city. Hells - you’ve been inside Sharess’ Caress. They probably use rope like this in abundance there.

“It’s so…soft,” you say finally, reaching out to offer the rope back to him.

“Yes I…” He trails off for a moment before continuing. “This isn’t supposed to be painful,” he informs you, and you feel the bed dip beside you, his voice shifting to your right side. “It can be of course but…Not tonight. It’s more about the control I suppose. The art of it.”

You nod as you feel a warm hand settle on your hip. “That makes sense. The drawings I saw were beautiful in a way and also…” you trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “Let’s just say I was never put off by the idea once I saw it.”

You can hear the way Dammon’s breath catches, his nails digging into the flesh of your hip ever so slightly. “I should have suggested it sooner, it seems.”

You smile, leaning in to where you think his body is. “You should have.”

He lets out a sigh, and you feel the way it brushes against your temple as he speaks.

“Well…We’re here now,” he says, slowly dragging his hand from your hip up your back before settling on your shoulder. “Are you ready for me to start?”

You let out a breath of your own, anticipation bubbling in your veins as you shift in your place, eager to get started. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Slowly and with whispered instructions he guides you so your are on your knees on the bed, sitting on your heels as you face away from him. Once you’re in position his fingers skim up to unhook the clasps of your bra, sliding it gently from your shoulders before tossing it somewhere off to your left.

“If you wanted me naked you could have just said so,” you tease, smiling when it earns youa chuckle from teh man behind you.

“That ruins the fun,” he says, and you finally feel the cool slide of rope against your arms. “This is…a lot of this is about the anticipation,” he tells you, breath ghosting over your ear as he gently guides your arms into position behind your back. “The gentle touches, the slow act of tying the rope, the build of what’s to come…”

He has you bend your arms behind your back, forearms almost crossing as he starts to slide the rope beneath them, wrapping it over just a few times before starting to tie the first knot, securing your arms together.

He continues like that for long agonizing moments. The cool rope sliding against your heated skin as he pulls, tugs, and knots the smooth cord into a masterpiece only he can see. The design soon travels from your forearms upwards above your elbows, as he begins to connect your arms together once more. He threads the rope beneath your right arm, hands ghosting across your back as he brings it over to your left, looping it over your bicep and back again, creating an intricate set of loops and ties that secure your arms behind you further, pulling your shoulders back to just the bare edge of discomfort.

Dammon was right. This is about the anticipation.

Because with each slide of the rope, with each brush of his fingers or ghost of his lips on your skin, you feel a new pang of arousal pool in your core. You shudder with each pass of the cord on your skin, breath hitching with each knot he tugs into place.

And Dammon, who’s never known to keep his hands from you for too long, can’t help but to touch you in between. His sharp nails ghosting along your skin, kisses pressed to your shoulder as he mutters words of praise…you can feel yourself getting wet already, and he’s barely even touched you. Not in the way you desire most, at least.

A whimper slips past your lips when he finally pulls away from you, the last piece of rope in place agasint your arms. But his absence doesn’t last long before he’s back again, his arms snaking around you as a new rope presses against the delicate skin of your lower belly.

“Are you still alright?” he asks, warm breath ghosting over your cheek as his head comes up beside yours to look down at your exposed body. His chin tucks perfectly against your shoulder as he presses a kiss to your cheek, waiting patiently for you to answer before he continues.

When you do find your words, they come out small, a mere gasp on your lips.

“Yes,” you assure him. “I just…wish you would touch me. I didn’t…this is more than i expected.”

You feel him tense behind you, his hands stilling. “We can stop at anytime-”

“No!” you almost shout, leaning back into your lover in a silent plea. “Please, don’t stop. I only meant…I didn’t expect to react so strongly to just this.”

Dammon clicks his tongue, letting out a low hum of understanding as his hands start to move again, the rope sliding softly against your skin.

“If it makes you feel any better…” Dammon trails off, wrapping the rope around your front again, allowing him to press himself against your back, the hardness of him pressing into your low back. “It’s having the same affect on me.”

His words, and the feeling of him hard as steel pressing into your skin is enough to send another bolt of pleasure through you. You expect him to pull away to continue his work, but he does no such thing, instead aiming to stay pressed as close to you as possible as he works on his art.

Each moment feels agonizing as he slowly winds the ropes up your body, fingers braiding and knotting the pieces together, fingers brushing against your skin, but never doing much more.

Your breath leaves you in shallow pants, and you can’t help it when you press your hips back into his own, desperate for any kind of touch, any friction to sooth the ache simmering in your veins.

A small groan leaves Dammons lips, and you feel a small tug the the ropes around your arms. “We’ll get there,” he whispers, leaning down to brush a tender kiss to your shoulder. “You’re doing so well, my love. I’m almost done.”

You fight to hold back the whine that threatens to slip past when his lips retreat from your skin, but you do, instead moving to lean back against him as he looks back over your shoulder once more to see his work.

You can feel the way the cords constrict around you, knotting in the center of your body as it travels upwards and spans out to wrap over your ribs and around your back. Soon enough you can feel them start to settle beneath your breasts. His hands barely brush the plush mounds as he ties a secure knot between them before taking the two ends up and over your collarbones to secure at the back of your neck.

He ties the last knot, a quiet sigh of admiration leaving him as his hands skim over his work, calloused palms ghosting over your skin.

You feel the bed shift, his warmth leaving your back. You wonder for a moment if he’s leaving again, but you continue to feel him move, until you think he settles in front of you on the plush mattress. The bed creaks softly as he settles, and despite the blindfold, you can feel his eyes boring into you, admiring his work much like he does that which he produces in the forge.

Dammon is a lot of things, and a proud man is one of them.

He’s never boastful or arrogant. But he loves his work - he’s always proud of what he can accomplish. And it seems that extends to you as well.

You don’t flinch when his hand settles on your cheek, thumb brushing the skin their gently, as he continues to admire you.

“You’re absolutely beautiful,” he whispers, his other hand coming up to cup one of your breasts gently.

A gasp slips past your lips as he runs a thumb over the stiff peak of your nipple, nails scratching the sensitive skin deliciously as he pulls away to trail further down your body. He traces the ropes he tied into place, fingers slipping beneath them every now and again to tug gently.

“Is it-“ another gasp interrupts you as his hands slide down to brush over your thighs instead. “Is it everything you imagined?”

Dammon leans forward then, his hands slipping around your hips as his lips fall to your shoulder before trailing down lower to nip sharp teeth at your collar bone.

“It’s even better,” he breathes. “You’re more magnificent than anything my mind could conjure up.”

A moan leaves you as his mouth finally reaches your breast, his teeth scarping against the sensitive swell before taking a pert nipple between his lips.

“Oh, gods…” you gasp, arms tugging at the rope as you instinctively want to reach up to cradle his head in your hands.

But the restraints keep you in place, completely at his mercy as he continues to lavish your skin with praises and gently love bites.

You’re burning up now, blood boiling in your veins and desperate for anything Dammon wishes to give you. Something he seems to sense as both arms move to slip around your back as he gently lowers you to lay back on the bed, his lips traveling lower the whole way.

Your arms are trapped beneath you in this new position, adding to the arousal pooling in your belly as you lay completely open and bare for the man before you.

His teeth tug at the rope around your hips, hands moving to spread your legs so he can settle between them.

“Are you still alright, my love?” He asks, fingers creeping slowly up your inner thighs.

Gods you love him. You really do. But in this moment you want nothing more than for him to ravish you, to tear you completely apart before putting you back together again.

He can be sweet later. Right now, you want him to fuck you.

“Yes, yes, Dammon I’m fine,” you assure him, bucking your hips up into his hands. “Just please…fuck me. I cant wait any longer.”

You would usually be embarrassed by blatantly begging like this, but the feel of Dammons mouth on your wet center removes any and all thoughts but him from your mind.

His tounge parts your folds running up to tease the small bundle of nerves that sends bolts of pleasure through you.

You squirm in Dammon’s steel grip, your back arching as he devours you, his fingers digging into your thighs, nails no doubt going to leave behind evidence of his hold on you come morning.

His name falls from your lips in a lewd prayer, as you buck your hips up into his mouth, seeking more despite the way his tongue moves ravenously against you.

You feel his hands slide up to the rope around your hips, fingers slipping beneath the cord as he uses it to tug you closer to him, as if he wishes to drown in you.

His nose nudges at your clit as his tounge prods your entrance, desperate to taste you, his moans sending vibrations through you that make that coil in your belly pull impossibly taut.

“Fuck,” cry out when he slides one hand to rub expect circles on your clit. “Dammon, I’m close I-“

An expert flick of his fingers cuts off your warning, sending you hurtling over the edge into oblivion as Dammon continues to work you through it.

Incoherent babbles of his name fall from your lips until you finally say back into the bed, chest heaving and legs twitching as Dammon continues to lick at you, certain to leave nothing behind.

You want to push him away, but without the use of your hands, you squeeze your thighs around his shoulders gently, urging him away from you.

He obeys with a small sigh, his hand sliding up your body, as his lips follow suit, leaving a moist trail of kisses in his wake before he’s finally pressing them to the underside of your jaw.

“You’re doing so well, my love,” me mutters against your skin, fingers toying idly with the smooth cord beneath your breasts.

You smile as you turn your head to capture his lips with your own, tasting yourself on his tounge before pulling away just enough to speak.

“Can you…Will you take the blindfold off?”you ask. “I’d like to see you.”

Dammon lets out a low hum, pressing one last kiss to the corner of your lips before reaching up to tug at the silken fabric.

While the sun has long set, the bedroom is still well lit, lanterns and a few candles lighting the space enough for you to need to adjust to the brightness.

You blink a few times, leaning into the hand Dammon places on your cheek as his face comes into focus.

You’ve never seen anything so breathtaking.

His lips are tilted up in that small smile of his, pupils blown wide with lust as he looks down at you. His cheeks are flushed and errant strands of hair fall from his usually well kept style.

You yearn to reach up and tuck them back, to card your fingers through his hair or trace around the base of his horns, but you’re once again reminded of the impossibility of that as your arms tug uselessly at your bindings.

It’s then that you start to recognize the ache in your arms, your hands tingling as they start to fall asleep form their position pinned under you.

You shift beneath Dammon, and he notices immediately, brow furrowing in silent question.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, voice laced with concern.

You shake your head. “No it doesn’t hurt. It just-“ you let out a small chuckle. “I think my hands are falling asleep.”

Dammon nods, and immediately goes to help you sit up, but you stop him with a shake of your head, an idea popping into your head.

“Wait.” You tell him, nodding your chin up towards where he was previously sitting. “Sit back.”

He gives you a curious look, and for a moment he hesitates, but he obeys, scooting back to sit on his heels between your legs.

You notice the hard bulge in his trousers, and any hesitance about your idea flies out the proverbial window.

With less effort than you expected, you manage to roll over onto your stomach, gathering your knees below you enough to raise your ass in the air, presenting yourself to the man behind you.

The sharp intake of breath is enough to tell you that Dammon understands your presentation for what it is. And soon two warm hands settle on your hips, trailing up your sides before coming back down again.

The warmth of him surrounds you soon after, his chest pressed against your back and arms as he leans over you, pressing gentle kisses to your shoulders.

“Are you sure?”

You let out an exasperated sigh, turning your face so it’s no longer pressed against the sheets.

“Dammon I swear to the gods, if you went through all this and don’t fuck me-“

His lips leave yours in an instant, the heat of him disappearing from behind you as you hear the faint rustle of fabric from behind you.

His hands settle on your hips again, nails biting into the skin harsher than before as you feel the head of his cock nudge at your entrance.

You expect him to check in with you again, expect him to ask if you remember your safe word or any amount of other precautions. But he doesn’t.

Instead he presses into you in one swift thrust, his cock guided easily by your earlier orgasm.

But it still never prepared you for the size of him. He always stretches you perfectly, the small ridges and bumps unique to his race adding to the sensation of him sinking into you.

The groan you let out is sinful, and you can’t help but turn to muffle it in the sheets.

But Dammon isn’t having that.

A strong tug in the rope between your arms has you pulling up from the bed, the force of the movement pulling you further back onto him until your hips are flush with his own.

“Don’t hide from me,” Dammon says, tugging at the restraints again, sending him deeper and making the rope dig deliciously into your skin. “I want to hear you.”

“Oh, gods. Dammon…”

His name falling from your lips finally makes him move, pulling out of you before thrusting back in with one solid movement.

Your name falls from his lips as he sets a punishing pace, something so different from the reverent way he worshiped your body earlier.

He curls himself over you, his chest pressed against your back as he plants one hand by your head on the bed, his sharp nails digging deep into the sheets as he holds himself over you.

He nuzzles his face into the space between your neck and shoulder, nose nudging your jaw as he takes your earlobe between his teeth and tugs.

Another whimper escapes your lips as he continues his mind blowing pace, hitting that spot inside you as you writhe against the ropes fully now. Hands clenching and unclenching as you press your hips back into his own, seeking your second release of the night.

“Gods, Dammon, please..”

you're practically sobbing now, tears wetting your lashes at the intense pleasure that courses through you and the slight frustration of not being able to touch anything - touch him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his free arm wrapping around your hips to hold you to him as he presses you down, further into the bed his cock pressing impossibly deeper inside of you at the change of position.

“Let go for me,” he says, voice sinful in your ear.

His words, and his fingers that slipped down to rub at your clit send you into oblivion for the second time.

You clench around him, crying out his name in a desperate plea as you squirm against him, veins alight with utter pleasure.

Dammon is not far behind you, just a few more stuttered thrusts and he comes in you with a groan of your name from his lips, his chest rumbling against your back as he sinks down into you, breath coming out in short labored breaths against your cheek.

Your mind is blissfully blank as you sink into the plush bedding beneath you, completely boneless as your lover adjusts his weight above you.

You whine when you feel him pull away from you, the room seeming so much cooler without his body next to yours.

“My love…?” His voice feels a million miles away as he brushes a few strands of hair from your sweat soaked forehead before pressing a kiss there. “Are you alright?”

You chuckle, but it comes out hoarse and weaker than intended.

“You just…gave me the best orgasm of my life. I’m more than alright.”

You watch through bleary eyes as Dammon blushes, his earlier dominant demeanor disappearing into the Dammon you know and love.

“I’m going to untie you.”

You nod, trying to help as much as you can in your blissed out state as he helps you to sit up, maneuvering you until you sit straddling his lap so he can more easily work at the ropes.

He moves quickly, fingers deftly untying the intricate knots and letting the ropes fall away from your skin. When he loosens the ropes at your back, your hands fall to your sides, a dull ache running from your shoulders down to the tips of your fingers.

You must have let out some kind of noise or flinched, because as soon as the ropes fall away, Dammon’s hands are on your arms, calloused palms running up and down your arms as he tries to sooth the aches and indentations left behind.

“They were too tight,” he mutters softly. “I’m sorry, my love I-”

You shush him softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips to quiet his concerns. “I’m alright, Dammon. I promise,” you assure him, smiling as he continued to rub at the light indentation marks left by the ropes. “I liked it,” you finally admit. “I really liked it.”

His minstrations pauses momentarily, hands sliding down to wrap around your waist as he pulls back enough to look down at you, brows furrowed ever so slightly. “You’re…not just saying that to please me, are you?”

You can’t help the playful groan that you let out, followed by a small chuckle as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest.

“Only you could give a woman the best orgasm of her life and still question whether she liked it,” you tease, practically feeling the way Dammon rolls his eyes at you.

A small squeal escapes you as Dammon wraps his arms around you more securly as he flips you onto your back again, head hitting the pillow as he hovers over your, lips turned upwards playfully.

“If you think that was the best…I think I have more work to do.”

Your brows wing up in surprise, lips aprting slightly as your mind runs wild with the possibilities. “Is that a challenge, you’re proposing?” you ask.

Dammon smiles, humming low in his chest as he leans down to press a kiss to your jaw. “It might be,” he aquecies. “But for now, i’d just like to hold you and maybe run you a bath. If you’d be so inclined.”

Warmth swells in your chest at his words. Even after something most would consider debacuhed, Dammon still manages to be the sweetest thing in the room. You turn and press a quick kiss to his lips before reching up to wrap your arms around his neck.

“I’d Love nothing more.”

He smiles and plops down next to you on the bed, gathering you in his arms as he does so. His chin rests on the top of your head as you nuzzle into his chest, your leg tangling with his own until you’re both settled comfortably against one another.

Comfortable silence fills the space, Dammon trailing light patterns on your back, as you do the same on his chest - both of you just taking a moment to bask in the other's presence. Until Dammon finally speaks up.

“Thank you…for trusting me enough to do this,” he tells you softly, voice gentle.

You nod, moving to slip your arms around his waist, scooting closer to him. “Of course,” you say, pressing a kiss to his chest. “I love you, Dammon.”

You feel his lips press against the crown of your head.

“I love you more.”

#Dammon x reader #bg3 Dammon x reader #Bg3 x reader #Dammon #bg3 Dammon #bg3

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heejayy · 2 months

Text

Soft Life!

Warning: none

Pairing: Gojo x black reader

A/n: this was highly influenced by the influx of soft black girl aesthetic. There’s a little rant at the end, don’t mind me.

Some may label you a gold digger, claiming you're with him for his money, and others may claim you've played life smartly, but one thing is certain: being Gojo's wife was the easiest thing you've ever done; this man asks for and gives you anything you want.

You met Gojo as a college student working a part-time job. Going to school and juggling job was challenging, but you made do with what you had. He liked your dedication and hard work, and he found your independence attractive. But if you were to stay with him, no woman would spend her life working when he could easily provide and care for her.

Gojo is a man that doesn’t ask you for a thing he’s just a giver. He makes you feel secure in every aspect of life, but if you decide you want to do something on your own, he’s ten toes behind you.

In your free time you love staying home and looking online for new treats to make your husband when he’s away at work. You’ve had so much free time you started making videos for your social media accounts and they blew up overnight.

People love watching your get ready with me’s, you go shopping, cooking, working out, couple's trips, makeup routines, anything you post they love.

Besides your social media activities not having to work every day really opened your schedule, instead of being too tired to do anything after coming home you have time for all your favorite hobbies plus more. Reading, yoga, gardening, painting, knitting, hell sometimes all you do is lounge around and take bubble baths. (Gojo loves coming home to a happy and well rested wife.)

But with the positive comes the negative, the ones who don’t like you or is very jealous of your lifestyle love to call you a pretty dumb housewife who has nothing better to do. Someone who’s thrown her life and career away to cater to a man but in reality, that same man caters to you. Do people think you’d take care of a man who does nothing for you?

In your opinion you love who you’ve become as a woman and a wife, you’ve never been happier even Gojo sees it.

©heejayy 2024 — any reposts or translations of my works are strictly prohibited unless granted permission.

Side note this is a little bit on the serious side: Although this is for my black girlies, all the girlies can read 🤷🏾‍♀️

I'm not sure if it's just me, but I've grown tired of the 'Strong Black Woman' trend. Now, don't get me wrong, I like strong independent women because that's how I was taught, but being perceived as overly independent makes black women appear as if we don't need anyone and can do everything on our own, which is how people treat us. Like babes…we are human with emotions. They will go help and praise a non-woman of color before helping us. It's quite harmful; they already treat and compare us to men. And when a black girl tries to break out from that image, she is dragged back down, which is disgusting.

You don’t have to be rich to be in your soft era! Put yourself first, be kind to yourself, don’t let anyone tear you down, you are worthy of love, the things you can’t control don’t let it stress you out, pray and read the Bible more (if you’re religious), let go of negative people, ITS OKAY TO ACCEPT HELP, it’s okay to be quiet or confident which ever one fits you, prioritize peace, just be you don’t change or try to fit in.

#ask heejayy #x black reader #jjk #jjk x black reader #gojo x black reader #gojo x fem!reader #jjk x black!fem reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #heejayys opinions #gojo fluff #jjk fluff

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softlyspector · 8 months

Text

Blush

Summary: All you do is want, while Joel worries he won't ever be enough.

Find out how it started: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~9.2k

Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, just the barest hint of angst/argument, the ‘believes they’re hard to love, loving them is like breathing’ trope, tattoos and getting tattooed (the process isn’t really described), reader is touch adverse, vague mentions of a past abusive relationship, insecurity, self confidence issues, abandonment issues, anxiety, lots and lots of intimacy and touching, mentions of arousal, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: Hello, so here we are at the final part of this lil four part thing. This fic owns a piece of my heart now, and I hope it's found somewhere to live in yours too. It's special for a lot of reasons, but the support its gotten has really been something incredible. Thank you for being so kind and lovely.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

Joel glances up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor. A lock of gray hair falls to the middle of his forehead. You reach down, without thinking, and push it back into place, letting your fingers trail through his hair. He always wears it so carefully parted to the side, especially now that he’s let it grow out a little longer.

You picture him standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom brushing his hair and feel something warm and fluttery beat against your ribs.

The image comes easily because it’s not something you have to imagine but remember—Joel tilting his chin down, eyes on his reflection in silvery morning light.

Pink stains the tips of his ears when you let his hair slip softly from between your fingers.

“Yeah, I did,” he disagrees before laboring to his feet. You hook one hand beneath his elbow and help him up. His knees pop and he hisses. “It’s past due we fixed it, anyhow. Past time I let you get back to your own life,” he continues, not pulling his arm away from your hand as he stoops down to shove the screwdriver in his hand back into the toolbox on the floor.

You like the way he says we.

You rub your thumb against the inside of his elbow as he straightens again with a groan that means his back is aching again. “Well, now you get your house back to yourself,” you tease.

“Ain’t like you’re trouble to have around,” he grumbles.

You keep a steady pressure on his arm, because you like the way his skin feels under your hand, warm and pliant, like he’s been in the sun. You like the way you can feel the shift of muscle and the micro jump of tendon beneath your fingertips.

You don’t like admitting to yourself that you like touching him, that you like the way he lets you hold on to him but so rarely tries the same with you.

But, you’ve come to realize over the last week, where you shy away from touch, Joel craves it; he’s positively starved for it. He tries his best to hide that he wants for anything at all, but you see it.

He would never ask for anything from you; it’s anathema to who he is, to ask for care. He’s stubborn and a little proud.

When the locks that fit your door weren’t in stock at the local hardware store and Joel insisted on you staying with him until they came in, you saw that want first hand.

He’d been busy for so many years—with work and his kids and his business and his brother. He’d lived in a busy house with a revolving door of people who constantly needed him. And now, he lives alone and away from his kids. His schedule is one he sets for himself, with easy, quiet days. His girls are busy, Tommy has his own family, and his house is empty.

Maybe Joel would never admit it, but he is lonely.

Staying with him for a week had shown you just how much he wanted—touch and companionship and company—and just how absolutely solitary his days were, especially in the evenings. Guilt like a tide had washed over you. How closely he paid attention to you, how cautious and watchful and giving he’s been, and you haven't really done the same. You haven’t tried to give him anything, to meet him somewhere in the middle. You hadn’t even thought of it.

“Thank you for letting me stay with you this week,” you say, releasing his arm to press your hand against his spine, rubbing gently. It’s easier that way, you find, subtly giving, easing hurts he wouldn’t admit to. “And for changing the locks. You’re too good to me.”

“No trouble,” he assures you again, quickly. “It’s too quiet without my girls livin’ with me. It was nice. Havin’ you around.” He clears his throat and bushes past the admission. “Anyhow. I’ll let you get settled back in.”

You frown at him, but Joel only puts an arm around your waist and leans in to press a kiss to your temple and then your cheek. “You call me if you need somethin’. Anything.” He says it against your skin, his lips warm and slightly chapped. “Even for nothin’.”

You close your eyes and absorb that affection, let it sink deep into your body, into your blood and bones, the ventricles of your heart.

For a moment, all you can feel is him breathing against you—the patient, steady rise and fall of his breath—before he starts to pull away. You don’t want him to go, you aren’t ready to be parted from him.

You aren’t ready to let him go.

“Joel,” you say and cup your hand around his wrist to keep him in place. “Wait. Why don’t you come in? For some coffee?”

He meets your eyes, searches your gaze for a long moment there in the doorway of your apartment. His brows relax, his mouth softens, and you know he knows exactly what you’re doing, that he’s been found out. He thinks it’s pity and not cloying sweetness, not needling want and a building codependency that you don’t particularly mind driving your request. “Sweetheart—”

“Please? I don’t want to be alone just yet.”

A few pleading words are all it takes for him to crumble. He nods and relents, “All right. Just for a minute, I have a client this afternoon.”

“Okay,” you nod and pull him inside. You snap the door shut behind you and make a show of locking your brand new locks.

Joel rolls his eyes at you, but doesn’t comment, settling himself at your kitchen table instead, toolbox tucked between his feet on the floor. The morning light paints him in sunburst orange and bumblebee gold, rays falling like a halo around him. He taps his fingers against the muraled, painted surface of the table, tracing the lines with one blunt nail.

Unfamiliar want bubbles up in you again. You want to touch him again.

Already.

You just let go of him.

It’s an ache, right in the center of your chest. It feels like something pulsing and raw, infectious and torn.

You’d like to plant yourself against his side and sit in the brutally warm, fall Texan sun shining so innocently through the slats of your blinds.

Cured. Clean.

That’s what you’d be, if you allowed yourself to reach out and grab it.

Instead, you cup your hands against the sides of his face and stroke your thumbs over his graying beard.

You half expect him to pull away, to jolt out of your hands, like you would. And though he does look startled, he doesn’t pull away. Hazel eyes flick up to meet yours. You trace the scar on the bridge of his nose with one finger. “Thank you,” you say again, just so he’ll hear it even if he won’t respond to it. “You don’t have to worry about me but you do.”

He pulls one of your hands away from his face and nods, staring down at the lines on your palm before he hooks your pointer fingers together. “‘Course I have to.”

You keep stroking his cheek, the soft bristles of his beard catching on your fingertips. “Of course,” you say. “It’s what you do.”

Joel thinks you look beautiful. He also thinks you look wistful, with later October light falling in drafts around your shoulders—merigold, sunshine, sepia.

For once, you aren’t looking back at him. Joel catches you looking at him all the time now, mostly at his hands, chancing glances from the corner of your eyes like he would mind you looking. If he thought more of himself, he’d probably say you look at him with a dreamy cut to your gaze.

Your feet are propped on the porch railing. Your jeans and scuffed sneakers are splattered with bright splotches of paint. His guitar is across your lap and Ellie is next to you, teaching you, he supposes. Or at the very least correcting you occasionally as the two of you talk. You say something and she tilts back with a full bodied laugh.

You’d worked with Sarah and Ellie all day, painting the chicken coop in bright swatches of pastel blush and lavender. It sticks out something awful, but he’d said you could paint it however you wanted and he meant it.

Any way Joel cut it, he was outvoted three to one anyhow.

He thinks you probably let Sarah influence the color palette more than you let on, and that makes something ache deep in his chest.

Joel’s not exactly good at saying what he feels, he knows that. He’s always known it.

But he can build you a chicken coop. He can fix your locks and your door and worry about your safety and drive to get you in the middle of the night. He can sketch out tattoo designs until his wrist aches and make you a million cups of coffee.

And you decided to share part of what he gave you with Sarah and Ellie. Whether you know it or not, it means something to him. It brings a tight feeling to the back of his throat.

Though the afternoon is mild, you’re wrapped up in a flannel over your t-shirt. It’s his flannel from that first night he spent at your kitchen table; the one you haven’t given back and that he doesn’t want back.

Joel keeps his eyes on you as he finishes up the last of the chores that needed doing. His back is aching again, a flare of pain that starts at the base of his spine and ends behind his ears.

It was lucky, maybe, that you’d convinced him, in your offhand way, to get chickens instead of horses, that he decided that was the best thing to give you. He isn’t sure he could keep up with much more than what he has.

“You’re staring again,” Sarah says from behind him.

“I’m not,” he snaps.

“It’s okay to stare at your girlfriend, dad,” she says and he can hear the laughter in her voice, the damn teasing.

Joel winces. “That is not—we ain’t—” Not yet. You aren’t anything yet. Maybe not ever.

You’ve bloomed in the last month or so. Opened up, shiny and blush bright. You’re still that watchful little doe, but now you’re one that recognizes something kind.

Not so skittish, not so afraid.

And that’s good, that’s something. But he worries. Worries you’ll start to see he’s nothing but an old man waiting around for his kids to visit, for his brother not to be busy with his family, for you to pay him any mind.

You surely noticed it weeks ago when you stayed with him those few days, all that painful, solitary loneliness that happened so quickly. Maybe you’d noticed it earlier than that, when you stopped coming by the shop after your first tattoo and his days went lonesome again too. It’s not like he has been subtle about how much your absence smarted.

He’s not sure when his life slowed down so much, when he suddenly looked around and realized he missed the noise.

Maybe he’s been the one to pry you open, but if you wanted something better for yourself, something more, he’d have to let you go. It doesn’t diminish all that time he’d spent gaining your trust, that trust he’s still trying to grasp at some days. He doesn’t want you to be burdened by his loneliness, to feel weighed down with it, to feel trapped by it, to feel like it’s your responsibility.

Joel already worries that’s already the case, with how often you’d ended up at his house in the evenings over the past month. But he isn’t strong enough to make you stop.

Still, he could never live with himself, if he were next in a long line to make you feel helpless and trapped.

Sarah rolls her eyes and herds the second stubborn goat into the barn and shuts the gate. “If you say so,” she says. “I’m gonna get Ellie and head out. Busy day tomorrow.”

“Okay, baby girl,” Joel says. Sarah fits herself into his arms and he presses a kiss to her hair. “Thanks for the help. Be safe.”

She pulls away and nods, jogging across the yard without looking back to hop the little fence that separates it from the driveway. He watches Sarah say goodbye to you, the way your mouth lifts in a smile, the way you move the guitar from your lap and lean forward when she climbs the steps to give you a hug.

Ellie gives you a much briefer hug, one armed and slightly stiff before she follows Sarah. He lifts a hand to her, knowing Ellie won’t come over and say goodbye the way Sarah does. She pulls a face at him and waves back as she climbs in the car.

When they disappear in a cloud of red dust at the end of the drive, you lean back and stare down at the guitar again, adjusting the positioning of your fingers on the strings as though nothing of note just happened.

Maybe, nothing of note has happened.

You’d hugged them so easily, smiled at them so warmly. He’s grateful for it, that ease you have with them, that you feel safe and secure. It makes something warm and protective and territorial for all three of you settle in around his ribs.

His girls and you.

Your mouth pulls down at the corners as he watches you clumsily reposition your other hand along the frets.

He tries to repress a smile and glances away from you to continue his work. A poorly struck chord followed by a frustrated sigh echoes across the yard.

You ain’t exactly a natural with the instrument, though you try.

Joel taught Sarah and Ellie to play when they were young. He taught Tommy, when their mother didn’t have time to. He’s happy to teach you now, too.

More notes float on the air, curl into the whispering leaves that skitter along the drive. You aren’t doing so bad, he thinks, when the music suddenly stops.

He turns to peer over his shoulder at you.

You’ve taken your feet off the railing and have folded your arms along it instead, chin leaning on your forearms, head tipped to the side, guitar propped between your knees. “Joel?”

“Honey?” He answers, and you smile. The effect is like being lit from the inside out. You brighten and there’s sunshine in his soul, in all the dark places in his chest.

“Will you play for me?” You uncross one arm to hold your hand out to him, like you could reach him from there if you tried hard enough.

“You were doin’ just fine at it,” he calls back, escorting the chickens as gently as he can into their newly painted home.

You smile at him again. “I know. But I want to hear you and it’s getting dark anyway.”

“Guess so,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just a minute, darlin’.”

You nod and grab the guitar again to settle it in your lap.

The evening light is bleeding gold through the boughs of the oak that overhang the driveway, the whispers of autumnal, purpled shadows bruise the horizon as the sun sinks ever lower.

With the other goat and his lone sheep herded into the barn, he crosses back to the porch where you’ve lit a lantern and tucked yourself deep into one of the rocking chairs. The blanket he keeps folded over the back of one of the chairs is now curled over your lap. You look cozy, too warm, in the lingering heat of the day. He takes up residence next to you, picking up the guitar you’ve abandoned in his seat. “What would you like to hear, darlin’?”

It had taken a week’s worth of needling for him to play for you, but now he wants to do it all the time.

“Whatever you want to play for me, Joel,” you say, bracing your elbow on the arm of the chair to lean your chin on your hand, eyes already closed.

He plucks idly at the strings, watching your face. You put yourself in his hands so easily these days, without thought or worry. There’s trust in its purest form in your expression, like you’d laid yourself at his doorstep. He can’t imagine you closing your eyes like that, relaxed and at peace, even a few weeks ago.

Joel says your name, watches your eyes blink open, the peaceful little spell broken. You pull back, sitting up straight. Doe eyes meet his, round with question. “Joel?”

“I just wanted to say how pretty you look this evenin’.”

You transform, bloom, duck your head and say nothing. The air is rose colored, heavy with the scent of magnolia.

You aren’t exactly good at taking compliments, either. But that’s something you’re both working on.

“Hey,” he says. You look up and lean toward him again, like you’re so ready to drop yourself into his waiting hands.

And when he reaches for you, you do.

Joel cups his hands against your jaw, and leans in to kiss you. Your mouth is soft against his. You taste like autumn air, and like the spiked sweet tea at your elbow. When you pull back, your eyes are oceans, like soil, like smooth, dark glass.

You also have a dot of bright paint on your cheek that he hadn’t noticed before.

He sweeps his thumb over it and finds it’s stuck there.

“What?”

“Nothin’. Got a bit a’ paint there.” He presses his thumb over it. “I like it.”

You pout at him, watchful eyes hooked into his. “Are you ever going to play for me or are you just going to make fun of me?”

He chuckles and releases your face. “I would never make fun of you, honey.”

“Good,” you say as he strums the strings again. “Or I’ll never paint another chicken coop for you again. Not even if your girls help.”

He likes that you tease him, that you feel comfortable enough. He smiles, stares down at the toe of his boot. “You know you didn’t have to let ‘em.”

“Let them what?”

“Help. Y’know, create a monstrosity,” he gestures to the monstrosity in question, the pink and purple slightly washed out against the blush of the setting sun. “I built it for you.”

Your foot nudges against his and he looks up to find you already gazing at him. There’s something vulnerable in your eyes, something soft and unafraid. “I know. I wanted them to help. I like spending time with them, Joel.”

He nods and you smile. “Colors are kind of awful, though. Looks like one of Sarah’s old dollhouses. Thought you’d do a mural, like your table.”

You laugh, and the sound is something he wishes he could capture, box up inside him and never release. “But it’s mine, like you said. And chicken dollhouse chic is what we were aiming for.”

He snorts, but he feels better about it. “That so?”

“Yeah. Now, play something for me?” You request again softly.

Joel mentally shifts through the catalog of songs he could play for you before settling on a song. When he glances back at you, you’ve once again closed your eyes. Orange light, flippant and fleeting, has drifted across your face in a fiery bar as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. You glow in that beautiful light.

He itches to do something other than play the guitar for you.

Although he’s painted you as a doe more times than he can count, he’s never attempted to actually capture your likeness. He could never do you justice, so he just shouldn’t try. It would be embarrassing enough, if you ever found out that you’ve been the source of all his creativity the last few months. That you are his muse.

The plum color on the horizon has darkened, the navy of the encroaching night feathering against the tops of the trees.

You’ve settled back into a peaceful position, eyes closed as you listen.

He plays through a couple of songs before he glances up again and finds you watching him, your gaze focused on his hands. “Will you ever sing for me?” You ask softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He hasn’t sung since his girls were little, not to anyone anyway, and not to anyone that could tell him his voice was terrible.

Even still, he’s never been more tempted.

“No,” he says, even though denying you anything is hard. “You don’t want to hear me sing, honey.”

“But you have such a pretty voice,” you disagree.

He plucks out a final note, music hovering in the air. “That just ain’t true,” he shakes his head and leans the guitar carefully against the bannister. Night has fully fallen, your face is shaded in shadow when he looks at you. “Do you want to stay with me?”

Joel’s offered a few other times, because he always wants you to stay. That week you’d stayed with him while he waited for your new locks to come in at the hardware store had been kind to him. He’d gotten used to your presence in his house embarrassingly quick, and when he got the call that the locks had been delivered, it was like ice sliding down his spine. He’d forgotten, in just days, that you didn’t actually live with him.

That was weeks ago.

And since then, you haven’t stayed.

You usually, always, decline and then he drives you home.

But today is different.

You reach out a hand to him and fold your fingers around his. “Yes,” you sigh.

“Sure?” He asks, surprised. “It’s no bother to drive you home, honey.”

“I’m sure. If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll always gladly have you.”

Your lips curve up, and you duck your head. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

Joel burns whatever he attempts to make on the stove for dinner. He turns to you, with spatula in hand and an irritated tilt to his brows, and asks if you’d like to ride into town to eat at Flu’s.

You agree, and go, still laughing when Joel pulls onto the main road. He grouses under his breath the entire way to town, but he holds your hand against the center console. And when you get to Flu’s he opens the passenger side door for you, then the diner’s door, his hand held lightly against your spine. He tucks his legs around yours under the table, knees and calves brushing together. The diner’s lights are dim and cozy.

He looks soft, in that buttery light. The hard edges of his face ironed out, smile lines and crow’s feet divoted into his skin. He holds your hand on the table, and you watch his fingers more than his face, the rounded swell of his knuckles, the veins in the back of his hand, the knob of his wrist, on which he always wore an old watch that had long stopped ticking. When you’re apart, you find yourself daydreaming of his hands, scarred and broad and warm.

Joel insists on paying, doesn’t let you even consider doing it.

When you climb back into the truck, he puts one hand on your thigh and you sink back into your seat, warm and full and content. You slide your hand over his and feel the rough calluses on the tips of his fingers.

When you close your eyes, you see him working in the sun, poking fun at you while you and Sarah and Ellie paint the chicken coop, squinting through the bright light. He still smells like sun, like warm skin and his cologne and faintly of sweat and whatever thing he’d burned on the stove earlier.

When Joel kissed you that first time, he opened a door in you, one that’s impossible to shut and that does nothing but want.

You’ve never craved touch like you crave his. Even when you feel like you don’t want to be touched at all, you think his hand would be tolerable, would be okay.

You’re painfully aware that part of his appeal is knowing that he would always let you go, that he always knows when it's time to leave you be. And the times you don’t want him to touch you, have been shrinking.

Lately, all you want is for him to fold his fingers between yours, touch the bare skin at the small of your back, to trace your spine up between your shoulder blades, or cup his palm over the back of your neck and tuck you into him.

When you get back to his place, it’s still pretty early in the evening, and all you can think of is ways to get him to touch you again. He turns on the battery powered radio that sits on the porch, perpetually set low on an oldies station.

You can’t look away from him, something like agony twisting in your chest, like there’s a knife between your lungs. He’s talking about something, gesturing across the yard with one hand, his other tangled with yours. Joel’s thumb strokes little circles against the back of your hand, each pass like a bolt of addictive lightning. It’s not enough. His hand in yours is no longer enough.

Joel doesn’t protest when you pull him to his feet when a new song starts up. He gives what you don’t ask for but desperately want. He drags you into his chest and slides his arm around your back, tucking you in close to him. You can hear his heartbeat, feel it pulsing in his chest. He tilts around the porch with you for a long time, even when the music is interrupted by obnoxious ads.

He hums along under his breath and when you slip your hands beneath his shirt to rest against his bare skin, you can feel the vibrations of his voice against your fingers.

You wish you could sink your hands inside him, just to be a little closer. It feels so strange to want that. You’ve never been held that gently before, it loosens a knot you didn’t know existed in the core of your chest.

And you think, even when things with your ex had been good, when he hadn’t been yelling at you or bruising you with a tattoo you didn’t want, he had never held you gently or with such love.

When you pull back, Joel lets you go. There is no fuss about it; there is no guilt.

Eventually, you go inside.

He lets you shower first, just like he always had when you stayed with him before.

After, you watch him brush his hair and then his teeth and something painfully sharp gets caught up inside your chest. It’s hard to breathe around that feeling, that ache.

You watch him get ready for bed, and you watch him groan when he has to stoop down to pick a pair of socks up off of the floor, and you feel something more than warmth flood your heart. It unravels, spools through your veins, and it's so warm it burns.

Joel catches you looking at him, as he often does these days.

He smiles at you, the lines by his eyes crinkling up. He looks domestic in a heather gray t-shirt that sits loose on his frame, pajama bottoms that look as though they’ve seen a few too many years, and glasses perched on the end of his nose. “You all right?”

You nod. “Really good, Joel.”

That gets a little laugh out of him. “Must be worn out,” he says as he sits on the edge of the bed. You lie back and curl on your side, watching him adjust his pillows, admiring the shape of his hands as he goes, remembering what they looked like sun drenched and warm in the yard. He drags his knuckle over the curve of your cheek and neither you nor your body remembers to flinch away. “After all that paintin’ and gettin’ me to dance.”

“It was fun though, wasn’t it?” You ask, suppressing the urge to trace the length of his spine through his shirt. “You liked dancing with me.” You clutch the pillow tighter to your chest and dip your chin into the fabric.

He takes his glasses off and then finally lies down next to you. Nerves burst in your belly when he turns to look at you. “I enjoyed it very much, sweetheart.”

“Good.” You wriggle a bit closer to him.

He watches you and then offers a place for you to fit yourself against his side. You slide in close to him, tucking your hands between his body and yours, slotting your nose against the dip of his collarbone.

He smells good there, like soap and something that’s purely Joel and so soothing, like sage and pine.

“This what you been wantin’, huh?” He asks, stroking your back slowly. You stiffen but he chuckles into your hair. “I mean that in a nice way.”

You lick your lips, feel the shift of muscle beneath your cheek as he reaches to turn off the lamp. There’s no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“I know,” he says against your forehead. “Me, too.”

You settle against him, the feeling of his palm sliding over your shirt, up and down, tapping over your spine, soothes you. Your stomach flips when his hand drags along the bare skin at your hip.

If you could dig a trench into his bones, take cover there, you would. And still that wouldn’t be close enough.

“Joel,” you say, tracing your hand over his chest.

For once, your voice seems to encourage more than caution and he doesn’t stop touching you. His hand slides higher again and your breath hitches.

It feels so nice, like all the empty places inside you are slowly being colored in, shaded in emerald green and butter, sunshine yellow, jewel bright blue and blush pink.

You curl into him, shakily pressing the hand on his chest up to his neck. You cup your palm there and Joel turns on his side. His hair is soft and a little damp when you dig your fingers into it, the scent of him wrapping around you, cradling you close and safe. Joel touches his forehead very gently to yours, his breath fanning across your lips.

He waits for you.

You close the distance between you, and press your mouth to his.

He sighs into you, his grip tightening on your waist for a moment, and you push yourself closer to the circle of warmth that is his body.

His fingers graze the edge of your shirt, then push it up, rough palms sliding over your back again. His hand is so big, so warm, it spans your back and then covers your ribs. You gasp into his mouth when the pad of his thumb caresses the curve of your breast.

Goosebumps erupt along your body. “Joel,” you murmur against his mouth.

“Mhm,” he hums. “I know, honey. I got you.”

He touches you there again but doesn’t go any further. You shiver and press your mouth back to his, tasting the mint of his toothpaste when his tongue slips into your mouth.

Moonlight filters pale and bright into his bedroom, and when you pull away his eyes are dark, hungry. You wish you had the courage to feed that gaze, but you aren’t there yet. A stab of guilt pierces your lungs. He’s so patient with you, and you can’t help but wonder if one day that patience might run out.

Instead of lingering on that, on wondering how much time you could possibly ask him to give, you offer him something else. “Can I show you my tattoos?”

He blinks at you, pink, kiss swollen lips parting. “If you want.”

“But do you want to see?”

“Baby,” he touches your cheek, traces the line of your jaw. “I’ve been dreamin’ about it since you told me about ‘em.”

You squirm, embarrassment crawling up the inside of your belly. “You have?”

“Mm.” He kisses you again, his mouth lingering long against yours. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, his breath against yours. “I think about you all the time.”

You get your knees beneath you and push up from your place beside him. Joel turns on his back when you swing one leg over his waist and find yourself, boldly, very much in his lap. His hands anchor on your hips, thumbs beneath your t-shirt.

“Oh,” you say, pressing your hands over his, something nervous wriggling in your gut. “Sorry. Is—”

You try to move away but his grip doesn’t change. “It’s all right,” he says evenly, the barest hint of something tremulous beneath.

Before you can think about it more, overthink being in his lap or how much of you you’re about to show him or how heavy and uncomfortable his hands might become, you release his wrists and tug your shirt up to just beneath your breasts, so your ribs are visible.

Those feelings don’t come though. You don’t feel anxious or weighed down or wrong.

He’s looking at you and touching you and seeing you and it's fine. It’s fine because it’s Joel. No one had ever understood you before the way he has—not your family or your friends or any previous partner. They try, but Joel just seems to know you, understand, without really trying.

Joel clears his throat, his expression unreadable as he lifts one hand to your tattoo. When he traces the ink, you exhale against his curious fingers. It tickles. “That’s real pretty,” he says. “Antlers. It really suits you.”

“Thank you,” you murmur. “Deer are like good luck, I think. They know things.”

He looks at you like you’re some ancient creature he can hardly believe exists. Embarrassment claws at you but you don’t look away. “That so?” He looks at the ink again, tension slicing through the air. “Jesus you’re somethin’.”

You don’t get a chance to respond because he meets your eyes again and asks, “Where’s the bee?”

You laugh and the acid burn of uncertainty disappears. “How’d you remember about the bee?”

“‘Cause I’ve been wonderin’ about it too.” He’s still absentmindedly tracing the antlers, the moss and the flowers that loop through the branches of the antlers. His expression is open now, curious and needy. “It ain’t on your hip, if I’m rememberin’ right.”

You shift your hand to your sternum and carefully tug your shirt up a bit higher. There, nestled between your breasts, is a tiny, tiny bumblebee. “Well, ain’t that a surprise.” He shifts his hand up and covers the bee with his thumb, the length of his fingers sitting right beneath your breast.

An ocean wells up inside you, threatens to break apart your ribs. You lean into his hand, your chest warm, catching, like fire is spreading from all the places he touches you. The knuckles of his other hand drag up your side.

You shiver under his eye, fighting the urge to look away, to tug yourself out of his grip. But the thought of losing his warm hands against you is worse, it outweighs everything else.

“Where did you think it was?” You ask, hardly able to breathe. Everything in the world narrows down to his dark bedroom, his eyes skating over your newly revealed tattoos, milky moonlight parting the tiny space still left between you.

“I couldn’t get it out of my head that it was on your hip.”

You laugh and Joel keeps looking at you, his eyes flicking between your bared skin and your eyes. The room is warm, his gaze heavy. “You’re real pretty. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Once or twice, maybe,” you smile.

“Mm.”

You cup one hand around his wrist, the pressure of his hand against the swell of your breast sending shockwaves through you. It’s all you can focus on, the slow sweep of his thumb against sensitive skin. You push his hand harder against you until it feels hard to breathe.

You think about how much Joel gives you, how carefully he listens even when you don’t speak.

He deserves to know you hear him, too. That you see what he wants, that you hear what he’s saying, and that you’re trying.

“You show me what you think,” you say. “And I—I get it.”

“I don’t think you do,” he says, eyes dark. He reaches for you slowly, giving you time to tell him to stop or to pull away, but you don’t. You desperately want him to keep touching you with his safe, patient, cautious hands.

Slowly, you’re pressed back into the sheets. Joel goans, a pained sound that means his back or knees hurt and he won’t admit it.

He settles himself against you, his body fitted against the cradle of your hips. Joel is heavy against you, but comforting. His fingers clench around yours, and for a long moment he just looks at you beneath him, starved eyes skittering across your skin.

“You all right?” He asks gruffly, like there’s something tangled in his chest. “You say it. If you aren’t.”

“I’m okay.”

You reach up and touch his cheek, then the tail of his eyebrow, as he assesses you. He tilts his chin down, brows lowered heavily over his eyes. You can’t exactly blame him for being cautious. You warned him that you were hard work, and he meant it when he said he didn’t mind, that he didn’t think you were. Caring comes naturally for him. “Really. I would say it. I trust you.”

He nods once and your chest hitches when he dips his head and presses his mouth softly against the bee and then the antlers.

The rough feeling of his beard against your skin tingles. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling, and you aren’t sure where to put your hands. Joel’s are pressed to your sides, forearms snugly against your body, warm and twitching. You settle on his shoulders, the wide planes of his back, so reassuringly large against your body.

Then, his tongue, firm and soft, slides over your skin. Over the bee and the tips of the antlers strung through with ivy and flowers, over the underside of your breast.

You gasp and arch against him and you suddenly know exactly where you want your hands. You tuck them against the back of his head, threading through the feathery gray strands to keep his mouth against your skin.

Want tightens between your legs, makes your belly ache. Your nipples tighten painfully hard. A whine catches in your throat that you know he hears because he answers you with a low groan of his own against your throat when he sucks a kiss to the underside of your jaw.

It’s overwhelming. You want to push him away and pull him closer. You want to bury yourself inside him and never look into his eyes again. You want this feeling to last forever. You never want Joel to feel lonesome again. You want him to be able to ask for what he wants, to let you give it to him.

Your ex again, flashes through your mind, an unfair comparison. How rarely he’d kissed you, shown you affection, for just the sake of it.

You want you want you want you want—

You want—

“I want you to tattoo the cover up,” you say suddenly. Tears salt that backs of your eyes, tightness itching at the back of your throat. You hitch your knees up around his ribs, fear that he might pull away swimming to the forefront of your mind. It’s dizzying, because your instinct has always been to move away, to put space between you and things that might hurt you. You’ve given Joel so many pieces of you; he could break every part of you, if he really wanted to. “If you still—if you want—I mean—” you stammer.

His head lifts and your thighs clench because you want him everywhere and nowhere all at once. You want him to want you as badly as you want him, and that just doesn’t seem possible. Not in all the ways you mean anyway, the kind where you tuck yourself inside his ribs, and into the dark places in his mind, like love letters that will never be sent.

You love him, you think. You love Joel.

It doesn’t feel like enough. The word isn’t big enough to encompass what he makes you feel. The feelings worming around in your chest are expansive, wide as the night sky, splattered with stars and distant galaxies that have yet to be found, let alone described.

“‘Course I want to,” he says easily. “Of course, I will.”

“Tomorrow?” You ask breathlessly.

“If that’s what you want, honey.”

You nod. “It is.” You suspect you could say you wanted him to do it right at that moment, and he’d find a way to make it happen. He’d drive you to his studio in the dark. He’d sit with you until morning bruised the sky, until the peach of the sun dripped sticky sweet down the horizon. “I want you to do it. I want it to be from you.”

“All right,” he agrees. “Tomorrow mornin’ we’ll go and do it.” His hand slides down your side to your hip, then your thigh. “You okay?”

You nod.

“You have to talk to me,” he says. “I ain’t a mind reader.”

“I know,” you admit. “I’m sorry I put so much on you to figure out.”

“That ain’t what I meant.”

“But that’s what you do. You figure me out.”

Joel pats your thigh and then presses the pads of his fingers to the hinge of your jaw. His eyes search yours for a long time, black in the low light of the room.

He kisses you until you start to fall asleep, the lazy press of his lips whispering things you can no longer hear.

Morning dawns bright and warm.

Joel gets up long before you even stir. You’re curled as close to him as you can get without actually touching him, hands tucked beneath your face, lips parted softly. You’d migrated to the center of the bed, taking up space he’s not really keen on reclaiming.

The memory of your skin against his mouth, all the other places on your body he’d like to touch and taste, is like nectar, like the sweet promise of a good dream after a long day. You aren’t ready for that though. Not yet, anyway, and that’s all right.

But he’s only a man, and he’s painfully hard.

Before, you were like a deer he’d accidentally come upon, skating around the rim of his peripheral vision. Now, you’re still doe-eyed and watchful, but you’re closer; you’re relaxed, lying in the shade of trees you trust, at ease.

Your hand twitches toward him when he presses a slow kiss against your temple, the jump of tendon beneath his mouth soothing somehow. He pulls the sheet up and tucks it around your shoulders, because without him next to you the draft from the fan overhead is too cool for you.

He takes care of himself in the bathroom without much fuss, and then feels a little bit guilty for it when you’re sleeping on just the other side of the wall. It wasn’t the first time though, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

In the kitchen, he makes coffee just the way you like it, with a little bit of cinnamon in with the coffee grounds. The coffee creamer you like is sweet, so he sets that out with a spoon next to a pale blue mug, pours himself his own cup, and relocates to the back deck.

The trees at the far edge of the property are still dark and skeletal, the thicket full of shadow and the buzz of night insects.

Even at the end of October, it’s still warm. A breeze ruffles his hair, shakes the nearly naked trees and sends a cascade of brown and orange sifting to the ground. Next month it would cool off, just a little.

He hadn’t told you when his birthday passed in September, that you’d inadvertently spent that day with him. Sarah and Ellie had tried to get him to tell you, but he hadn’t been able to stomach it.

Dread accompanies that day.

It hadn’t always, just since Sarah was little, like his body was braced for a tragedy that would never come. He couldn’t have you be a part of that too, though the girls had pointed out you would eventually notice his lack of a birthday, if you were around long enough.

He’d cross that bridge if he ever came to it. It’s hard to imagine he’d get you for that long.

It doesn’t take long for you to find him. The flood of morning sun has passed the tree line and twists dappled green and yellow circles over the deck. When you push open the back door, you have your cup of coffee in one hand and the neck of the guitar in the other.

He’d have to get you your own. Either that, or make one for you.

“Hey,” you smile at him as you set your steaming cup down on the patio table.

“Mornin’. You sleep okay?”

“Mmm.”

Joel expects you to ask him to play, but you settle down in the chair next to his, your bare knee pressed against his, and adjust the instrument in your lap.

The sound is clumsy, but beautiful and careful, when you play. Joel’s glad he decided to teach you. He just listens and watches you. Your expression is thoughtful but closed, like you’re somewhere else. That’s how he thinks too, music in hand, mind far away. He likes that look on you, until you suddenly pause and glance up. You watch him for a long moment with those doe eyes of yours, folding your arms around the body of the guitar.

You lick your lips and his eyes flick briefly to your mouth, the plush curve of your lower lip. He hadn’t kissed you good morning. “I want to figure you out too, you know,” you say.

You hold his gaze for just a second before dropping your eyes to the wooden floorboards instead, fidgeting like you’re repressing the urge to curl in on yourself, fold yourself away. “You got me all figured out, honey,” he assures you.

You shake your head and lift your eyes again, tapping your nails against the wood. “You—” you pause and swallow, “You’re allowed to want things from me, Joel.”

Something falls in his chest, like he’s missed the last step on a long staircase, gravity turned against him.

His heart lurches up into his mouth, tangy with some unknown fear. “I do. Trust me, I do.”

“Why don’t you ask?”

“Honey—”

“I know,” you say softly. “I know. I know how I am and how—” you stop and flounder, frustrated for a moment. “I know I’m not easy to ask. But you. . . I don’t feel that way with you anymore; I’m not afraid anymore. And I want to be enough for you. I hope I’m not too slow about it.” You look away again. “I want you to know you can call on me, too, Joel.”

He clears his throat but the tightness doesn’t go away. “You could never take too long. I don’t mind waitin’.”

“But?”

But, he’s bad at this.

But, he loves too hard, cares too much.

But, part of him is convinced that the loneliness is deserved. Everyone seems to leave him, someway or another. He’s just preparing early for it this time. He’s never held onto a romantic relationship before, so why should this one be any different than all the ones that came before it?

He doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t want; he gives and cares and that’s why people stay. It really doesn’t have all that much to do with him, or what he wants.

“But you don’t want anything from me?” You ask, your voice noticeably smaller, and the warm morning suddenly feels cold.

“It ain’t that.” He should say more, but nothing else comes out, words trapped like moths inside a lamp.

You swallow and nod, like you’re battering back your instinct to flee, to think the worst. You’ve come so far and it’s hard not to feel a little pride, that you stay, that you aren’t worried, not usually, that he’ll hurt you someway. He’s reminded of the first day he’d tattooed you, how one misplaced word was enough to have you jumping to your feet, fretful and afraid. “I like spending time with you. I like touching you. I can give that to you.”

He doesn’t answer and you eventually continue. “You can’t protect me from the whole wide world. Not even from you. I’m making a choice. To be here with you.” And he knows you’ve seen much more than he wanted you to, that you’ve seen the interior of him, bleeding red, splattered onto everything he touches. You’ve seen the want, the need, and you’re still here.

He’s still not sure letting you care wouldn’t end with you leaving. But he doesn’t see what other choice he has.

“Okay. But you promise me somethin’,” he says. “Just one thing and I’ll try.”

You tilt your head, the picture of a curious little doe, almost nosy, peering into unfamiliar woods. “What?” You ask, looking away as you set the guitar aside.

“If you ever want somethin’ better for yourself. You tell me. And you go.”

Your eyes snap back to his, mouth parted in shock. “Joel—”

“I’m serious,” he snaps and you recoil a little, hurt in your eyes. “You deserve better’n this. Better than a lonely old man.”

You shoot up from your seat in a rare show of anger. And that surge of pride hits him squarely in the chest again. He’s proud of you for that. For standing up for yourself, for letting yourself be angry with him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice doesn’t raise in volume, but it is waspish, venom laced. “Better? What’s better for me than you?”

“Honey,” he says, softens his voice. “Just ‘cause you opened up with me, don’t mean I think I get to keep you.”

Your shoulders loosen and you step closer. When you reach out, God help him, he leans into your hand.

Gentle fingertips run along his shoulders, bite into the knot at the top of his spine. “Keep me,” you scoff lightly. “I want you to keep me.”

You don’t protest when he winds an arm around your waist and tugs you down into his lap. You’re warm and soft and frowning so hard at him. There’s a divot between your eyes that he wants to press his thumb over, to smooth away. Instead he takes your wrist in his hand and traces the tattoo on your forearm. “You’re the only one who’s ever wondered if they should,” you say. “You aren’t keeping anything. I’m giving you something no one else ever even tried to earn.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, a hot fist around his words. He’d rather walk away, not talk about it, not talk about himself. But that would break all that hard won trust.

“I just can’t have you feelin’ like I’m your problem,” he admits, voice graveled and scraping. “Like I’m holdin’ you down.”

“It’s okay to need people,” you answer, ignoring him. “I want to take care of you too. I want to be here with you.” You slide your hand over his shoulder again. “Even if it's just like this. Especially if it's just like this.” You scratch your fingers through his hair. Sun spills around your shoulders, blinds him when he looks up at you. “I know how much you like it. And you can tell me when you need something. I’m still learning your tells.”

He chuckles at that, let’s you keep touching him, because he does want it and you don’t seem to mind so much that he’s just some lonely man. “All right,” he runs his hand up your thigh to your hip. “Promise me anyway.”

“I promise,” you say. “To learn your tells.”

You make breakfast without burning anything, while Joel watches, hip leaned against the counter. His smile is soft, affectionate.

Warmth balloons in your chest, bursts in your veins like champagne bubbles. You managed to reassure him, you managed to say what you want without feeling bad about it.

“Lonely old man,” you burst out with a laugh. “I’m lonely and old.”

Joel rolls his eyes when you dig your elbow into his side. “You ain’t old.”

“Neither are you.”

Joel buys you coffee from the little cafe you always stopped at before visiting him at the studio. He drives with his hand in yours. He opens the passenger side door for you and gestures you ahead of him into the studio.

After going through the usual motions of disinfecting and sanitizing and picking one of the many, many, many coverup designs he’d sketched for you and getting the stencil on right, you find yourself in much the same position as the first time you got tattooed by Joel.

Joel isn’t talking. He’s taking his time looking you over, intense and careful and muttering about that bastard that had dared lay his hands on you. He’s meticulous in everything he does, but especially when it concerns someone he cares about, when it comes to you.

You’re lying down, studying the side of his face. He touches you without asking, and you don’t flinch once. The memory of his body against yours sends a flushed heat over your skin. Your scalp tingles with it, your toes curl with it.

He finally seems satisfied after a few long minutes, his hand on the curve of your elbow. You nod your consent when he looks at you, tattoo gun poised in his other hand over your shoulder. “Sure?”

“Never been surer.” You smile and then cover the hand resting on your elbow. He gives, you give back. “You don’t like it when I say thank you.”

“I don’t,” he grunts. There's a blush beneath his beard.

You sweep your thumb against his knuckles, and think about how different that first time had been. Joel had reassured you, gave you a physical anchor you hadn’t known you needed, kind and steady and already lodged somewhere deep inside your heart.

Now you can give that back to him.

“Okay.”

But he knows. You know he hears it anyway.

Still, you want to say it.

“Thank you, baby. For giving me back to myself.”

He leans over you, and you tilt your chin up so he can kiss you.

“Couple sessions, okay?” He croaks when he pulls away. “Don’t want to wear ya out.”

There is nowhere in the world you’d rather be.

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #honeyed fic

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violetsiren90 · 2 months

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Nothing But You | Bang Chan/Reader

Pairing: wolf hybrid!Bang Chan x f!human!Reader

Genre: hybrid AU; non-idol AU, strangers to lovers; love in adversity; cozy one-shot; fluff and angst

Word Count: 1434

Summary: The world's not ready for your love, but that doesn't matter. None of it matters - nothing but him.

Part 2: Evergreen (though both can be read as stand-alone works)

Content Warnings: I'd give this a PG-13 for content, but ALL of my work is 18+ (minors, dni); cuddling; co-sleeping; bad weather (but safe indoors); shirtless Chris (Chan is called Christopher); descriptions of hybrid physical features (including some minimal body hair); depictions of prejudice towards, discrimination, and marginalization of hybrids; a character gets lost and is momentarily frightened; allusions to sexual intimacy; implied domestic violence (by an authority figure, not Chris); running away; mention of reproduction (pups); for some reason even though it is explicitly stated I feel the need to mention that Reader and Chris are both adults throughout

Author's Note: I'll tell you what I didn't have planned for this Sunday afternoon and that was a Bang Chan hybrid AU one-shot. But the image of cuddling up with Chan in the middle of a snowstorm took me hostage and now here we are. I've never written a hybrid AU before, so this was very fun! If you read this, I hope this Christopher brings you the comfort you deserve today. 💕

P.S In case no one has told you today, you're so loved and so, so worthy of love. 🧜💜

The icy wind howls, whipping swirling flurries of snow past the windows of the little cabin. You stir, not opening your eyes, heavy with slumber as your other senses remind you of the homey trappings of your shelter. A fire crackles and pops, its warmth licking over your nose and cheeks. A soft, heavy blanket fashioned of rabbit pelts lays over your body, rustling quietly as you nuzzle into the man beneath you.

His chest rises and falls with the even breath of a deep sleep. Your cheek rests against his bare skin and the silky patch of thick, dark hair between his firm pectorals. It isn't really hair - not like yours. It's fur. Soft, dark tufts of it decorate his body everywhere hair would grow on a man; a patch on his chest, under his arms, at the dip of his Adonis belt. It smells like him. Like musk and pine and lavender. Manly and primal, floral and gentle. Christopher.

Hybrids were still treated like dirt in so many ways. They didn't require licenses to live without owners anymore, but still, they were pushed to the margins of the community by the intolerance of common practice. You yourself had been taught to fear them. Monsters, your grandfather had told you, who would turn on their own young in a moment of morbid instinct. Even so, you always found more pity in your heart than terror.

And then, one day, you met him.

You had been loading groceries into the bed of your grandparents' jalopy at the general store and dropped a bag of oats as you struggled to hoist it onto the tailgate. You hadn't even noticed he was beside you when he easily hefted the bag and the remaining two boxes of eggs onto the vehicle without a word. He shot you a little smile, but before you could thank him your eyes were arrested by a pair of sharp brown ears rising from his curly hair. He pulled on a cap and turned to go before you could collect your wits enough to speak.

You had thought of nothing save his warm brown eyes and sweet smiling lips in the weeks that followed, taking any chance you could to steal away to the general store in hopes of seeing him again.

But your paths never crossed. Not until the following summer.

You had packed in to the camping grounds by the lake with a few other girls from your graduating class for a weekend getaway from the menfolk - not that you had any - and you'd joined them rather reluctantly and at the persistence of your grandmother, who insisted a little socialization would do you good.

That first afternoon you quickly grew tired of the chatter. If the weekend was meant to be a reprieve from the men, you grumbled to yourself, then why were they the constant and sole topic of conversation? You gathered up your sketching supplies and walked down the trail a ways, finding that the more distance you put between yourself and the shrieks of laughter and gossip behind you, the better you felt. Soon, you couldn't hear them at all. You settled onto a rock at the edge of a small glen and took your pencil in hand.

Suddenly, some hours later, it dawned on you that your eyes were straining somewhat on the page, and you looked about, startled at the waning light reflecting the late hour. Gathering your things, you hurried back to down the path, only to realize with a sickness in your gut that you were well and truly lost, and that the daylight was nearly spent.

He had found you then, sniffling rather pathetically beside a tree. You'd been alarmed by the sudden sound of his voice, having not heard his furtive approaching steps, but when you raised your frightened eyes to his face the fear had quickly given way to wonder. You'd given up hope of seeing him again, and now here he was, once more in your hour of need.

It was too dark now to find the trail back to the campsite, so you helped divide the load of bracken he had tucked under his arm between you as he led the way back to his cabin, not far into the thick. As you walked you noticed his tail, gray and brown and full behind him. Had he hidden it, that day at the store, you wondered? Did he always when he was around people like you? You remembered how surprised you had been at the site of his pretty ears upon your first meeting and you felt ashamed. You tried to find every possible way to assure him, as you walked and talked, that he didn't frighten you. You hoped he understood.

Before long, you arrived at a little clearing with a log cabin at its heart. Smoke rose invitingly from the chimney, and you found it was as small and homey and warm within as it seemed from the cold darkness of the wood. The stranger gave you bread and stew and hot milk, and you ate with him and told him of yourself and he shared with you in return.

He was a wolf hybrid. The sole survivor of his pack, he had traveled hundreds of miles to settle into the mountains of your home. He made a living hunting, trapping, and gathering the wares of the wild to sell in town, as did a handful of other hybrids living in the mountains - a group of traders known collectively as The Strays. He told you that his name was Christopher, but that most simply called him The Wolf. When you repeated his given name softly and asked if you could call him by it he smiled that smile again, but broader and brighter and with his eyes pressed into little moons and crow's feet in their corners. His canines glinted in the light of the fire and one beautiful dimple pressed into his left cheek.

You were in love.

You asked him, a little shyly before parting the following day, if you could be friends. He smiled sadly and brushed rough fingers over your cheek before telling you that you were already his friend, but that you should keep yourself safe by staying away. People were suspicious of hybrids, and if he were seen with a human woman, it could be dangerous for you both.

At the edge of the campsite, when he turned to go, you grabbed his arm. You told him that every Saturday morning you helped wait tables at Maple's Diner, and that if he came, breakfast would be on the house. You wanted to thank him, you insisted. In truth, you just wanted to give him a chance to find you, should he wish to. Oh, you desperately hoped that he wished to.

And he did. He showed up a few weeks later, ears tucked under a hat and shoulders looking broad in a worn flannel shirt. You gave him coffee and bacon and a pile of pancakes and sat with him when your shift was through. It became a ritual, Saturday mornings at the diner. And then you started meeting for lunch. Then dinner. Then for long walks and trips to the movies. Then he started to take you out for drives in his truck - for picnics in the mountains, to watch the stars from the bed, to never leave the cab or each other's arms as the windows fogged with your labored breaths and mingled heat.

One night your grandparents were waiting up when you returned. Your grandfather was in a rage, your grandmother was all worry and woes. It was a sin, what you were doing, they said. In the eyes of what god, you demanded in return? Your grandmother clung to your arm, begging you to come to your senses - it was dangerous, and worse, you would be ruined for life. You told her that none of that meant anything to you. Only him, he was all that mattered. Only Christopher. To hell with everyone and everything else in that goddamned town that treated him with suspicion and shame - that could never begin to see how perfectly beautiful he was.

Your grandfather forbade you to see him.

You told him you were grown and he couldn't stop you.

He raised his hand, and your grandmother screamed.

When Christopher pulled up in his pickup you were in front of Maple's Diner. He gasped as he crouched to cradle you in his arms and gently brush his fingers over your broken lip and the green bruise on your cheek. He gathered you up, gathered your little bags, and took you home.

Home to the woods.

To the little warm cabin.

To his arms and his heart.

It's the third winter since you left it all behind - everything that tried to keep you from him.

Things are so different now, so simple, slow, steady and intimate in the life you share. You've started talking about pups. Maybe someday. Maybe soon.

You look up at his lovely, peaceful face, washed golden in the firelight, and smile, settling back down against his chest. As the wind howls your eyes slip shut, and you sleep again in the strong, gentle arms of a wolf.

-Fin-

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hana-no-seiiki · 4 months

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☁️ . . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ FIVE STAGES OF YANDERE ࿐: IDOL EDITION

“ 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐋𝐋 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒, 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐃. “

⟣┄─ ˑ 𝐈. ✧ yandere! idol! oc (jisoo han) x superfan/manager! reader

✧ tw/cw: yandere themes, reader is also yandere at the start, mentions of anxiety and self harm, honestly idol life is its own tw

HAPPY HANA NO SEIIKI ANNIVERSARY YA’LL!!

[ series masterlist ]

⟣┄─ ˑ STAGE ONE. ✧ DENIAL

“Oh gosh (oh gosh) this is so crazy. I’ve fallen in love again.

I trip so easily.

Adore new things, they sparkle.”

“Why are you so obsessed with him?”

“Dunno, just am.”

Your entire life revolved around Yesterday’s Dawn’s ace, Eve. The idol who had been in everyone’s lips. Whose name had been heard throughout nations you’ve never even heard of.

He was your sun, the reason you had the energy to wake up every single day, the light of your life.

Every waking moment you spent it either thinking of him or offering your services for name.

It was normal for you to spend hours looking at his schedule, knowing where he was, being around him most times, or staring at media of him.

Somehow, you were able to land a job as his manager.

You were finally closer to your god.

But you swiftly find out that no man should be likened to one for only disappointment can be found in such a path.

Eve was a lot more . . . burnt out than you expected. A lot less passionate and energetic than he was in camera if not irritable.

It was normal for him to harass workers when they didn’t meet a standard he imposed, as such, after the first few weeks of your employment everyone that you were with have already been fired, quit, and/or paid to keep their silence on the matter.

Yet your feelings for him only stayed; as your employment with the company. Your meticulous and proactive nature as a fan site owner allowed you to take much of the workload he threw at you.

The little admiration you have left for the man kept you standing.

And if only you were a little less stressed you’d notice his scarlet eyes providing stares of amusement, bewilderment, and growing affection.

You never complained (at least, in a place where he could hear you).

Whenever he asked for impossible items or schedules you’ll simply grin and work things out in your little way.

You adjusted to his turbulent temperament as quickly as an experienced pilot in a stormy sky, a sailor of uncharted, dangerous waters.

You were brilliant. Reminiscent of his times as a trainee.

Bit by bit he started lessening your workload. Allowing you to rest. Hell, even giving you his coffee if he didn’t want it. He never gives away his coffee.

You acquiesced to many of his whims but were never a pushover. Always doing your job perfectly. Keeping him in line.

He would have fallen for you already, had he not been in love with someone else.

⟣┄─ ˑ STAGE TWO. ✧ ANGER

“Peek-a-boo! It’s only love when my heart quivers.

All my friends yell at me, they say I have a problem.

I’m fine fine fine fine fine fine!”

“ For this comeback period, [L/N] will be assigned to Hayate instead. Eve will have his senior’s manager work with him instead.”

“Understood.”

You were assigned to another member around Spring.

Yesterday Dawn’s most hectic time of the year aside from fall as the group’s concept was as the name suggested, focused more on nostalgia and times of youth.

You were relieved.

You never thought you would have been able to say that after being separated from Eve, but now it was the only thing you had on your mind.

No more late night calls about wanting coffee but throwing the leftovers at you the moment he was sick of the taste, no more work being thrown at you and taken away at random moments, no more working around his schedule so that he’ll have time to meet that dear senior of his in private.

You were free.

Hayate was known to be the harsher one in the fandom, but much like Eve his image was a bit different from his actual self.

Sure he was demanding, but he was fair. He wasn’t controlled by whims and impulse. You were finally able to do your job properly til the end, and you didn’t always feel a judging stare from him like Jisoo would always throw at you.

You were finally able to smile.

However, you see, being a manager for another member did not mean you would completely be free of your original client.

Hayate and Eve worked quite closely, and as such, you’d often help with Jisoo’s requests even if you weren’t obligated to.

Eve immediately saw the change in you.

You were, a lot more bright. Less haggard. Your voice less hoarse. Relaxed.

You were already getting along better with his group member than you ever did with him.

Eve wasn’t really the type to show his anger actively. He was always more, passive.

The senior he was head over heels for was slowly forgotten as he’d spent countless of hours pouring his feelings into his music. What was supposed to be a bittersweet spring album turned out to be one of sour regret and frustration.

Of course, it was still a hit. It even scored him a collaboration with the senior he oh so wanted to have their eyes on him. But all he could think of as he went to bed early in the morning was the way you’d laugh whenever Hayate spoke to you.

Hmph, the guy wasn’t even funny.

⟣┄─ ˑ STAGE THREE. ✧ BARGAINING

“Hey you, do you wanna play a game? I already know what you want.

Close your eyes and count to 10. Don’t matter anyways

Cause I am going to find you.”

“Did you hear? Jisoo got his first scandal. Apparently he bullied a bunch of students during high-school.”

“Wasn’t he . . . homeschooled?”

Causing scandals was easy. Dealing with scandals was not.

All Eve had to do was talk to some people, had a few pictures edited and voila, chaos.

It was amusing really, his company superiors would ply him with reassurances and sweet words; telling him that everything will be fine and dealt with while his pr managers dropped down like flies trying to prevent the flames of hatred from spreading too far.

All of them, hopelessly unaware.

All but his stupid senior.

“Why are you doing this now, Ji?”

They always looked down at him almost. Like he was a petulant child that needed to be coddled or scolded depending on their mood.

“We should focus on the track.”

And like he expected, you were brought right back to him. As you should be.

The heads figured out that you were the only one capable of handling the shitstorm without falling into the hands of alcohol or other substances in grief.

And as they expected you did.

After all, you had a timeline of his entire life in a canva document. Even if it was only mentioned once in a concert interview before they went famous. You were an Eve superfan.

All you did was confirm the fact that Jisoo got homeschooled by contacting his parents and teachers, and the rest was easy. You even reactivated your fansite for such an occasion.

If only you hadn’t.

Maybe then Jisoo wouldn’t have a definite reason to pursue you.

⟣┄─ ˑ STAGE FOUR. ✧ DEPRESSION

“You’ll never get this concept, you might as well forget it

Just play again, bet it all, roll the dice

BLANCA”

Eve thought he was doing well in terms of romancing you.

Ever since he found out about your fansite instead of feeling disgust and horror he felt . . . great, amazing even. A high the stage could never give him.

Of course, you two were destined.

It was only his duty to protect you as your partner, to spoil you, dote on you.

Even if you don’t realize your intertwined fates yet.

. . .

Eve always hovered over you.

Usually managers took shifts with watching over the idols. Half of your time was supposed to be spent planning rather than overseeing his activities.

Yet you seemed to have a never ending babysitting responsibility.

Your past self would have committed several war crimes for the sake of this opportunity. But after a year or so under his ‘care’ you found yourself slowly veering off into the type of insanity you didn’t like falling in.

You felt a bit like Andy from the original Devil Wears Prada book, only that your resentment simmered slowly. Forming into a hideous red sludge of exasperation whenever he randomly wanted to take a vacation. Forcing only you to come with him. Which meant an even bigger workload, and even more people to talk to for flights, schedule conflicts, reservations and all that.

You snapped.

It was a calm afternoon.

The sun was burning you alive as Eve insisted you two would go on a ‘beach date’ for some summer fun.

He shoved a drink in your hand.

And you just broke down.

Tears fell from your eyes, your breath shallow.

You asked him if this amused him. If your suffering was funny to him. If making you fall over just to get his demands on time made him feel fulfilled as a person.

And before he could answer you ran.

A week after that your schedule was finally normal.

Eve kept his distance. Not just from you but from everyone.

You knew of his anxiety attacks and depression before. But seeing those up close and personal scared you.

Things only get worse from here.

⟣┄─ ˑ STAGE FIVE. ✧ ACCEPTANCE

“So it’s too late you’re in the game now. If you keep up might not lose it.

The jungle gym of fun, like hell yeah

Makin the moon fall down down down.”

Eve spent most of his ‘hiatus’ watching your posts of him. Edits, fanfictions, photography, fancams.

Of course, it wasn’t to see himself perform again. He already did that on a regular basis to make sure he kept himself up to the standards of an idol.

It was to see your captions.

Your fanatic raving made him feel . . . loved.

Your previous thoughts on his performances made him feel complete. Like he found a missing piece of a puzzle he kept trying to put something else to fill it in.

Another part of his hiatus was spent preparing for his graduation. The termination of his contract.

It was clear you didn’t love him as an idol anymore. It was his fault really. He couldn’t see how he was hurting you with his work and desires.

If there was another thing he can thank his idol work for was the amount of money he had saved.

Now, he had a new home built far away from civilization. It was completely soundproof. The bed he ordered was custom made, tailored to your preferences this time rather than his. Food stocked to the nines. A few instruments here and there so he could compose even while retired.

He can always make a new song, a new life for you two to enjoy together.

“My voice, my body, my soul. It had always been yours. I just didn’t realize it.”

✧ [AUTHOR’S NOTE]:

For more EVE content check out the #hns.eve tag 🩵

Lyrics are a mix of translations from the og song and Mitch Joseph’s cover.

OFFICIAL EVE CHARACTER AI

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2024

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere x you #yandere imagine #yandere fic #yandere oc x reader #yandere core #yancore #yandere male x reader #yandere boy x readere #yandere drabble #yandere writing #yandere scenario #yandere headcannons #yandere idol #yandere singer #yandere self insert #yandere x darling

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kurogane2512 · 1 month

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Haloo, Can I get a ninety nine x FEM reader(chief) from ptn? The plot It's like ninety nine found out that some of the sinners are doing seggs with chief and somehow she was curious what chief's face would look like and how she mø@ns so she decided to sneak out of her cell one night and went to chief's office

This was funny and hot to write at the same time and I was confused whether to make it NSFW or not. Also, 99 deserves more content too man I want to see her in lighthearted events and how she's doing after her interro

18+ CONTENT

Game: Path to Nowhere

Characters: Ninety-Nine x fem!reader (Chief)

Type: Smut with plot

The MBCC Cafeteria was buzzing with noise and activity as it was time for dinner, the Sinners assembled and took their seats after a tiring training regime and were already pleasantly digging in their food. Ninety-Nine was seated with Hella and silently ate her portion while Hella chatted away with EMP and others, that's when Ninety-Nine overheard some Sinners on the table beside her talk about a strange topic.

"Hey, who's going to accompany Chief tonight? Yesterday the Countess went, right?" it was Bai Yi who spoke.

"I believe it's your turn tonight, Ms Bai Yi. Unless you are interested to switch?~" a red-haired woman spoke, Ninety-Nine remembered her name was Cabernet.

"Hey, don't take my chance so easily! I have been waiting for so long~"

"So have we all, Ms Bai Yi. Chief had been busy for weeks and we had to stop this.... routine of ours~" the psychologist, Chameleon answered now.

"It was a shame, truly. We should help Chief relax now that she has time again~" Cabernet replied.

Curiosity took over Ninety-Nine as she heard more of the conversation, wondering what this 'routine' was. All of a sudden, Langley walked in near that table and sat down.

"Apologies, Bai Yi. But you'll have to give Chief to me tonight, I have important work to discuss." Langley said.

"That's not fair! I demand compensation for this!" Bai Yi roused, making Langley smirk.

"Oh, don't worry. You'll be given your due rewards~"

Bai Yi hummed in annoyance and accepted the deal. Now Ninety-Nine was even more curious, what was this routine that even Langley, the leader of the 9th Agency, was involved in? After dinner, Ninety-Nine discreetly made her way to your office and as expected, she found Langley inside. She couldn't hear nor see much from the glass opening on the door, but the sight in front caught her by surprise. Langley was all over you, roughly kissing you while pinning you on your table followed by pulling you to the couch and straddling you.

Ninety-Nine leaned in and wished to see better, but the couch was too far away from her view now and all she could see was your legs lying on Langley's shoulders while she rocked her body. She could hear faint sounds of moaning and whimpering and she was sure it was your voice. Ninety-Nine didn't know what to do, it felt like a crime standing there and watching this act unfold. Her body moved on its own and she practically ran back to her cell.

"That was.... the Chief does these things with other Sinners here? Has she also tried with Hella... No, that can't be. Hella would never accept, and I know Chief isn't that kind of person either. Not to mention, it looked like that other woman initiated it first. Everyone else also spoke of it as if they enjoyed it a lot...."

Ninety-Nine felt her body become warmer, her temperature rising unusually as the images of you moaning in pleasure ran through her mind. She pictured how your face may look, and she didn't realize how much she wanted to see you that way now. From then on, she regularly snuck to your office at the same hour and watched a different Sinner come in and have their fun.

She was surprised how many Sinners did this with you, and it looked like all of them had a good time for which they kept coming back. Their conversations during dinnertime also became more vivid and clear as they discussed specific actions they did with you, praising and fawning over your adorable reactions and surprising dominant moments. Ninety-Nine couldn't hold back anymore.

This time, she came to your office before anyone else could.

"Chief, do you have a minute?"

The familiar voice surprised you, "Ah, Ninety-Nine? Is everything okay?"

"Yes, I had... a question."

"Oh okay, sure. Ask away."

"What do you do every night with other Sinners?" Ninety-Nine asked with no hesitation at all, you almost choked on your coffee at her directness.

"W-What do you mean I do with other Sinners?!"

"I heard them talk about you at the cafeteria... and I have been watching you for a few days. Since when did you have this arrangement with them?"

Your face flushed at her statements, they talk about you and Ninety Nine has been spying on you? You wanted to hide in a corner now.

"I-I... I just do it for their own good. Some of them have certain... urges, and I fulfill them." you replied while looking away. Ninety-Nine hummed then stepped closer to you and forcefully pinned you to the wall.

"Do it with me too then." Ninety-Nine's statement came out as a command, an order. Her scarlet eyes gazed into your soul with determination, you knew she was absolutely serious.

"W-Wait, why? Are you having some problems in your body? I will have you treated the correct way, you shouldn't do this just because of others...."

"No... it's not that. I have never experienced such things, I don't know how it feels. But when I heard them talk about you, and heard your voice myself... I wanted it more. I wanted to see you in that state and hear you properly."

Your face flushed in embarrassment, was she talking about hearing you moan? You felt you had no choice. You never expected to do this with Ninety-Nine of all people, but somehow you were drawn to her and wanted to see how she is in that state. You finally agreed and like an animal in heat, Ninety-Nine lunged forward to press her lips to yours. Her movements were rough and erratic, she really had no idea what she was doing but she wanted to devour you.

"Wait wait, Ninety-Nine, slow down...!" you tried to speak in between the kiss and Ninety-Nine stopped in confusion.

"Is this not the way? I saw them do this every time before starting."

"N-No, you aren't wrong but you don't have to be so quick. You first have to set the mood a little and take it easy, shall I show you?"

"....Okay."

Ninety-Nine was calm but you could tell she was slightly nervous too, perhaps even intrigued. You smiled at her then guided her by her wrist to the couch and seated her beside yourself. She looked at you and waited for you to move and do something. You looked at her all over and suddenly felt nervous yourself, you had had sex with so many different people with different experiences but somehow initiating things yourself with someone like Ninety-Nine was challenging.

"Chief, what do I need to do?" Ninety-Nine questioned with sincerity, you could tell she really wanted this. You sighed then shifted closer and gently held her shoulders then leaned forward, slowly and steadily kissing her lips. She had the urge to kiss back roughly just like before but she held back and let you guide her. Your lips were soft to touch and pleasant to feel, she didn't realize how much she wanted this warmness more.

You tilted your head and kissed her deeper, swiping your tongue across her lips and on instinct, she parted her mouth slightly and you took the opportunity to go in. You moved your tongue with hers and passionately kissed her, Ninety-Nine was taken aback by the intimacy. Her body temperature rose like never before, it wasn't anger that was fueling her but something completely different.

"....Mmh~" Ninety-Nine moaned when you pulled back from the kiss, slightly panting as you gazed at her.

"H-How was it...?" you asked.

"....Not bad, I can see what you mean."

You smiled then trailed your gaze over her neck and chest, feeling aroused looking at her exposed skin.

"Do we remove our clothes now?"

"Ah, do you want to continue to that....?"

"Of course, that's what I want."

You nodded then slowly moved your arms around her and removed her top to expose her breasts. She did the same to you and removed your shirt, intently gazing at your naked form which made you slightly embarrassed. Her eyes trailed towards your pants and her hands were already on the move to discard them.

"I want to do what they do with you, Chief."

"....Everyone does different things, they all have different desires and way of doing it. You shouldn't want to follow them. Tell me, what do you want, Ninety-Nine?"

Ninety-Nine was at a loss of words for a while as she pondered deeply then finally spoke, "I.... I want to see you and hear you. I don't know how to do that but.... that's what I want."

"Alright then, is there something your body is telling you to do? Some kind of urge you are getting?"

"I...." Ninety-Nine was breathing hard and gazing at you. As if being controlled by her urges, she pounced on you and pushed you down on the couch then straddled your lap.

"This... I want to do this."

You blushed then cupped her face and pulled her down into a passionate kiss once again. Ninety-Nine was more confident now, her tongue moving impatiently to taste you. Her knee dug into your core making you moan into the kiss, and she only wanted to hear that more. She released the kiss and sat up on your lap then brushed her hand across your core, dipping it past your pants and touching your clit.

You softly gasped and squeezed your thighs together but Ninety-Nine was quick to shove them apart followed by taking off your pants and underwear completely. She looked at your throbbing wet core and felt arousal rising in her own body, her eyes intensely gleaming at the sight.

"I know I have to do it here. But tell me how to."

You nodded and she extended her hand towards your folds, slowly and gently rubbing her fingers on them. She was too focused on how her fingers moved, scared to unintentionally hurt you. Your softly moaned at her ministrations, your sounds making her more eager and she looked up to see you being all hot and aroused.

"Hah.... you are doing it right. Just... try moving here now, mhm~" You guided her hand towards your clit and she grasped the bud then lightly squeezed it, earning a whimper from you.

"Ngh~ Yes.... just.... rub and circle it.... aah.... slowly and easily...."

Ninety-Nine nodded and did as you told, circling your clit with her index finger and thumb followed by gently pressing and pulling it. You threw your head back with a moan, and she was determined to go further. She moved her hand towards your vulva and inserted a finger inside, your eyes widening in ecstacy and your body spasming.

"Aaah! Yes... you can put in 2 fingers... N-Ninety Nine...."

Ninety-Nine nodded and inserted another finger, slowly pushing your walls apart and going in until they were completely hilted inside. It was so warm and wet, she thought. Your walls were clenching her fingers and drenching them in your juices. She then attempted to pull them out and earned another whimper from you.

"Y-Yea...thrust them... you are doing right, aaahn!~"

Ninety-Nine quickly sheathed them inside and hit your sensitive spot, your body arching. She looked up to see your face drowned in absolute pleasure, this is what she wanted. She continued the thrusting movement as you said and she would be lying if she said she didn't enjoy this, it was a different feeling inside her and she wanted it more. She gazed at you exposed neck and suddenly leaned down to kiss your collarbone, her fingers not stopping their movements at all.

"Aaah.... I'm cumming.... keep doing this, Ninety-Nine... mhm~"

She licked up your neck and kissed your jaw on complete instincts, she didn't know what compelled her to but she felt like marking you like an animal. She scissored her fingers and hit all the right spots, her thumb even circling your clit now. You wrapped your arms around her and arched up as you released on her palm, a loud and melodic moan ringing in her ear. She pulled out her fingers and saw them covered in your juices while you panted and came down from your orgasm.

"T-There's tissue.... in the drawer.... haah..."

You pointed to the drawer in your table for her to wipe her hand but to your surprise, she licked up all your release from her fingers. The sight was erotic, to say the least. She was lapping them up like a starved dog, and you couldn't help but wonder how she would eat you out if you made her.

"Hmm.... slightly sweet and sticky. I see why that red-haired woman likes doing this so much."

"R-Red haired woman? Does she mean Cabernet?! Just how much has she seen me with others?!" you thought, bewildered.

"Do you.... want to do more?" Ninety-Nine asked.

"....I don't mind. Let me do it to you now." you said with a smile and Ninety-Nine smiled back as well, a rare smile on her face.

#path to nowhere #ninety nine #ptn #ptn x reader #ptn ninety nine #ninety nine x reader #99 x reader #path to nowhere x reader

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justlemmeadoreyou · 8 months

Note

Could you maybe write a fluffy piece, where H is taking care of pregnant reader?

sure, love! here it is!

Baby

boyfriend!harry taking care of pregnant!reader

word count: 731

masterlist || my ask <3 (requests are open!)

. . .

Harry had always wanted to be a father. He dreamed of the day he could take care of his own little family with all the love in his heart.

When he found out that you were pregnant, he couldn't have been more thrilled. He was so grateful that he had been given the chance to be a father and he was determined to be the best one he could be, no matter whatever it took.

He went out of his way to make sure you were taken care of and comfortable. He filled your home with cozy blankets, cushions, and pillows to make sure you were as comfortable as possible. He cooked your meals, ran errands, and even rubbed your feet and back when you were too exhausted, and they got swollen and ached. He made sure you stayed hydrated, and even got up in the middle of the night to get you whatever you were craving.

Whenever you felt down or scared about the pregnancy, H was there to provide emotional support. He was always there to listen and offer words of encouragement and love. He also made sure that she knew she was in good hands, no matter what happened.

He was so excited for the arrival of their little bundle of joy. He couldn't wait to be a father and see the two of you become a family. He was in awe of your strength and courage throughout the entire pregnancy and knew that it was all worth it in the end.

Harry watched you lovingly as you slept peacefully in your bed. He wanted to let you rest, but he couldn't help himself; he wanted to be near you. The thought of you carrying his child filled him with joy and he couldn't help but feel protective of both you and his little bubba inside you.

You were almost 18 weeks in, and the baby had started to show movements. He was so excited to feel the baby kick, so he just couldn’t resist walking over to your sleeping form and rubbing his hands soothingly over your belly.

He rested his head on your stomach, talking to your baby. He was talking slowly, almost whispering, but you were a light sleeper, so you woke up.

“My cutest bubba is inside there, aren’t you. I love you so so much, you have no idea” he said, and you put a hand on his head, to gently massage his scalp. He took so much care of you, not wanting you to feel any strain or stress. He deserved the same love too.

“I just can’t wait to meet the baby. To hold it, and kiss all over its face. To see its little belly and kiss it too, and the little hands and lets, oh my gosh!” his eyes were watery, he just couldn’t believe he had so much love inside him for a baby that hadn’t been born, it almost hurt.

“I know, Harry. I can’t wait to meet our little bean too. Just hold it, and feed it, and take care. To make it wear all those little clothes and massage its little body with the baby oil. I am so in love with our baby.”

“I know, sweetie. I love it too. More than you, I think” you snorted a laugh, and the baby kicked.

“Oh my gosh! Harry!” Both you and Harry had your hands on your belly, so you both felt the beautiful moment.

“The baby kicked!” He got up and hugged you. He put his hands under your waist and picked you up, swirling you around.

“Harry! Harry! Put me down!”

“Yeah! Shit, I’m sorry”

He put you back down on the bed, and you both started to laugh.

“I can’t believe I felt the first kick.”

“Me too. Also, how did you pick me up so easily?”

“Well, I’ve been working out, you know? Lifting those weights”

“Mmm, I definitely need to see you working out one day” you flirted, sliding a hand across his chest.

“Oh really? And what will you do after that?”

“Then, I may have a problem only you can take care of.”

“Come here” he pulled you close, kissing you gently.

. . .

image credit goes to the owner!

taglist:

message me/ dm me/ comment below if you want to be removed/added!!!

@freedomfireflies @gurugirl @thechaoticjoy @styleslover-1994 @gem1712 @ellaorchard @bxbyysstuff @opheliaofficial07 @rafaaoli @tchlamqtsgf @the-mouse27 @indierockgirrlrl @vrittivsanghavi @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite

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shiorimakibawrites · 3 months

Text

Image Credits: kissthemgoodbye.net / Greta Punch (Unsplash) / Stephanie Harvey (Unsplash)

A Tale of Two Men (Part 1 of Cozy Corners)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 6,595 Summary: One week after you open your cafe, you meet two handsome men - defense attorney Matt Murdock and the vigilante Daredevil. Warning(s): Canon-typical violence, description of anxiety and panic attacks, referenced oral sex (f receiving), referenced p in v sex, referenced masturbation, dirty thoughts, female gaze Cozy Corners Masterlist Shiori's Masterlist A03 link Tag List: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer , @danzer8705 Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.

A Tale of Two Men

You couldn’t stop smiling. Owning your own cafe had been the dream of you and your best friend Dora Morales since high school. And now, after years of hard work, it had finally happened. One week ago, you had opened your doors for the first time. You looked around. You and Dora had done everything you could, within the limitations of your lease and budget, to make Cozy Corners to live up to its name. Warm, comfortable, and inviting.

You were especially pleased with the little nook, tucked away from the main bustle of the cafe where people could read and study in relative quiet. You had found some nice chairs in a secondhand store, their brown leather the color of chocolate and butter soft. The little library of reference books and fiction was small but you hoped that over time it would grow. Yes, people were more likely to use the internet to look things up these days but you liked having analog back-ups. Just in case something got broken. Or the city was invaded by aliens. Again.

You found having back-up plans helped calm your nerves, made the anxiety gremlin in your head less loud. You were a big fan of keeping that gremlin quiet. You didn’t like it when the gremlin got loud. It was mean.

Hearing the bell on the front door chime, you looked up to greet your new customer. And immediately felt your stomach fill with butterflies. Because one of the most beautiful men you had ever laid eyes on had just walked into your cafe. Dark brown – no, dark auburn, you could see the glint of red in the sunlight – hair that looked like it would be very enjoyable to run your fingers through, excellent bone structure, and a mouth practically begging to be kissed. Round sunglasses with dark red lenses hide his eyes from view. Which was unfortunate. Especially if they were just as pretty as the rest of him.

The brown suit he worn, by contrast, did very little to disguise how well-built he was. Which was very, if the strain on buttons of his dress shirt was any indication. He moved an enviable grace as he walked toward the counter, his long white cane sweeping in front of him.

“Good morning, sir,” you said. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning,” he replied. His voice was pretty too, nice and deep. The kind you could easily imagine whispering everything from sweet nothings to dirty promises in your ear. The thought made your cheeks warm and your heart beat at little faster.

His lips twitched into something like a smirk before he asked, “Do you have a menu in braille?”

You sighed, then said, “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” he repeated, tilting his head to one side.

“I have something in braille. The printing service claims that it’s my menu.”

“I take it that you disagree?”

“I don’t sell a cinematic rainbow muffler.”

“What?”

The sheer disbelief and confusion put into that single ‘what’ had you biting your lip to not laugh. You didn’t want him to think you were joking or making fun of him.

“Cinematic rainbow muffler,” you repeated. “Not something we sell here at Cozy Corners.”

His lips twitched. “I don’t think anyone does. What was it supposed to be?”

“Cinnamon raisin muffin.”

His brow furrowed. “That . . . doesn’t even have the same amount of letters. How did they manage get that?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” you said, shaking your head. “The whole thing is like that.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” you said, pulling out the copy you had left under the counter in case you needed a laugh. Which was about the only thing it was good for. You sat it down in front of him. “It’s at your twelve o’clock if you want to see for yourself.”

Mr. Handsome took you up on that offer. While he read – or rather attempted to read since you knew sections were completely unintelligible – you idly wondered if the dark facial hair dusting his face was the start of a beard or if he just didn’t feel like shaving this morning . . . you had the feeling he would look good either way . . .

Case in point, all that look of utter befuddlement like he didn’t whether to laugh or to be irritated by what he was reading did was make him look adorable. You needed to be careful. This guy was dangerously pretty.

“What is 78554.051?” He asked, looking like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“What?”

“It’s listed as one of the drinks. I think. I assume you don’t serve dribbles.”

“No, sir,” you said, thinking. “My best guess is that someone put the number sign where it didn’t belong.”

Mr. Handsome hummed thoughtfully, re-running his fingers over one section of the menu of nonsense. “Green tea.”

“Now that I do have,” you said. “Speaking of which, would you like to order a drink?”

“I don’t know . . . ,” he said with a teasing grin. “Drinking a coffin sounds dangerous.”

“It does,” you agreed, ignoring the continued presence of the butterflies to go along with the banter. “Does coffee sound better?”

“Infinitely.”

You gave him a quick rundown of the coffee options. He ordered a red eye for himself, which always sounded like a lot of caffeine to you but you didn’t know this man’s life. While he didn’t look tired, maybe he had been working a lot of hours lately and needed the extra oomph. Apparently he didn’t think his coworkers needed extra caffeine as they got a cappuccino and a dirty chai.

“What’s the name?” you asked. Mr. Handsome might be the only customer right now but that could change any minute. It was only a little after nine. Plenty of people might still be heading toward school or work, people who might decide to grab a coffee (and maybe some food) on their way.

“Matt.”

“Matt,” you repeated, both to make sure that you had heard him correctly and because you wanted to say it. If for no other reason so you wouldn’t accidentally call him Mr. Handsome outloud. He nodded in confirmation. “Just coffee this morning?”

He made another thoughtful hum. “I probably shouldn’t have just coffee for breakfast. What’s on offer?”

“We have bagels, muffins, croissants, turnovers, doughnuts, frittatas, and breakfast sandwiches.”

“Hmmm, those all sound great,” he said.

“Take your time,” you said, “Think about it while I make your drinks?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

You turned to start making the coffee. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him flinch a little when the machine started grinding the beans. Which you couldn’t really blame him for. It wasn’t a nice sound. Easily one of your least favorite. But Dora, who was a coffee aficionado, might actually kill you if you even thought about using anything other than freshly ground coffee for espresso.

She had explained why it mattered. And demonstrated how changing how fine the grind was effected the drink. But that didn’t make the noise any less unpleasant. Which was probably why she hadn’t been able to talk you into freshly grinding your coffee at home. Not yet anyway. You were getting worn down on the issue. Agreeing would at least mean she would stop giving you that look of actual pain everytime she saw your can of already-ground coffee.

Pulling the shot part of the espresso was a lot more pleasant on the ears. With the added bonus of putting out that nice fresh coffee smell. You poured the shot into the waiting to-go cup of the house brew. You knew some places poured the hot coffee into the espresso but Dora thought that method disturbed the crèma too much.

You were pouring in the frothed milk with the chai concentrate into the double-shot of espresso for his coworkers’ dirty chai when Matt spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did but you can ask another one,” you said, feeling a little bold from his earlier friendliness, as you put the finished drink into the carrier alongside it’s companions.

He chuckled. “Left myself wide open for that one . . . Are you the owner?”

“Co-owner with my best friend, Dora,” you answered, tapping the used grounds into the knock box.

“Dora and who?” Matt asked with a charming smile. You felt your heart sped up. Something about smiling transformed his already handsome face into something breathtakingly beautiful. You had no resistant to something like that. You told him your name.

“That’s a pretty name.”

“And that was a line,” you said. One that you had heard numerous times. Through never from someone this good looking.

“It can be,” he acknowledged before subtly shifting his posture. He hadn’t been slouching before but there had been a relaxed air to the way he carried himself. Now he was standing there, straight-backed and shoulders square, his hands resting on the white cane held upright between his feet like it was some medieval courtiers’ staff of office. He had a presence. One that you suddenly realized had been there all along. It was just front and center now.

When he spoke again, there had also been a subtle shift to his voice. Easy self-assurance had been replaced with rock-solid confidence and conviction. Not thundering like an angry priest, just the calm, even voice of someone who knows they are correct, that the facts were on their side.

“Does that phrase being used as a pick-up line mean that a name cannot be pretty?”

“No,” you said. “A name can still be pretty.”

“Generally speaking, is your name one of the pretty ones?”

“Yes?” you said slowly. Why did you feel like you had just walked into a trap? Maybe it was that little edge of sharpness to his smile? . . . .

“Well, if names can be pretty and your name is one of those pretty names, then you have a pretty name.”

“I suppose,” you conceded. It was hard to argue with that logic. Especially when you didn’t actually want to argue that your name was ugly. You liked your name. And it was nice to hear something about you called pretty. Even if it was just your name.

“A pretty name for a beautiful girl.”

Warmth spread across your cheeks. That smile should be illegal. As for the words . . . he probably didn’t mean them. He was obviously something of a flirt. Regardless . . . it was still nice to hear. Still made your heart flutter.

“And that was absolutely a line,” you said, fidgeting with the ties on your apron. “Flattery is not going get you a free muffin.”

“It’s not flattery if it is true,” he said. Which did nothing to lessen the warmth in your face. “And since muffins are off the table, what about the doughnuts? Or the turnovers?”

You laughed. “Sorry. As much as I would like to give out free coffee and food, unfortunately there are all these places that expect me to pay them with money.”

“Instead of an excellent pie, like a sensible person?”

“Exactly,” you said, once again finding yourself drawn into the banter in spite of your nerves. You knew one thing for certain about Matt – he was definitely charming.

He nodded solemnly, like this was a serious conversation. “I’ve encountered the same problem with my small business.”

“You did?” you said. Then, feeling genuinely curious, you asked him, “What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer who wants to get paid in pie?” you said, feeling a little skeptical. Didn’t lawyers usually work in big offices that paid them big money? Granted your experience with lawyers was largely limited to baby-faced ones who were grabbing coffee for the office or law students who looked like they had forgotten what sleep was . . .

“I like pie,” he said mildly. “But, as you said, since so many people want money instead of pie, my partner insists that’s what we charge for our services.”

“That’s a shame,” you said.

“It is,” Matt agreed solemnly. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “What to know a secret? If you ever need to bribe Foggy, try bagels. He can resist pie but never a good bagel.”

“Duly noted,” you said. “I assume Foggy is your partner?”

“Yep,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law.”

“Nelson?” you repeated. “Any relation to Nelson’s Meats?”

You expected the answer to be no. This was New York City, after all, not a small town. But, to your surprise, Matt nodded and said, “Yes, it’s his family’s butcher shop. How do you know Nelson’s?”

“We buy the meat for the cafe from them,” you explained as you placed the to-go carrier by the cash register. “Did you ever reach a verdict on breakfast?”

He chuckled. “Jury is still out, I’m afraid. It all smells so good. Can you give me a recommendation?”

Your heart gave another excited flutter at the compliment as you thought about it. Then, with a little hesitation, said, “Maybe bagels? That way, if I need to bribe your partner, he knows what he’s getting out of the deal?”

“Good idea,” Matt said with a smile. “What favors do you have?”

After being given his options, he opted for a plain for himself and an everything for Foggy. After some further consideration an apple turnover for Karen, the third person at his office. He thought the sweetness of the turnover would compliment the spices of her dirty chai better than a bagel.

Soon the rest of his order was bagged up and paid for. Before he left, he tapped the menu of nonsense with his finger. “Can I have a copy of this? Otherwise I’m pretty sure Foggy will think I’m making it up.”

“Go ahead,” you said. “I’ve got other copies.”

He smiled, then tucked the menu into the bag with the food. He feed his arm through the handles of the bag, then picked up the drinks carrier. Considering his left hand was occupied with his cane . . .

“Would you like me to open the door for you?”

“Please.”

On the downside, Cozy Corners wasn’t very big so that particular journey didn’t take very long. But on the upside, you got to watch him walk down the street, discovering that he had a perfect ass. Because of course he did. You sighed. Why was everything about this man so attractive . . .

“I saw that.”

You jumped with a small shriek and whirled around. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was Dora. How long had she been standing there?

“Saw what?” you demanded, walking back over to the counter.

“So many things,” she said with a knowing grin. “You flirting with Mr. Matthew Murdock, Esquire? Undressing him with your eyes? Checking out his ass? I saw it all.”

Warmth flooded your face. “I wasn’t undressing him with my eyes!”

“Yes, you were,” Dora said with the utter confidence of someone who had known you since you were ten and therefore knew all of your tells.

“Maybe I was,” you muttered as you tidied up the work station. It needed to be done but also gave you an excuse not to see that knowing grin. Which you knew, without even looking, had just gotten bigger.

“And now you are thinking about how loudly he could make you scream.”

“Dora!” You exclaimed, your head whipping around to make sure the cafe was still as empty as it was the last time you looked. It was. “Is this really the time for that? We’re at work!”

“That wasn’t a denial,” she pointed out in a sing-song voice. “I’m betting on very loud.”

“What makes you say that?” you asked, suspicion in your voice. “Did you sleep with him?”

The very thought sparked a little flame of jealousy inside you. Which you hated. You didn’t want feel jealous of your best friend . . .

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I know someone who did. She said Murdock loves eating pussy. That he fucked her better with his tongue than any man ever had with their dick.”

“Dora!” You whined. Because now you were thinking about it. Now you were trying to imagine that handsome face buried between your thighs. It was an appealing image. Very appealing. But one you would rather not have when you could do nothing to quench the heat growing between your legs. “Why are you telling me this?!”

“You’ve been under way too much stress lately. Orgasms are wonderful stress relief.”

“Matt Murdock isn’t a requirement for me to have an orgasm,” you said mulishly. You had hands. And a vibrator. Both had served you well in that department. Often better than men had.

“Perhaps not,” she said, nodding in acknowledgment before flashing you a wicked smile. “But that’s who you are going to imagine fucking you senseless while you flick the bean, isn’t it?”

You were spared from having to answer that question by the arrival of new customers.

&&&

You managed to avoid any further conversation about Matt Murdock and what he could do with his tongue. Or other body parts. You put that down to two things. First, there had been a steady stream of customers to keep you both busy. Most had been simply curious about the new business in the neighborhood or tourists needing a quick break. The latter made you a little nostalgic, remembering your first days in the city and how overwhelmed you had felt. But some of the customers were repeats from earlier visits. Something that you hoped would continue.

Second, while you were still working on hiring, you did have some staff. Staff that had come in around lunch time and were there until final clean-up. It was one thing for Dora to speak so frankly about your sex life (or the lack thereof) when it was just the two of you but in front of others? Others who were your employees? Who likely would be very uncomfortable with that conversation? That was an entirely different kettle of fish. Not one that Dora or you had any desire to partake in.

By the time you were locking up the cafe and setting the alarm, Dora had seemingly forgotten all about Matt Murdock and how you had – allegedly – been undressing him with your eyes. It might only be temporary reprieve. Assuming he didn’t hate the coffee and food, Matt would be back. Despite the certainty of teasing from your best friend, you hoped that he came back.

Not because you thought had any chance with him. You weren’t delusional. Men that good-looking didn’t go for people like you . . . but if he was a regular, you could at least look at him. You’d get to talk to him. Though seeing him with girlfriends was going to suck . . .

“Are you sure that you don’t want me and Steve to walk you home?” Dora asked, looking worried.

“Yes,” you said, looking over at your best friend and her steady boyfriend. He had come to pick her up as usual. “I’m in the opposite direction of you guys.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve said. You knew that he didn’t. He made similar offers since he and Dora had started dating. And never complained or acted annoyed when you accepted the offer. But your apartment was much closer to Cozy Corners than their place, which weren’t even in the Kitchen. The only time you had accepted the offer since the cafe opened was the day before and only because you were dropping off the deposit at the bank. Then, carrying your opening week’s worth of cash, you felt like you had needed some extra security. Steve was a very sweet guy but he was also a tall man with large muscles. Not exactly the easy target that most criminals are looking for.

“I’ll be fine,” you said. “It’s not that late and my place isn’t far.”

“Okay,” Dora said. “If you are sure?”

“I am.”

Mollified by your conviction, Steve and Dora left. You watched them go around the corner before heading off yourself. You walked swiftly. Because rain had been predicted tonight and it was starting to get chilly at night. It wasn’t quite cold yet but brisk enough that you needed a jacket and didn’t fancy getting soaked. You couldn’t afford to get sick right now. Your business was too new . . . and Lady Who Sneezes A Lot wasn’t exactly the second impression you wanted to give Matt.

You might have very few hopes of attracting his interest but that didn’t mean you wanted to completely tank what little chance you had . . . You shook your head. You needed to stop the daydreaming. This wasn’t the time for it. Daredevil was back from wherever he had disappeared to but the vigilante only made things safer, not safe . . .

There was no warning. You were walking, almost home. Then you were grabbed from behind. You screamed as you were dragged toward the gap between two buildings. You dropped the sack holding your dinner and tried to struggle, to resist, but your attacker was too strong for you. You were pulled into the shadows and slammed into the side of a building. It knocked the wind of you.

Heart pounding, you desperately tried to suck in air. To get your breath back. You needed to scream again. Scream in the Kitchen and the Devil came. That was the story. That was the hope. But was one scream enough? You didn’t know. So you had to scream. Scream and pray all those stories were true . . .

You started to scream . . . then agony exploded on the left side of your face, transforming that scream into a cry of pain. Everything from your cheek down to your jaw immediately began to throb. It hurt. Worse than the time your sister Alex had accidentally given you a black eye with a softball. The bruising grip on your shoulder that kept you pinned against the wall barely even registered.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man ordered in a low hiss. “Make another sound and I’ll slit your throat.”

Tears were blurring your vision but you could see the knife he was brandishing. It wasn’t a small pocket knife. It was a chef’s knife. Like the one you had at home and at the cafe. And it was stained with something. You bit down hard on your bottom lip to stop a terrified whimper. It was too dark for you to tell with what but you feared that it was blood.

Apparently satisfied that you were too frightened to be anything but compliant, the man released your shoulder.

“Purse,” the man demanded. “Watch. Jewelry.”

Trembling, you removed your crossbody bag and held it out. It was taken and slung onto his shoulder. You ignore the watch directive since you weren’t wearing one. It was when you tried to remove your jewelry that things went wrong. The only piece of jewelry that you were wearing, a necklace, had a very delicate chain with a tiny clasp. Your hands were shaking too much for you to get a good grip on the lobster clasp, let alone open it and slip out the ring. The chain wasn’t big enough to pull the whole necklace over your head. Every time, the clasp slipped out of your fingers, your panic grew. Which only made the trembling worse.

It didn’t take long for the mugger to lose patience. His hand darted out and grabbed the necklace. He yanked hard, snapping the chain. More tears filled your eyes. It was bad enough that he was stealing your favorite necklace. Did he have to break it too? Then, to your horror, he raised the knife. You screamed, instinctively throwing up your arms to try to protect yourself. Your eyes squeezed shut, bracing yourself for the pain that you knew was coming.

Except it never came.

What came was a growl, low and furious. It was accompanied by the sound of something flying through the air. You heard a pained yelp and something metal clattering to the ground. You cautiously opened your eyes just in time to see someone put himself between you and the mugger.

Someone dressed entirely in black, save for the thick white ropes tied around his forearms and hands. Someone wearing a mask. Daredevil, you realized with a dizzying sense of relief. It might not be the more distinctive red outfit and its horned helmet but you were sure it was him . . . the stories were true. Scream in Hell’s Kitchen and the Devil will come to save you.

“You made a big mistake,” Daredevil snarled at the mugger, each word dripping with fury and utter contempt. “By not fleeing when you had the chance.”

Then he threw himself at the man.

Your legs turned to liquid. You fell back against the wall and slide down. You didn’t care the street was getting your pants dirty. You had to sit. While your legs were uninterested in supporting your weight, you could pull them up and wrap your arms around them. So you did. It was almost like a hug and you could use one right now.

You couldn’t stop shaking. The sound of breaking bones, meaty thwacks, and a man’s screams were oddly distant. Like you were listening to something through a well instead something happening just a few feet away. Scent, however, was viscerally and intensely present. Acrid car exhaust, rotting garbage, coopery blood, sweet peaches, and sour sweat filled your nose. You gagged, then tried to breathe through your mouth to lessen the nauseating combination. But you couldn’t get your throat to work . . . you couldn’t get enough air . . . your vision darkened . . . . you couldn’t breathe . . .

You weren’t sure which penetrated past the panic first – the hands massaging your shoulders or the deep voice speaking. But once it did, you were suddenly aware of both. You almost couldn’t believe your own eyes and ears. Was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen really kneeling in front of your huddled body? Were those gloved hands gently gripped your shoulders, really the same ones that had just literally beaten a man bloody?

“You’re safe, it’s okay . . .”

The soft, quiet voice was completely at odds with his grim reputation. It also sounded a little familiar but you were too exhausted to try remembering where you had heard it. It had been a long day and panic attacks always took a lot out of you.

You weren’t so tired that you missed that the Devil was a good-looking man. And not just in the face. Those grainy surveillance photos in the newspaper hadn’t conveyed just how tight his clothing was. Which was very tight. His shirt, for example, was practically painted on. You could see his muscles. His many, many muscles. He had clearly hit the muscle store during a clearance sale . . .

The thought made you giggle. It sounded more like a wheeze and more than a little hysterical but still a giggle. But you needed a laugh. You were alive. You had been sure that you were about to die. That you were going to be stabbed to death in a robbery gone bad . . . you started to tremble again, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather . . . you could have died . . . your bottom lip quivered . . .

Hands squeezed your shoulders, “Hey, hey, look at me.”

That didn’t sound too hard. Only half of his face was visible but what you could see was mighty fine.

A deep chuckle. “Thanks for the compliment.”

‘Note to self – abject terror followed by panic attack completely dissolves your brain-to-mouth filter. Shut up before you ask if it is actually possible to bounce a quarter off of his abs.’

Another deep chuckle alerted you that you might have also said that outloud. A theory confirmed by his statement, “I’ve never tried. Can you do something for me?”

Warmth filled your cheeks as you nodded. He smiled at you. It was a nice smile. “Follow my lead? Deep breathe in . . .”

You mimicked the inhale, the short hold, then slow release out.

“Good! Now again . . .”

It seemed like forever but eventually you felt calm. Or at least not like you were about to have another panic attack. That was good. Panicking was exhausting. Daredevil seemed to agree with your self-assessment as he had stopped instructing you to take deep breathes. After one more reassuring squeeze, his hands slid off of your shoulders. He sat back on his heels.

“Feeling better now?” he asked, his voice returning to what you assumed was his Daredevil speaking voice – low, deep, with a growling rasp. It was possible he sounded like this all the time. It wasn’t like you had ever meet him outside the mask. Well, as far you knew. You supposed that you could have but how would you know . . .

“Yes,” you said, when you remembered that you had been asked a question. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not from a certain point of view. You were feeling better now that you were no longer teetering on the edge of a second panic attack in a short space of time. You knew this calm, almost numb, feeling was fragile. It would shatter instantly if pressed too hard. But that was the best you could hope for right now. Feeling any better than this would require things that weren’t here – like your most comfortable clothes and your pets – along with time.

Daredevil frowned, tilting his head slightly to one side. It was hard to interpret the expression on his face since you couldn’t see most of it. But it seemed like he was staring at you (through how he saw anything through that mask was a mystery) as if you were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Or maybe he was simply skeptical. That was possible. You had seen how you looked after panic attacks. In his shoes, you wouldn’t believe you about being fine either.

“I’m as fine as I’m going to get tonight,” you amended.

That answer, at least, was deemed plausible to him. He nodded, then pulled something about the little pouch attached to his belt. A cellphone. Who was he calling? Since you had no energy for guessing games, you simply asked.

“The police,” he said.

Well that was your cue to get out of here. You couldn’t think of something you would rather deal with less right now. Your usual post-panic attack headache was already growing – no need to kick it into migraine territory with sirens and flashing lights. You shifted onto your knees so you could get to your feet.

“What are you doing?” Daredevil asked.

“Going home.”

“Home? Shouldn’t you be going to the hospital?”

Amazing, he had found something worse than the police. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t wanna.”

His lips twitched. “You don’t wanna?”

“What are you, a parrot?” you demanded, feeling your temper flare. If you had been less tired or not in pain, that question would have playful. But you were tired and hurting so that question was grouchy. So was the rest of your statement. “Yes, I don’t wanna. No, I don’t care that is whinny. I’ve had a shitty night! I’ll whine if I want to!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, spitfire. No hospital.”

As the anger drained, you felt a swell of guilt for yelling at him after he just saved your life. This was why you did your best to avoid people when your social batteries were running too low to manage basic human interaction. It seemed like you always ended up biting someone’s head off for no good reason.

“I’m sorry,” you said, shifting back onto your bottom. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead against your knees. You didn’t care that your pants were dirty. You needed to hide. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just too tired to be peopling right now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”

You cracked up an eye and turned your face to peer at him with that one eye. Again, it was almost impossible to get a read on his expression but he didn’t seem bothered. And vigilante like him probably did know a thing or too about having a temper. Suddenly feeling curious, you asked, “How good does it feel to punch crime in the face?”

A wolfish smirk spread across his face before he answered, “Sometimes very good. Why?”

You shrugged, “Don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for a career change. Punching bad guys sounds more fun than getting punched by bad guys.”

You got the impression he was giving you a very stern look from behind that mask. That mouth pressed together in a thin line was all disapproval. “How about you leave the punching bad guys to me and I’ll leave the baking to you?”

“How did you know I’m a baker?” you asked. Then felt a little stupid for asking. You were still wearing your chef’s jacket and an apron. It was pretty obvious that you worked with food . . .

“You smell like flour, yeast, butter, sugar, and spices which all says baker to me,” he said. “Through you also smell like peaches. The fruit, not the flowers.”

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you were expecting. You also hadn’t realized that the scent of your peach beauty products were that strong. They smelled pretty light to you. But before you could think of a response to that, Daredevil rose to his feet. Which gave you a nice look at his legs which like his torso and arms was muscles for days barely contained by tight clothes. The black trousers weren’t quite as painted on as the shirt but they were snug enough. The naughtier parts of your mind wondered what it would be like to ride him, feeling those powerful thighs under you as he thrust up . . .

“Spitfire?”

Embarrassed warmth flood your face. While you were distracted, Daredevil had held out his hands and obviously asked if you wanted help standing. More than once if that amused smirk was any indication. You put your hands into his before you could embarrass yourself any further. A goal immediately challenged by watching the muscles in his arms flex as he helped pull you up onto your feet without a hint of strain. Because damn if that wasn’t hot . . .

Thankfully this time you managed not to become so distracted by the sexy vigilante that you just stood like there drooling like an idiot. You slide your hands out of his and then, to prevent yourself from staring at all those muscles (again), started looking for your crossbody bag. You hoped that the mugger had dropped it during the fight with Daredevil. Because as much as you wanted and needed your things back, you also would rather not get any closer to that man than you had to.

It didn’t matter that mugger was (probably) unconscious and (very probably) too beaten up to be a threat anymore. Not to anxiety brain. Anxiety brain was seldom appeased by such frivolities as fact and logic. So when you spied the large, still shape on the ground, your heart started racing again.

“Don’t worry about him.”

You looked over at Daredevil. He wasn’t even looking in the same direction that you were but still seemed to know what you were looking at. Almost like he read your mind . . . could he read your minds? God, you hoped not . . .

“I promise he’s not going anywhere soon,” Daredevil continued, his earlier rage coloring his voice a little. Part of you wanted to know what the mugger had done to make him so angry but most of you decided that you were better off not knowing. Your brain did not need help coming up with nightmares.

Feeling reassured by Daredevil’s confidence (and the knowledge that he was still between you and the mugger), you looked for your bag again . . . there it was. It was closer than you expected. You started to move closer but your foot encountered something. Something metal judging by the sound against the concrete. You looked, hoping it wasn’t the knife.

It wasn’t . . . too small . . . you knelt down and discovered your necklace. You picked it up, glad that you wouldn’t have to try to find something so small in such poor lighting or run the risk of it being gone by morning. Which it probably would have been. Aside from the broken chain, you hoped the rest of it was undamaged. You ran your thumb across the surface . . . it didn’t feel like any of stones had gotten chipped or cracked . . . the engraving could still be read . . .

“What are you doing?”

You jumped a little at the voice before remembering Daredevil. You were surprised he was still here. Weren’t there other damsels in distress he needed to be rescuing?

“Not at the moment.”

Either you were still saying things outloud without realizing it or Daredevil could absolutely read minds. You decided to believe the former because the latter was too mortifying to contemplate.

“Checking my favorite necklace,” you said as you darted forward and grabbed your bag. “Doesn’t feel like anything but the chain got broken.”

He nodded. “Ice those bruises when you get home – ten minutes on, twenty off. And try to keep your head elevated. After two days, you can use a heat compress.”

“Ice and prop up tonight, heat in a couple days,” you repeated. At his confirming nod, you asked, “Are you a doctor or something?”

“Just familiar with bruises” he said. “Trust me, spitfire, the bad guys often hit back when you’re punching them.”

You nodded, then realized that any further delay was just stalling. But as much as part of you wanted to keep talking – how often did you get a chance to talk to one of the city’s heroes? – the rest of you was still tired, still feeling jittery-numb from the panic attacks, and still hurting. And you had work tomorrow. It was time to call it a night.

“I guess this is good night,” you said, taking one last look at the vigilante. Odds were, the only time you’d see him again was in the newspaper.

“Good night, spitfire,” Daredevil said. Maybe it was projection but his smile looked a little sad. Like he also knew this was probably the first and only time you would ever see each other.

You paused when you reached the street to pick up your bag of food. It was probably a mess but you were definitely weren’t going to cook when you got home. As you walked away, you faintly heard the low rumble of Daredevil’s voice, presumably talking to the police on that phone.

Notes:

A Tale of Two Men is a reference to A Tale of Two Cities, an 1859 novel by Charles Dickens. I’m thinking about making all of the titles for this series reference book titles.

It occurred to me recently that my Reader characters in the series all are some level of anxious. Probably because I have anxiety and that colors how I perceive the world. Hence the Reader with anxiety.

The alien invasion is a reference to the events of Avengers I. Fair warning that some of the larger events of the MCU will not be depicted same as they were in canon. Accept that this is an alternate universe and move on.

I know Charlie Cox has brown hair but in some lighting for Matt Murdock, his hair does have reddish tint . . . and Matt in the comics is (generally speaking) a redhead so I’ve compromised by making Matt Murdock have dark auburn hair, the kind that looks brown unless the light hits it right and brings out the red.

Reader is sighted but knows how to read braille. The story behind this will be revealed later.

This knowledge is only reason Reader considers the misprinted menu of nonsense to be funny. She would have not find it funny if she found out about the misspellings and such after handing it to customers.

From my understanding, using the hands of a clock is the best way to tell a blind person where something is relative to their position. The menu of nonsense was right in front of Matt so at his 12 o’clock. Directly behind would have been his 6 o’clock, etc.

In braille, the symbols for numbers 1 – 9 and the letters A – I are the same along with J and 0. The number sign is written before tells you those symbols are meant to be read as numbers instead of letters. So 123 instead of ABC. If I have the information right, a second number sign is used to indict the end of the numbers and return to letters.

But all of my knowledge of braille is self-taught so don’t take my words as gospel here.

A red eye is a 12 oz (340 g) cup of drip coffee topped with a single or double shot of espresso.

A cappuccino is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso topped with a very frothy milk. It is slightly stronger than a latte because it has less milk.

A dirty chai latte is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso, then a chai concentrate is poured into the milk which is frothed. Finally the milk and espresso are combined.

Crèma is a dense layer of foam that forms the top of an espresso shot and is a unique characteristic to the brewing method (forcing very hot water under pressure through finely ground compacted coffee).

At least in this fic, Matt Murdock is a proud member of The Pie Appreciation Society. The Society ranks include its long serving president Dean Winchester.

How much a lawyer makes a year depends on where they work and what kind of law they practice. People who work in public sector offices like a public defender or a state prosecutor generally make a comfortable living but they are never going to get wealthy doing that job. There are some lawyers who charge six figures or more per billable hour but those seem to be litigators and they aren’t as common as the associates who charge something less crazy (through probably still an eye-watering amount of money to some).

It’s Nelson & Murdock because (1) this takes place not too longer after the 3rd Season so they are still working out of the back of Nelson’s Meats and (2) New York law prohibits the formation of the Law Firm of Nelson, Murdock, and Page unless all three are attorneys. So if Karen wants her name on the sign, she has a law degree to earn and a bar exam to pass. Which she just might do in this universe.

The white cane is held in one’s dominant hand. I picked the left hand for Matt as another nod to his comic book counterpart who is (again usually) left-handed.

Esquire is an honorific title that is only used in the United States for lawyers for . . . reasons. No one seems to know why.

‘Flick the bean’ is a euphemism for female masturbation.

A chef's knife is a knife about 8 inches (20 cm) long used for chopping, slicing, and dicing meat and vegetables. Unless you have something like a meat cleaver, it is probably the biggest knife in your kitchen.

The favorite necklace is part of some story elements so this is not a generic favorite necklace but a specific favorite necklace. But if you want to mentally change the specific elements of its later description to better suit yourself, go right ahead.

A lobster clasp is the one that looks a like a lobster claw.

Matt is in the Black Suit since he has yet to replace the Red Suit – the old one being too damaged by the Midland Circle and only other one in existence was worn by the impostor who murdered people. A version of the Red Suit will eventually appear (since as hot as the black suit is, the guy without a healing factor needs body armor) but I’m still working out how.

The description of the panic attack (shortness of breath, sensory overload, etc) along with its aftereffects (exhaustion, mood swings, etc) are based on my experiences.

Spitfire is nickname for someone with a temper, possibly referencing the WW2 plane.

The treatment for bruises comes from internet so grains of salt are advised.

A chef's jacket is a double-breasted jacket with mandarin collar commonly worn by chefs and bakers, traditionally made from thick, white cotton cloth but can be made in different colors these days. The thickness of the jacket is meant to help protect the chef or baker from heat, steam, and splashing liquids in a busy kitchen. Frequently the jacket has long sleeves to help protect arms while reaching into the ovens.

#daredevil #fan fic #fan fiction #cozy corners #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #tw anxiety #tw panic attack #ao3 link

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everythingdenied · 1 year

Text

baby fever-matty healy

a/n: just a short one that's been sitting in my notes app for months today besties :) got so much non tumblr related work today so this is the best i can do. my apologies if it makes zero sense el oh el mwah x warnings: mentions of pregnancy/babies etc, literally the faintest mention of weed?? other than that its just a happy liccle fluff wc: 1,029

"What'd you reckon babies even think about?" Matty hummed, sat cross legged on our living room floor, his back pressed up against the sofa as he watched the tiny human in front of him with fascination.

Cocking a brow, I looked up from my spot on the couch, fingers curling around the warm cup of tea in my hands.

"What do you mean?" I snorted, amused by his question.

"Well, they're always giggling, aren't they? Must be thinkin' about something dead funny if they're laughing that much."

"Babies laugh at everything, Matty. It's just cause they're...I dunno...it's just cause they're babies."

"That's a shit answer" He tutted, unsatisfied, and turned back to look at my niece. The baby babbled to herself, a toothless grin on her face as she stared, seemingly just as intrigued by my boyfriend as he was with her. Matty chuckled warmly, leaning forward, chin resting in his hands. "C'mon, love. you can tell us what's so funny. Promise I won't tell."

He held his pinky out to emphasis his 'promise' but Ella, being barely six months old, hadn't a clue what this meant, instead latching onto Matty's finger with a chubby little hand. I watched on with an affectionate role of my eyes, taking a sip of my tea.

I was honestly pleasantly surprised with how easily Matty had taken to my niece. When my sister had asked the two of us to babysit her for the afternoon whilst she and her partner went out for the afternoon, the first little bit of alone time they'd managed to get since El's birth, I'd been fairly sure my boyfriend would do nothing but whine and protest the whole day. More than used to his constant cynicism about everything, not excluding children, it felt strange to see him so enamoured with the little person crawling haphazardly around our front room; half expecting today to be a running commentary on how he simply 'couldn't stand' kids.

"She's quite cute, isn't she?" Matty mused wistfully, lifting the pudgy baby into his lap, and I couldn't help the grin that painted my lips. He glanced over his shoulder at me, eyes narrowing in confusion. "What?"

"I thought you hated kids" I teased, shifting on the sofa.

"Never said that."

"You have. Many times." He pouted, looking down at Ella, who had now become preoccupied with Matty's hair, tugging lightly on a stray curl that had fallen over his eyes.

"Well...I didn't mean I hated 'em. I just-they're just a bit stupid sometimes, aren't they?"

"Bit like you then" I quipped playfully and he wrinkled his nose, breathing out a sarcastic laugh.

"Twat" He retorted and I gasped, reaching down to lightly slap his shoulder, earning a characteristically dramatic 'ow' from my partner, a man oftentimes more childish than the six month old currently residing in his lap.

"Stop swearing. I'm not returning her to my sister with that as her first word." Matty bit back a smirk but still murmured an apology, carefully cupping Ella's face in his hands as he begged her not to repeat what he'd just said, barely holding in his laughter. The little girl understood nothing but still seemed to hang on to Matt's every word, his voice drawing out her sweetest smile, seeped in purity.

It was a tender sight, oozing with a domesticity I'd never seen before in Matty and I couldn't help but snap a quick photo on my phone, smiling down at the image.

Later that evening, hours after my sister had come to collect Ella, I found myself crawling into bed with Matty, smiling to myself as I clambered beneath the duvet, laying my head on his bare chest. His arms enveloped me as if on instinct, pulling me closer to his warmth as I pressed a kiss to his sternum.

He mewled softly when I nuzzled into him, fingertips tracing up and down my arm, the faint smell of weed and toothpaste blanketing the air around he and I. There was a comfortable silence, the two of us basking in the peace and quiet for a moment, albeit I could tell Matty's head was anything but, marked by his incessant fidgeting.

"You okay?" I murmured, brows knitting together. Matty only hummed in response, saying nothing as he nestled his face into my hair, breathing in deeply.

"Do you think I'd be a good dad?" he cut through the silence abruptly, his words practically unintelligible, muffled by my hair and whispered lowly as if he didn't quite want me to hear them.

"Hmm?" I glanced up at him.

"Do you...I mean, would I, I dunno, be alright, y'know, if we ever ended up having a kid?" I smiled earnestly at Matty, my hand splaying out atop the tattoo on his chest, feeling his pulse quicken against my palm. "Not that i'm saying we should have a kid now or anyth-"

"I think you'd be an amazing dad" I cut him off, craning my neck a little so that my lips met his in an act of comfort. We'd talk about this before, obviously, the whole 'baby' situation, but never seriously. I'd almost always instigated the conversation and, more often than not, Matty had brushed it off, mature enough to recognise that he probably wasn't quite ready for a baby. He still wasn't, nor was I, but I knew that having Ella around had changed something in him. "It'd be difficult with the band and stuff but, you'd love that kid more than anything. I mean, if you treat it even half as well as you treat me...well, it'd be lucky to have you."

"You mean that? You're not just saying it so i'll shut up and go to sleep?" I chuckled and shook my head, kissing him once more.

"I mean it" His eyelids fluttered contentedly. "Now's not the time...you've gotta focus on the boys. But one day...one day you'll make the best dad in the world." I punctuated my words with a peck. "Promise."

Matty smiled lazily, the pads of his thumbs drawing mindless shapes against my arms.

"Good, 'cause I quite fancy being called a dilf on twitter."

#matty healy fanfic #matty healy x reader

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rinrinx2 · 1 year

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hellooooo. i just stumbled upon your account and gosh, i love it soooo much. i love your writing and works especially the one rindou with his son <33

i was just wondering if i could request rindou with pregnant reader that is so insecure because of changes that happen to her body?? (for example she gain weight and has stretch marks). and rindou comforts and reassure her that she's the prettiest and the only girl that he loves. she often thinks that rindou will leave her bcuz she is 'not pretty and attractive' anymore. and she easily get jealous of other girls if rindou *unintentionally* looks at them when the reader and rindou are going out having their date.

i hope this isn't too hard or complicated. also i'm sorry for my bad english. i hope you have a nice day (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)❤️

Babe never apologize for your English mine is worst and I hope you enjoy this!

Eight months

Rindou x fem!reader

Warnings: pregnancy, body image

When you had told people you were pregnant in your first trimester you were met with comments of how the further your pregnancy progressed the more you would glow. How having another life forming inside you would cause you outer appearance to become more radiant.

Goddess like was the term majority used.

But now you were currently 8 months pregnancy and all you wished is that you could tell these things that they should not have been selling you fake fantasies.

As now you stood infront of you full body mirror in nothing but your underwear. Taking in your body, looking at every stretch, scar and discolored body part.

'I'm so hideous' your mind kept on repeating.

As you criticized yourself over and over, as the woman your eyes saw in the mirror was not the one you were 8 months ago. It was no wonder that when you went out with Rindou that he would look at other women. They weren't as massive as you, they weren't covered in stretch marks, their ankles weren't swollen and they didn't waddle when they walked.

You couldn't stand the sight before you, it was just a reminder of how much your body was unrecognizable to you, and you were sure Rindou felt them same. If you found out that Rindou was seeing another woman behind your back you wouldn't be surprised; any man would choose be with anyone over a woman the size of watermelon.

You were so deep in your dark thoughts of self loathing as you quietly spoke to yourself that you hadn't heard you husband walk into your bedroom.

"You whispering spells there to yourself" Rindou joked hearing as you were muttering to yourself.

The comment Rindou made was light hearted and by the laughter when he finished spoke you knew he was only joking but your mind told you that he wished for you to cast a spell to make you appear better.

Silenced over came the bedroom as your mind delved deeper into your hateful thoughts, until Rindou spoke again.

"You shouldn't be standing in front of the mirror like that"

"Why because I'm hideous, I know Rindou you don't have to tell me" you snapped back finally having enough of your mental warfare that you were not good enough.

"No, because the window is open and others can see you" Rindou replied back with shocked expression and a worried tone.

"Oh because you're embarrassed to have people see me like this, well so am I !"

"No, because other men could see you and you're my wife and I'd rip their eyes out if they ever had the honour to see you that bare" Rindou said still in the same panicking tone.

Your eyes still locked onto your body, as you felt the tears fork on your lashlin from anger.

Rindou remained still on his spot, worried over your erratic reaction to his words. He understood that pregnant women had severe mood swings but he had never seen you so upset.

"What's going on (Y/N)?" Rindou asked as be walked over to where you stood gently wrapping his arms around your waist till his hand rested on your globe of your tummy.

"I'm hideous Rindou, I'm so big and ugly. Its no wonder you look at other girls when we go out, I look like a pregnant ogore. I'm like shrek if he was pregnant" you said tearfully feeling as liquid ran down your cheeks with each word.

Rindou's heart ached at your words he hadn't known that you felt so deeply about your body and he felt even worst for not noticing this.

"Hey don't say that it's not true"

"It is" you said crying harder.

Rindou looked at the reflection of your body in the mirror, taking in every stretch mark, scar and discolouration on your body. How the curves of your body were much more softer and plumber, how you body flowed like a winding river, like a Goddess.

"(Y/N) your body is beautiful" Rindou said as he continued to stare at your reflection.

"You're only saying that to make me feel better" you babbled out through sobs.

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better. Your body is truly beautiful. Your body is like a temple and it's devoted slave. Not only is your body keeping you alive but our child, everything your body is doing now it to make sure that our baby is safe and healthy and that beautiful and what makes it even more beautiful is that you're still able to do everything you did when you weren't carrying this growing life"

"Those stretch marks show how our child has been growing, and your swollen ankles how strenuous you have been. This beautiful bump I'm touching is where out baby is, and it's in you. You don't understand how it feel to know that the woman I love is carrying our baby, that her body is carrying so much joy awaiting the world" Rindou said as he began to caress your bump, while the tears on your cheeks began to dry.

"(Y/N) I can't explain it but your body is just as beautiful as it was when you weren't pregnant. You know my words are true because we've been doing it every night thrice when you aren't tired" Rindou said with a chuckle, as heat rose to your cheeks at his remark.

"And about me looking at other women (Y/N)" Rindou said as he let go of your waist to quickly walk over to his bedside table dresser reaching into one of the draws.

"I'm not looking at the women (Y/N)" Rindou said as he walked back over to holding a box in his hand.

"Here" Rindou said placing the box in your hand as you opened it to reveal a beautiful gold bracelet, with yours and Rindou's initial engraved into it.

"I'm never looking at the women, I'm looking at their jewelry so that I can get you something similar" Rindou admitted as he scratched the back of his head.

"I didn't want you to know because I want you to think that I have a sense of style" he said rolling his eyes, while yours became bigger with admiration.

You looked at Rindou, with the biggest smile on your face.

"I never doubted you for a moment Rin" you said as you wrapped arms around his shoulder giving embracing him in a hug.

"Weren't you now just mad at me" Rindou replied.

"Shh don't ruin the moment"

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crowfeatherquill · 8 months

Text

Slavish Devotion

The fight to escape Creche Y’llek was grueling. This is undeniable. A drawn-out and anxious affair, taken a single room at a time and scouring constantly for healing draughts, and even still, some of them cling to life by fraying threads -- Astarion most of all.

Somehow, though, in the face of all this, Tathlyn still thinks the walk back to camp has been worse.

Their course is a delicate balance between their need for rest and their need to press on at a decent pace to make camp before nightfall. Astarion’s body does not radiate heat in the way that living things do where it presses into Tathlyn’s support. This, in itself, is not new -- he’s known about Astarion’s cold flesh since that first night in the woods that feels so far away and further still with every sunrise -- but it reminds him of carrying a corpse in a way he can’t quite stomach as easily now. He tries to remind himself that he is not carrying anything. That he is supporting Astarion’s weight while he walks on his own, and that he is still alive, and that he will be fine.

It doesn’t stick.

What does catch in his mind, though -- perhaps more than anything else; perhaps more than it should -- is the fact that for the entire journey, Lae’zel has been silent. At first, he had occupied himself trying to tease any kind of reasoning from her position. He remembers well how it felt under the Matrons’ yoke, and it had seemed, at least on the surface, that Lae’zel was in a similar position. He had dug deep for compassion -- for empathy to give her in the face of her world as she knew it being shaken to its foundations.

But he has only so much to give, and as he has continued to dig, he has found the fertile soil for olive branches waning. Rapidly.

Every hitch in Astarion’s breath as he tries to contain pained sounds he doesn’t want the others to hear adds to the simmering pressure that Tathlyn’s ribs strain desperately to contain. With every step drawn closer to camp, it becomes more and more clear that Lae’zel is not in contemplation. She is not processing what has just happened, nor taking the time to choose her words. She simply has nothing to say.

It makes Tathlyn want to scream his throat bloody.

By the time the flicker of the campfire draws into view, the sun has nearly set and the evening chill is beginning to creep in on them. Tathlyn barely feels it with how hot the fury in his gut has grown. It feels as though it’s taken his entire throat from mouth to stomach in one burning hand and squeezed until he can barely breathe.

He surprises himself with how quiet he is when he speaks.

“Wyll? Take him. Please,” he says, handing Astarion off in a way that has both of them looking at him, confused.

Lae’zel moves to pass them -- as though she means to enter camp; as though nothing that happened today should change how her evening goes -- and if he hadn’t reached the last straw hours ago, that would be enough to break whatever restraint Tathlyn still has left.

Phalar Aluve is in his hand before he really notices he’s drawn it. He rests the point of it feather-light where Lae’zel’s throat meets the underside of her jaw, and she lifts her chin. He knows it is instinct, and stays his hand, but the beast behind his ribs roars at the image of defiance.

“Woah,” Wyll intones, “Tath? Wh-”

“Give me one good reason why I should let you take another step after what you did today,” Tathlyn says in that same soft voice -- the quiet of a predator on the hunt.

Lae’zel does not speak -- only stares at him with a fire in her eyes that he badly wishes to snuff.

“One reason, Lae’zel. That’s all I’m asking for. Give me something. Because I have been wracking my brains trying to figure out how to forgive you for this, and I can’t work it out.”

“Forgive?” Lae’zel spits the word like blasphemy, and Tathlyn can’t hear Wyll’s soft ‘oh no’ over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, “There is nothing to forgive. I acted as bidden by my Queen, as is my honor. To do otherwise would be to disgrace myself, and for what? For the madness of istyk?”

“Listen to yourself!”

The quiet shatters with the force of Tathlyn’s shout. The landscape is not conducive to an echo, but somehow it seems to anyway. What follows after is a moment of breathless silence before he speaks again.

“Do you hear how you sound? Do you hear what you’re saying? We knew -- we have all known from the very beginning that these godsdamned tadpoles can’t be removed. They’re magic. They’ll kill us. It’s one of the first fucking things we learned, and still you kept pushing. Insisting we go find this fucking creche so you could get your precious cure. Your purification.”

By now, the sounds of jogging footsteps are approaching. Karlach and Halsin, summoned by the noise and unsure of the trouble.

“I tried to wait you out,” Tathlyn continues, “I took every opportunity I could to gather more information about them. Followed every offer as deep as it would go without putting myself at mortal risk because I figured maybe if enough people told us in no uncertain terms that they couldn’t be removed, one of them might stick. That you might listen. But it never fucking ended, did it? No, you had to keep prying and needling until it came down to threats and even then I mustered grace to give you.”

Lae’zel opens her mouth, surely to voice her objection to the idea that anyone need ever give her grace, but Tathlyn is far from finished. He moves the tip of his blade just-so. Lae’zel’s teeth click together when her mouth closes.

Karlach and Halsin have reached the unseen edge of the confrontation, standing level with Wyll -- who is looking to Karlach with something like desperation -- and Astarion, who cannot seem to take his eyes off Tathlyn. Tathlyn is blinded to anything but Lae’zel standing before him.

“If I had let you wander off into the Cursed Lands on your own, you’d have died. Much as you try to act like you’re invincible, I know you know that. And you knew I’d never let that happen -- that if you insisted you’d go with or without me, I’d be forced to follow. And so I did. Because I thought…maybe if you heard it from your own people, you’d believe them. I so badly wanted to believe that you had it in you to change your mind. To see you were wrong like I did.”

“To betray my Queen and my people as you did, you mean?”

Tathlyn sees red and doesn’t quite realize he’s moved until there’s a hand on him, forcing him backwards, and a voice in his ear.

“Easy, soldier…”

Karlach speaks soft, slow, and even, like coaxing a frightened animal. When Tathlyn can see properly again, there’s a streak of fresh blood running down Lae’zel’s throat, shining and wet over what’s already dried there.

“Say it again,” he snarls, already fighting Karlach’s restraining arm, “If you won’t give me a reason to forgive you, I’d be just as happy with a reason to--”

“Oi!”

Karlach steps fully in front of him, breaking his line of sight on Lae’zel, and Tathlyn realizes just how far his vision had narrowed as he becomes suddenly aware of his periphery again.

“Karlach…” he says her name through bared teeth -- a warning he doesn’t mean to issue -- and she presses into his space until he can feel the heat.

“Step. Off,” she replies, and her words are just as firm as the physical barrier she presents, “This isn’t you.”

If Dammon hadn’t tuned her engine, she’d be searing him with how close she’s standing, but as it is, it’s only enough to make him start to sweat. He stays rooted to the spot as he feels it start to gather at the nape of his neck and between his shoulders. He can’t seem to force himself to move -- some part of him stays locked onto Lae’zel like a bear trap even with Karlach obstructing his view of her.

It’s too much. His better judgement locks horns with the beast in his ribcage, howling for justice that can only be dispensed at the edge of a blade. He wants nothing more than to walk away. He cannot seem to move his legs.

With a guttural shout, he hefts Phalar Aluve and drives it into the dirt. In the same instant, he feels the ground upheave itself beneath him as thick vines burst upward and tangle around his legs and waist. He blinks, confused, and turns just in time to see the glow fading from around Halsin’s hands.

His ears are ringing. He can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Time seems to bend out of shape -- one second stretched out to eternity and obscuring how long they stand there, frozen, before he feels a pressure against his back and a pair of arms twining around his middle, just above where the vines stop.

“Darling…?” Astarion’s voice, quiet and only a breath away from his ear, cuts the fog in his head as cleanly as any knife. “If it’s all the same to you…I think I’d like to go and lie down now.”

Tathlyn nods, stiffly, laying one arm over top of Astarion’s and lacing their fingers.

“Halsin?” His voice comes ragged from his throat. He sounds gutted, even to himself.

The vines retreat, and Tathlyn shifts to let Astarion lean against him once more as they turn toward camp -- bedrolls and a sorely needed rest only paces away.

Lae’zel shouts something at their backs in her native tongue, and Tathlyn hears Karlach’s boots in the dirt and a low reprimand. He’s already too far away to make out the words.

He doesn’t quite realize he’s shaking until they’ve made it to Astarion’s tent. Astarion has almost certainly noticed, but doesn’t comment. He deposits Astarion as gently as he can manage onto the bedroll and finds he can’t bring himself to let go. There is a bone-deep need to feel the rise and fall of Astarion’s breath under his hands. To know he’s safe.

Astarion’s hands find his face -- gently caress his cheeks -- and Tathlyn sinks into the hold.

“You know…as thrilling as all that was, I have to ask,” he probes, “You’re not usually the one to reach for a blade like that. What happened?”

“You happened,” Tathlyn blurts before he really even realizes what he’s saying.

Astarion cocks his head, confused.

“What?”

“You got hurt. Could’ve died. I couldn’t…”

The bemused expression on Astarion’s face intensifies, and Tathlyn’s words catch in his throat. It feels silly. Childish. But there’s something more to it that he can’t quite name.

“Darling, I’ve been hurt plenty of times on any number of these foolish little sidetracks. I didn’t see you threatening Karlach after she almost brought a burning building down on our heads. What’s so different about this?”

The words rise to Tathlyn’s tongue before he’s even fully thought to say them.

“You didn’t trust me then,” he admits, “You’re trusting me now. And I trusted her. I thought…I thought I could trust her to figure it out, but it just kept getting worse and I kept not stopping her, and you could’ve died. And if you had, it would’ve been my fault.”

“Oh.” The single syllable falls breathless from Astarion’s chest. “Oh, sweet thing…”

“Don’t. You don’t have to--”

Astarion passes one thumb over Tathlyn’s lips, silencing him as easily as if he’d cast a spell.

“I rather think I do,” he insists, “You haven’t stopped shaking since we walked away. Tell me what you need, darling.”

Tathlyn reaches up to grab onto Astarion’s hands, still framing his face. He shuts his eyes -- tries to take in every detail of the way those long, delicate fingers feel against his skin.

“C’n I stay?”

“Of course you can, my sweet. As long as you like.”

Tathlyn lingers in Astarion’s hold a moment longer before pulling away and beginning the arduous process of removing his armor. Every twinge of wounds and overworked muscles makes itself known to him over the next few minutes and by the time he’s done, he’s more exhausted than he thought he could still get.

Astarion has reclined on the bedroll, and watches him now with care. He rolls easily onto his side as Tathlyn shuffles in next to him and twines his arms around Astarion’s slim frame. It’s not the ideal position to mediate in, but feeling the way Astarion’s ribs expand and contract as he breathes seems to be the only thing that settles the frantic worry that’s made itself at home under Tathlyn’s skin. Astarion tangles their legs together -- an additional offer of proximity -- and Tathlyn lets his forehead come to rest against the back of Astarion’s shoulder.

Rest is hard to come by as the evening drags on into the night. Every sound from outside Astarion’s tent has Tathlyn alert, assessing for threat. But Astarion’s breathing stays steady. one hand firmly laces fingers with his own, and Astarion allows himself to be cradled close to Tathlyn’s chest. Eventually, his mind settles enough to drift for a few hours.

In the morning, Tathlyn finds Phalar Aluve laid unassumingly across the threshold outside Astarion’s tent. He chooses not to attempt reading meaning into it, and slides it back into the scabbard where it belongs. They have a long walk back through the mountain pass ahead of them. Better, he thinks, not to spend it in suspicious silence.

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dukeofriven · 9 months

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So I haven't watched Spy Kids for probably 20 years? It came out in 2001, I never saw in theatres, but my stepbrother had it on VHS. I remember watching it several times when my step-mum and father first started dating but never after they moved into a house together, which I think cannot have been any later than 2003. The podcast How Did This Get Made just got me to watch 2004's Sleepover staring Spy Kids' Alex Vega, and it had me going 'man, I should rewatch Spy Kids, a film I used to love—hell I should watch all the Spy Kids movies because I've only ever seen the first and Robert Rodriguez is a director whose work I want to dive into' and since its 2023, with a little bit of effort I can easily do that. (Also, I always thought, based on a vague knowledge of their similar poster design, that Spy Kids 3D and The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl were the same movie, but apparently not! Also, Sharkboy et al. had a 2021 sequel? That was popular? And is getting its own sequel? Will have to investigate.) Thoughts on the opening ten minutes of my Spy Kids rewatch:

This production logo is so ugly it causes me physical pain. I hate this boy with his Kate Moss arms (Miraculous Ladybug arms, for you youngsters out there), his ugly beanie, and unbearable smirk.

Also, the telecine weave on the production logos is very noticeable, they're bouncing all over the place and it got me idly musing as to when more modern image stabilization techniques simply took that away. Not that we really noticed in 2001 because even with auto-tracking, gate-weave and other playback artifacts were just accepted as a given on your eight hundred pound convex CRT TV with 480 Ps of resolution that output enough radiation to kill grandma with a Jeopardy marathon. Do young people know about VHS tracking, auto or otherwise? Does the above paragraph make any sense to them at all? Do they know the pleasures of laying your hand on a still-warm television screen and having your whole body shiver as the static discharge runs through your unresistant flesh? Kids today with their big pants and their blue-tooth hula-hoops and their fancy PSPs just can't understand.

The opening shot of the movie is so under-exposed (or, more likely, over-exposed and then over-corrected in post) that Rodiguez's 'written and directed' credit is unreadable. You can see its blur to the right of the red 'FILM' there. It's so bad I thought there was something wrong with my copy so I... uh... found a new copy with a larger file size and it turns out that, nope, it actually just looks like that. Even in fancy 1080p this is just a terrible ærial shot. There's some fantastic shots and cuts in this film so to open with such a stinker is bizarre. Was it bad coverage that day, only one good shot in the can, did somebody fuck-up the film in the lab? I am curious.

Carla Gugino is so cute in this movie it's criminal. Not to be a lesbian but oh my god oh my fucking god. 12 year-old me was all about Carmen but adult me just wants 90 straight minutes of Carla Gugino in casualwear wandering around her lovely home smiling coyly. I would buy a BluRay player to own that movie on BluRay. I'd not picked-up that she played the mom on The Haunting of Hill House because she had long styled hair instead of this absolutely flawless textured pixie cut. 10/10, no notes.

I would like to spend an hour talking about the incredible tilework in that bathroom and nothing but the incredible tilework in that bathroom. I will update you if the film has any further shots of the incredible tilework in that bathroom but I fear it does not. As as an aside, kind of furious that this film was not more influential in the field of home decor. Two decades of effing shiplap and cold grey suburban blandness—what if we'd given up on bloated cookie cutter micro-mcmansion shitboxes and instead gone all-in on brightly coloured Andalusian rough plaster and stonework? What if we all had great tilework in our bathrooms, like the kitchen sink in Howl's Moving Castle?

You know what I mean, you depraved tile nerds.

I don't want you to think Antonio Banderas is not also a total smokeshow in this movie. Because boy howdy. He's a goddamn hunk.

There's a four-second long shot of Banderas flicking this ring box along the coping of the Eiffel Tower balustrade, and all I can think of how hard it was to get to get that box to stay in a straight line, how completely frictionless the box must be (did he shellac it?), and if his marriage prospects would have been ruined had it—in all rational likelihood—gone flying off the railing and smashed into the Champs de Mars.

You know you're in for a rollicking good time when the helicopter perfectly slices-off the stone heads of the two statues, but it's the padre giving the benediction while attack choppers go roaring over head that gives you chills.

A particular shout-out to this lovely unnamed bridesmaid on the left here who not only takes 'putting a parachute on the bride' in stride but looks gleeful and fabulous doing it. Where's her movie?

In 2001 we really thought computers were going to be cool and fun instead of machines that sold our personal lives to corporations and gave children crippling anxiety disorders.

Carla Gugino has a track built into the floor so that her vanity-computer chair can slide backwards across the room so she can have face-to-face chats with her husband. From this we learn two things: 1) she does this so often she's automated it for maximum efficiency, and 2) Banderos, in an ordinary desk chair, never attempts (or knows better than to attempt?) the reverse. To be continued?

#spy kids #spy kids rewatch #antonio banderas #carla gugino #robert rodriguez #alexa vega #shiplap #interior design #andalusia #tile work #howl's moving castle #miraculous ladybug #telecine #films #weddings #spies #kate moss

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kaitlynpcallmebeepme · 2 years

Text

The Unexpected Hero

Evan Buckley x reader

Imagine: saving Buck (911) from and explosion and he's determined to find out who you are (from @procrastinatorimagines).

Requested: Nope.

Author’s Note: I’ve been wanting to write this ever since I saw this prompt image. Also (writing this on 7/12/22), My legs are dead after drumline camp, so I continued writing this on my night shift. Please give me feedback as this is my first time writing for 911. Was considering asking someone if they want to proof read just to make sure the content is good. Message me if anyone want to. I also reworked my masterlist so it’s not as crowded.

Requests are still OPEN. Feedback is always appreciated. Also, tell me if you want to be part of a Tag List and I’ll tag you when I upload something new. Also, I’m tagging @911readercollection here.

Warning: I’m not sure fire works how I exactly described it. Arsonist, bomb exploder/explodes, chase scene, arrests, I very much thought of old action movies when writing this. I didn’t proofread this. Athena being a queen.

Word Count: 1,854

It was another mind numbing day of staring at your computer as statistics went by so you could crunch the numbers for your penny pincher stick up his ass boss. And just to describe how frugal he is, he chose the cheapest office for his workers while he never showed up himself. Cheap in LA usually means poor quality, or not in a safe neighborhood. In this case, it meant both. You had to bring your own stool because you could not stand one more second of your legs sticking to those cheap plastic chairs that are “usually” used at graduation parties. At least you were left alone until you had to present your findings to your boss. However, this meant that your mind got distracted easily and sometimes fell asleep until your eyes and mind processed nothing that was on your screen.

Your mind woke up out of its stagnant state to that sound. You know, that sound. The sound that’s been drilled into your mind ever since you were young. The sound of a fire alarm going off along with its blinking lights. You were surprised the building even had working fire systems. But, you did what you were taught and you stayed low to the ground and crawled on your hands and knees keeping your hand along the wall to guide your way. You found your way to the side of the building out a fire exit. One of those exits near the trucking docks of your building. You stopped a mere couple feet from the building to catch your breath, which more ended up like you crouched to cough your lungs out. This is what you imagined smoking for 50 years felt like.

You looked up just as a firefighter started coming towards you. Do all firefighters have to imitate magazines and be super hot in uniform and way out of your league? He still had his smoke mask over his face and his helmet on, as he should , so you couldn’t make out much of what he actually looked like. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

You would have responded if something else didn’t catch your attention. Behind the fireman’s legs, you could see someone else in a gray hoodie walking away from the scene. Walking. As in “cool guys don’t look at explosions” walking, and that kind of walking away from a fire can never be good. He started to raise his right hand above his head while keeping his back turned toward you and STILL WALKING. You couldn’t be sure what he was doing or what is intentions are, but you had to take a chance.

With your strength that you found somewhere, you body slammed the fireman in the hips as hard as you could and that managed to get him, and yourself, to the ground. His arms encircled around you, out of instinct you think, and you were buried into his firejacket while his back took most of the brute hit from the ground. The office building behind you exploded like an action movie and you felt the heat from the building behind you multiply by 1000 and a loud noise ring your ears to the point where you could only hear white noise for a second.

You hesitantly opened your eyes expecting ash to sting them or you see the light of heaven letting you know that you died. Thankfully, you were still mostly in one piece, but the sight of the person you suspected was responsible running from said exploding building was the first thing you saw while lying on the ground. This isn’t an action movie, but you couldn’t convince your brain that it wasn’t.

You got up from the ground and started sprinting after the man, your body and lungs screaming at you to stop and rest, but your adrenaline said ‘no’. You kept following the man around a few corners, not even stopping to think if he was armed or not when a cop car came from an alley and hit him T-bone style. It didn’t kill him, but it flung him a few feet in the opposite direction. He definitely wouldn’t be resisting arrest anytime soon.

“Hands on your head.” you heard shout in front of you. You kept yours on the back of your head just so the cop would know you weren’t putting up a fight.

You took this opportunity to cough your lungs out in the middle of an alley because they were exhausted from being filled with smoke and then asked to run a marathon.

The cop was quick to cuff the man and lock him in the back of her squad car. She then came around and stood next to your hunched over figure. “Just try to breath deeply mame.” After a few more minutes of coughing your lungs out you finally had the strength to look up at her. Your eyes were watered and probably red from the smoke, but you could still make out most of what she looked like. She was a middle aged black woman and had short black hair that swooped to one side. She still was in her full uniform and a bullet proof vest.

“Did you get him?” Why was that the first thing you asked? No thank you, just that?

“Yes mame, we did. Your speed and quick thinking guided him right to us. What were you doing chasing a man like him anyway?”

You struggled to stand up, but you were able to keep some of your decency before you spoke to her. “I saw him walking away from my office building that exploded, and no one runs unless they have something to hide, so I just mindlessly chased after him. I chased him and you T-boned him. Problem solved.” You clapped your hands brushing the dust off them like you did a job well done.

“You were in the building five blocks from here that exploded into flames?” Have I really been running for five blocks? Wow. Might as well act as if you run regularly.

“Yes, and if the fire inspection comes to it, can I testify against my boss? He’s a frugal piece of shit, so I doubt that the building was up to code.” She seemed to give me a satisfied smirk.

“Ok. I like a strong independent women who knows what she wants. Come with me and I’ll give you a ride to the station and get a statement from you.”

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Athena, and if you ever want to be a cop or detective, I’ll put in a referral for you to get started into the training. We’d love to have you.”

So that’s how your day ended. Athena drove you and her suspect to the police station, you gave a statement of what happened and how bad the building you worked in was. You left your contact information incase they needed anything else or they wanted you for the detective job. She even gave you a ride back to your, surprisingly, not destroyed car that was parked outside of your office building.

________________________________________________________________

**Buck’s POV, later that day at station 118**

I walked back up the stairs after a shower to find most of the team in the kitchen. Bobby was making something that smelled delicious for dinner. I still couldn’t wrap my head around what happened earlier.

“Hey Hen, did some lady come to the ambulance at the fire of that warehouse office building today?” I sat down at the kitchen table next to her.

“We had a couple people there today but no one needed to go to the hospital, just needed some extra oxygen. Why, you recognize someone?”

“No it’s just…” Do I say that the muscles of a fireman lost against someone’s adrenaline. I decide to leave that part out. “Just someone was running away from the fire and after someone and I just wanted to make sure they’re ok. I couldn’t find them afterwards.”

“Hey everyone.” Athena walked up the stairs to the kitchen area and greeted everyone.

“Hey Athena.” I didn’t put too much enthusiasm into my greeting. She went and kissed Bobby really quick and came back to me. “Why you so down Buck?”

“He’s trying to find someone who ran off from the fire today.” Hen answered for me.

“You mean the one that body slammed you before the building blew up.”

Well, thanks for saving me the embarrassment Bobby. I gave him that you seriously just said that look that he’s probably given me a million times.

“Yes, that one. She just ran off after body slamming me and it wasn’t a reactionary thing she did it BEFORE the building blew up, like right before.” Athena gave me a knowingly smile apparently knowing something that I didn’t.

“Oh yes, I know who she is. She’s real sweet. Caught our bomber, gave a statement about what she witness, and was willing to testify.” She was saying this like it was no deal as easy as asking what you had for breakfast that morning.

“You know her. I wanted to see if I could thank her because she helped me avoid getting a face full of flames.”

“Well, I still have her number. But Buck …”

“Yes.” Athena always has something up her sleeve.

“Treat her right. She talked about the building she worked in. She deserves something good.”

“Yes mame.” That wasn’t even my intention, but Buck 3.0 is the most respectful out of all the Bucks.

Athena gave me her number and I went to one of the fire department office rooms where it was more quiet and less people would come in to interrupt or tease me for wanting to talk to a girl I barely met. I type in her number and wait while the ringtones go by. Then there’s that unfortunate monotone voice of an answering machine. I decide to leave a message anyway.

“Hey Y/n, it’s Buck. Well you don’t know my name yet but I’m the firefighter you slammed earlier today. Athena, the cop, gave me your number. I just wanted to thank you for saving me. You were really brave I heard, chasing down an armed aronsist. **Hurry up Buck, you have limited voicemail space** I just wanted to thank you and see if you wanted to go out sometime … so I can properly thank you in person I mean. Well I-.” The call hung me up. Hope that got saved.

I decided to take a walk around the trucks and clear my head. Before I made even one lap around, I got a text.

Hey Buck. Nice to finally know your name. Hope I didn’t hurt you too bad from the body slam earlier. My phone’s out of whack and not accepting calls since it got cracked in my street chase today, but I’d love to go to cheesecake factory with you sometime, or even just walking on the boardwalk. You text me your availability, since I’m out of a job for now. Hehe. -Y/n

Ok Buck, don't mess this up.

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gimmethosedaddymilkers · 1 year

Text

Chubby Arthur x Chubby Reader Modern Headcannons pt. 2

Okok! This was an anon request so I hope you really enjoy this! I love writing for our chunky boy, Chubby Arthur fills the soul with happiness, chunky, thicc, big thighs, massive hands-

ANYWAY

This is a continuation of part one!

Which a link to can be found here along with the rest of my modern Arthur headcannons!

Lets GO

Tags!: (Let me know if you’d like to be added to a tag list!) @kieropal @mrsarthurmorgan7 @cantchoosejust1 @beea-nie

Warnings!: Chubby Arthur x Chubby Reader, as GN as possible maybe SLIGHT hints at a female reader, SMUT more than likely implied and or just straight up there so 18+

LETS GO

(My image cause my Arthur is chunky rn <3)

Alright I am a horny bastard

unfortunately for you the beginning of this is DIRECTLY just gonna be chunky reader and chunky Arthur’s favorite sex information

He, as a large man, loves to be dominate towards you, he loves the power it gives him, it’s fantastic for him to see his MASSIVE hands wrap around you, regardless as to if it’s your neck, your thighs, your stomach, which by the way

he loves your tummy

the fact that its soft and not flat is actually what he prefers.

He goes after big people rather than small people anyway.

You just happened to be the lucky one he falls for lmao.

Continuing off of what I said in part one

He’s incredibly, INCREDIBLY insecure in the bedroom, especially in the beginning

Yes, he loves to be dominant, but he’s also constantly afraid he isn’t good looking enough for you to even want to have sex with him.

Which is one of the stupidest things he could ever think EVER

after that first night, as mentioned in the first part, he is a lot more confident, but he always overestimates how much he actually needs to do to rile you up.

he thinks that he has to work SO hard to get you ready to have sex with him but

that man can breathe and you want to take his pants off

you love how big he is

and he thinks that it’s the main reason you wouldn’t want to be with him

but you literally love that soft stomach but beefy chest and arms

it’s so hot to you

DAD BOD

it’s amazing

and when you tell him that he doesn’t believe you so the foreplay tends to go on FOREVER, but you are totally okay with it.

He speaks to you in that low voice of his, that tone just gets to you and he KNOWS it

That is one of the few things he is confident about, he’ll watch your face go to a deep crimson while he talks to you and it makes his body wake up in ways he didn’t realize were possible.

He also kisses all over your body, every bit of it that you don’t like.

Your tummy gets almost all of his attention all of the time.

He loves it, even if you don’t and he likes to gently trace over your stretch marks, because he thinks they’re beautiful.

He doesn’t think that stretch marks are just something that pregnant people, or people who have been pregnant get, he knows that peoples bodies change and grow, and he likes the fact that yours is so natural.

He also thinks they make your body even more artful, and when he draws (Because Modern Arthur still draws in a little journal that Hosea got him and continues to get him every year for christmas) he always makes sure to draw in your stretch marks

he refuses to allow you to hide them

He kisses all of them

He kisses the stretch marks on your breasts too >;)

The ones on your thighs, literally, all of the stretch marks he finds, they get kissed.

He loves your thighs too, I’m pretty sure I told you that in the first part, but its important information to have

He loves them

he literally

bro

he wishes he could take you to work just to play with them while he did paperwork for certain cars

Comes home, sees you on the couch?

BOOM

Laying his head on them thiccums

He loves it when you play with his thighs too

because they are so sensitive

So like

if things are getting hot and heavy

sit on his lap

make out with him

and gently

ever so gently

run your fingertips along his thighs, palm him through his jeans, but make sure you touch his inner thighs at the same time

He will literally whine

He LOVES how it feels like

its such a tease and it is so good

Also

return the favor of kissing his stomach

he will thank you

he is just as insecure as you are

So if you kiss his tum and tell him that you like his just as much as he likes yours then he will feel so much better about things and himself.

ALSO

While he loves to be dominate and he loves to take control of things in the bedroom, he also loves it when you take control

Chunky Arthur specifically

He loves it when you decide that you want to do everything, like

he just thinks its fantastic when you’re confident enough to do so

he also like

loves it

if you

*ahem*

edge him a little

he doesn’t like to admit it out loud, but that’s something he loves

play with his thighs until he can’t handle it any longer and he’s begging for you to do more.

;)

He loses his mind a little in those moments

It’s been a long day at work, he’s had a bad time and just

He wants to be with you, he’s literally always in the mood, so like, he’s gonna wanna have some time with you, ya know, but

instead of letting him do it

maybe you take it slow, and you decide that you’ll make things better for him, for sure, but you’re gonna make him beg for it

He might protest against it at first, because he’s got a clouded look on things from having a bad day, but like

just coax him into it

Tell him you’d love to tie him up so he can’t touch you while you do it.

He’ll eventually cave and he’ll love it

Just don’t give in too easily

He’ll beg very easily

I mean

he will beg almost instantly, he loves how attractive you are, and to him there is no person who could be hotter than you ever

so he will be a begging, whining, whimpering mess incredibly easily.

Just dont’ let the fun end too quickly, make him hold out a bit

By the way

I wasn’t kidding last part

Arthur literally met you in that bar and fifteen minutes into talking to you he imagined his entire future with you

owning a house with you

marrying you

literally

fifteen minutes into talking to you

FIFTEEN

He knew

and it’s just so sweet

he also talks to Dutch and Hosea about how to propose to you by the way

he has no idea how to go about it

he thinks you’re absolutely stunning and even after a year or two of dating you he still gets so nervous when it comes to complimenting you sometimes

Hosea suggests taking you out somewhere that’s special to the two of you and Arthur knows exactly where to take you.

Theres a little overlook area not too far away from where he works, that he took you too on one of your dates

and it was the first place that you two told each other that you love one another

so he knew

he had to take you there

When he does you remember the place and you tell him that you’re so happy that he brought you there

That place holds a lot of memories for you and it makes you a little sentimental

You’re looking at the overpass area and when you turn to look at him he’s knelt on the ground with a ring held out towards you and a look that’s bordering between anxious and excited

You literally say yes to him before he can even ask you

Which by the way

made him the most excited person you’ve ever seen in your entire life

the fact that you love him so much

just makes him so happy

He loves you just as much, perhaps even more

(At least that’s what he says but we all know that you both love each other equally and just fall more and more in love with one another the longer you’re together)

Chunky Arthur also will stand up for you all the time

if the two of you are out together and someone starts to make fun of your weight

even if it’s a passing statement, like

barely even a whisper

if he hears it

he will literally start a fist fight

He has done it on multiple occasions

and gotten the cops called on him a couple of times

And lets be real

you care about him and don’t want to see him hurt, or see him in jail, but every time that he fights on your behalf it’s literally the most attractive thing ever

he’s strong

fuck

he’s so strong.

His arms you cannot stop looking at them

literally

cannot

Also, after fights if his injuries aren’t so dire that you have to go to the hospital you end up taking care of him at home

which he loves how caring you are towards him which makes him even angrier at the people who make fun of you

Usually after fights like that when he just comes home with small cuts and bruises he will be incredibly sweet and gentle with you and def gives you a good night of making love to make sure that you feel loved

not to say that’s the only way he knows to make you feel loved

he does tons of little things all the time to make you feel loved

He’s one of those guys who likes to leave you little notes around the house to remind you how much he cares about you and how beautiful and smart you are

He gets you flowers all the time too

I mean

he gets them all the time

they aren’t just for special occasions

yes, you get them on anniversaries and on your birthday and for christmas and valentines day but like

he gets them for you at LEAST once a month

they’ll show up to your work on a random tuesday afternoon with a note attached and it just makes you love him more than anyone could love anyone in the whole world

He isn’t a poet, but he does often leave you little love poems

(Most of which were made with a lot of Hosea’s help)

He does literally every cute thing known to man to show you how much he loves you

He takes you out to eat to your favorite restaurants all the time too, for no specific reason other than he wants to

He likes to take you on drives too, like

he loves to do it

he loves to just see how much you smile with the windows down and the music going

He just

does everything

you call him perfect literally all the time

even though he isn’t because he’s a human and he tries to tell you that all the time but

he is perfect lets be honest here.

When it comes back to your wedding

He DEMANDS

that you pick whatever dress/suit/tux you want

whatever dress

and like

he thinks that no matter what you wear you’ll look amazing, you could wear a trash bag and he’d love it, but he wants you to know that you can buy the most expensive thing you want

he has no limit on that

there is a limit on the rest of the wedding, but it’s very high because

A: He is willing to pay off whatever debt he has to for you to be happy with the wedding

and

B: Dutch, Hosea, Charles, John, literally even Bill and the rest of his family are willing to pay for a LOT of the wedding.

You get to pick whatever dress and or tux and or suit you want, and Arthur wants you to feel beautiful because you are

You say he HAS to wear a tux, or a suit, and he agrees, especially if you’re gonna wear something nice

he wants to be there for you and he wants to look attractive to you.

Even though he thinks hes fat and ugly you think that he looks amazing in whatever he wears

So of course he will dress up for you, plus he wants to look nice for pictures

don’t worry

by the way

when it comes time for the wedding he will keep his stubble he won’t shave it all off

he like its too much and thinks he looks funky if he doesn’t have at least a little facial hair

He won’t go full beard, but he will keep the stubble

Arthur absolutely LOVES

I mean LOVES

how the wedding comes out

he had a blast, he was with the person he loved the most and he got to officially call you his Wife/husband

The wedding reception is so fun

He dances with you, the first dance, the first couple dance, it’s

I mean

COME ON

The two of you dance to

All Your’n by Tyler Childers

Dutch cries

Hosea is actually the one who doesn’t and Dutch is like sobbing directly into Hosea’s shoulder

He just thinks the two of you are so cute

With your tummies bumping each other while you slow dance

Then Hosea dances with you and it’s Arthur’s turn to sob uncontrollably in the background

He’s watching his dad and you dance around and he just marvels at how beautiful you are and he sees you crying yourself against Hoseas shoulder with a massive smile on your face

John is slapping his shoulder and calling him lovingly “Big Man!”

Everyone parties

I mean

Everybody

Sean asks the DJ to play Cotton Eye Joe and Cupid Shuffle

Which

Arthur fucking DOMINATES

Cotton Eye Joe, has the whole dance routine memorized

This one lmao

Cupid shuffle you dance right next to him

It’s just so much fun

everyone is so excited

By the time its the end of the night

and everyone goes home

Arthur and you

have THE BEST

night ever

because first off

you don’t even go home for very long

you drop off your clothes get into something more comfortable

and you grab the stuff you two have packed

and get going to your honeymoon

There is a hotel near the airport where you two have a flight the next day

that’s where you two go

and

THAT PLACE

HAS

HOT TUB BATHTUB

IN THE HOTEL ROOM

he literally is like

“Let’s take a bath together and relax”

you

do not

relax

He sits behind you, and he does be nice at first, washing your hair, and rubbing your back

kissing your shoulder and your neck

and then

his hand travels a little lower, and finds your thighs and roams over them with gentle movements

He knows exactly what to do, and he pushes his fingers into you the way he knows you like

By the time the end of the night comes around that man has you squatting on his dick in the bathtub, and you love every second of it

You literally forget that you’re a little heavier set, as you usually do when you’re with him

because he can literally lift you with ease, due to his own large nature

The two of you are just

the perfect power couple

away from one another you’re insecure

but together your confidence goes up so much that anyone in a 50 mile radius is DEAD

#rdr2 #rdr2 community #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #chubby arthur morgan #Chubby reader #CHUNKY ARTHUR #I LOVE CHUNKY BOY #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 drabble

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