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noralia20 · 2 months ago

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Falling for you

P1 P2

Sum up : Telemachus is fighting between the feeling in his chest, and the duty he has to fulfill. Tomorrow, he has to leave on a diplomatic mission, and his heart tells him to say goodbye to reader. But his mind can't formulate it. Will he gather up the courage to tell her ? Will he need a little help ? How will reader react to the announce ?

The sea breeze tugged at Telemachus’s cloak as he wandered the cliffs near the shore, the waves rumbling below like distant thunder. The moon hung heavy and full, spilling light across the water in silver ribbons. Athena walked beside him, silent.

He wasn’t sure why he was out here. Tomorrow, at dawn, he would leave on a diplomatic mission to seek supplies and alliances. It wasn’t dangerous — not really — but it would take him away from home for weeks.

He thought about you all day.

All day, he thought about saying goodbye to you. He even tried once. You were helping the queen in the hall, hair falling in your eyes as you argued with one of the suitors. He lingered, waiting for a moment to speak, but the words died in his throat. He left before you noticed him. The thought of leaving without a word gnawed at him now.

He hated himself for it. You weren’t even kind to him most days. You argued. You rolled your eyes when he spoke. You called him a prince like it was an insult.

So why did he feel like he’d be leaving something behind if he didn’t see you one more time?

“Something weighs on you,” Athena said, her voice smooth and low.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t bother pretending otherwise. She always knew. “It’s… her.” He hesitated, then laughed bitterly. “It’s always her. I don’t even know why. She’s infuriating, stubborn, and half the time she looks like she wants to throw me off a balcony.”

Athena hummed in amusement. “And yet, you can’t stop thinking about her.”

“No.” His voice dropped to something quieter, almost ashamed. “I can’t.” They walked a few more steps before he spoke again, voice low and raw. “I wanted to tell her I’m leaving. I wanted to… I don’t even know. Say goodbye? But I couldn’t.”

Athena glanced at him sidelong, her expression unreadable. If gods could feel nostalgia, this was it.

Athena said nothing, though her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary. He reminded her of Odysseus.

The way he walked now — restless, heart tangled in knots he didn’t understand — it was the same way his father once walked these shores, back when Penelope was still a distant hope and not yet his queen. But Athena didn’t say it. It wasn’t her place to.

A flicker of movement below caught Telemachus’s eye. He stopped, squinting down into the cove. It was about nine feet down, where the stream fed into a still, moonlit pool. The water glimmered like glass.

And then he saw you.

For a second, he thought he imagined it — that his mind, so tangled with you all day, had conjured a vision.

But it was you.

You moved through the water like a spirit of the sea, the moonlight tracing every line of you. Your hair, dark and wet, clung to your skin, shoulders bare above the water. Scars carved across your back and arms, old wounds from battles fought. He should’ve thought they ruined you. Somehow, they only made you more beautiful. Like proof you were too strong to break.

The breath left his lungs. You looked like something from a dream — a nymph, or a goddess, or maybe just the girl he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Athena glanced down, saw the way he stared, and decided he needed a push.

A literal one.

Telemachus barely had time to choke out a startled sound before his foot slipped — or was pushed — off the edge. He plunged into the water with a graceless, spluttering crash.

The cold hit him like a slap. His limbs flailed, and he surfaced, gasping for air, hair plastered to his face. For a second, he didn’t see you. Then he heard the splash, the hurried movement, and his stomach twisted.

You were hiding. He blinked water from his eyes and saw you half-submerged behind a rock, barely more than your head visible. Your eyes were wide, and for the first time, you weren’t glaring at him or spitting insults.

You were scared.

He realized too late — you weren’t wearing much, and the water didn’t exactly hide you. His face burned.

You stared at him like he was a monster that fell from the sky. “Do you—” Your voice came out shaky, breathless. You swallowed hard. “Do you always fall out of the gods-damned sky, or is this new?”

Telemachus coughed, spitting out a mouthful of seawater. “Only on special occasions.” Your brows pulled together in confusion and lingering panic. “What are you doing here?”

He swallowed, heart pounding. “I… I need to talk to you.”

Your voice was sharper this time, though it still wavered. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around, Telemachus.”

He turned so fast he nearly dunked himself again. Behind him, he heard the sound of you moving — water splashing, the rustle of fabric, and muffled cursing under your breath. He stared hard at the moonlit waves, face blazing with heat.

His heart wouldn’t stop racing.

After what felt like forever, your voice came again, quieter this time. “Okay. You can turn back now.” He turned slowly.

You stood there, damp hair dripping over your shoulder, fully dressed — though the fabric still clung to your skin. Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, but there was no hiding the flush on your cheeks, even in the moonlight. “Well?” you asked, voice low and wary. “What did you want to say?”

Telemachus swallowed hard. He didn’t know the right words — didn’t even know what he wanted to say, really — but he knew he couldn’t leave without saying something. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “At dawn. A diplomatic mission.”

Your expression didn’t change, but he saw the flicker of something in your eyes — surprise, maybe. Or disappointment. He wasn’t sure.

“And you swam all the way out here to tell me that?” He gave a breathless, awkward laugh. “No. I was supposed to tell you earlier. But I didn’t. And I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

For a moment, you didn’t answer. You just stared at him, water dripping from your hair onto your shoulder. Then, finally, your voice came, quieter than before. “You’re an idiot, Telemachus.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His lips tugged into a crooked smile. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”

The night felt endless. You tossed and turned, but sleep wouldn’t come. Your mind wouldn’t stop circling back to him — to Telemachus. You told yourself you didn’t care. That you only hid to the cove because he startled you, and you only stayed to hear him out because Penelope would’ve wanted you to. But that was a lie.

The truth was harder to swallow.

The truth was… you didn’t want him to leave.

The truth was… you couldn’t stop thinking about how he looked last night — his dark hair dripping wet, strands sticking to his face and neck, his tunic clinging to his body like a second skin. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was broad-shouldered, strong, his face sharp and noble, eyes burning with something you couldn’t quite place.

Gods, when did he get so—

You cut the thought off with a frustrated groan, shoving your face into your pillow.

Stop it.

But your mind wouldn’t stop. Not even when you wanted it to.

It wasn’t just how he looked. It was the way he spoke to you. The way his voice sounded raw and unsure when he said he didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. The way he looked at you — like you mattered. Like you weren’t just a loyal fighter or a thorn in his side, but… something more.

You hated him for that. You hated him because now you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The room was dim, shadows stretching against the walls, but you noticed the light shifting. The first hint of gold bled through the cracks.

The sun was rising. Your chest tightened.

He was leaving.

Your heart knew before your mind caught up. Your body moved on its own, throwing the blankets aside, your feet hitting the cold floor. You barely noticed. Before you could think, you were running.

The docks were alive with activity despite the early hour. Sailors hauled supplies onto the ship. The wind tugged at the sails, eager to pull the boat out to sea.

Your lungs burned from the run, but you barely felt it. Your eyes darted through the crowd, frantic, searching —

And then you saw him.

He stood near the edge of the dock, speaking with one of the captains. His armor gleamed in the soft dawn light, bronze catching the first golden rays. His sword was strapped to his side, his cloak rippling behind him. He looked like a prince — no, like a warrior. Like a king.

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. As if he felt you, he turned.

His eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face. His mouth parted slightly, as if he meant to say something, but stopped himself.

You froze. What were you even doing here? You didn’t have the words to explain it. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say. You stared at each other — him standing on the dock, you standing on the worn wooden path, the sea breeze tugging at both of you.

He was waiting for you to speak. But nothing came.

His brows pulled together, concern flickering in his eyes. “What’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you—” You panicked.

Before he could finish, you reached into your hair, fingers fumbling. Your heart hammered so loudly you thought it might drown out the sound of the waves. Your hand closed around the familiar metal. Without thinking, you yanked the pin free.

It was small, worn from time and use — a simple bronze hairpin, shaped like a wolf. Your father’s last gift to you before he sailed with Odysseus. It was the only thing of his you had left.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You marched forward and slammed it against his chest, forcing him to take it. His hand instinctively closed around it, startled.

“Take it.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Keep it.”

His eyes flicked between the pin and your face. “I… I can’t. This is yours—”

“You have to.” Your voice wavered, but your gaze didn’t. “If you’re carrying something that matters to me, then you have to come back alive and well to return it.”

His throat bobbed, as though he wanted to argue — but the words wouldn’t come. He looked at the pin again, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Slowly, he closed his fist around it. He held it like it was something precious.

When he looked at you again, the dawn was rising behind him, light spilling over the sea. It caught your face, the wind tugging at your hair, the sun’s first rays filtering through your irises.

He stared, mesmerized — his breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he swore he saw his reflection in your eyes. He wondered if he could always be like that. If he could always be the only one in your eyes.

His voice came out low, steady, and serious. “I’ll come back. I'll give it back to you. I swear it.”

Your throat tightened. You nodded, forcing a smile — but you didn’t trust your voice to answer.

There were words you wanted to say. Words you didn’t even know how to form. They caught behind your teeth, too big for your pride to let out.

So you swallowed them down.

Telemachus stepped back, his gaze lingering on you for a heartbeat longer than it should have. Then he bowed — lower than he ever had before — and turned toward the boat.

You watched as he boarded, watched as the ship pulled away from the dock. He didn’t look away from you until the wind carried him too far to see. You stood there long after the ship disappeared beyond the horizon.

You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him to come back.

But you didn’t believe it.

Neither did your heart.

Part 3 ?

dividers : @strangergraphics @saradika

#telemachus x yn #telemachus x you #telemachus of ithaca #athena #epic the wisdom saga #epic the musical #epic #ithaca #little wolf #fluff #enemies to lovers #telemachus x reader #telemachus

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a-leg-without-fear · 10 months ago

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Sweet

sin sin sin sIN SIN THIS IS SIN. please enjoy pleasuring our dear college!matt

Ship: Matt Murdock x Female!Reader

Rating: 18+ (pure filth, truly)

Wordcount: 2.7k

Warnings: smut, sexual situations, foreplay, some depressive thoughts (because i apparently can't write anything without them)

Warm.

Soft, warm, gentle, sweet. Sweeter than anything he’d tasted. Like dew that’s been licked off a cold strawberry, or the fragrant scent that wafts through the air outside of flower shops. A delicate and tender sweetness. Subtle, comforting, like the smell of home after being away for years. Such sweetness could make Matt lose himself, letting himself drift away on a current of fond smiles and warm embraces. He would allow himself to drown in the sweet taste, even if it was the last drop to pass his lips before he drifted to the ocean floor.

At the sudden loss of the warmth, the tenderness, the sweetness, Matt’s throat let out a whine of annoyance. His body moved of its own accord as he scrambled to reconnect himself to the source. Fingers tangling in silken hair. Hand bunching in a tank top. Teeth nipping at a plump, pink lower lip.

“Matt,” you sighed. The words cascaded past Matt’s tongue and down his throat, carrying a breeze filled with cherry blossoms in their wake. He could distantly feel delicate fingertips brush at his jaw. A tingling warmth trailed behind the gentle touch, only fueling his need to swallow as much sweetness as he could.

“Matt, honey. Breathe.”

Matt’s eyes fell open as he pulled away from his brief reprieve. His senses came crashing down like a cave in. All he could see was a haze of swirling oranges and reds that filled every inch in sight. Streaks of flame and blood painting the college dorm room like a canvas on fire. His cotton shirt was too tight, too scratchy. The humid air settled in his pores like an unwelcome visitor. A sudden cacophony of noise spilled into his ears through the crack under the door and the thin material of the walls. He blinked a few times to reorient.

The first inhale he allowed himself felt like a punch in the lungs. Gone was the taste of strawberries or cherry blossoms, the feeling of warmth and comfort. A sharp tang of stale alcohol plunged its way into his sinuses and left him reeling. Notes of old, worn carpet and water-damaged ceilings shoved their way through to stand side by side to overwhelm thought and feeling. Matt screwed his eyes shut, trying to recall the smell of flowers that flowed like water down his throat.

“Hey, I’m right here,” you whispered, your melodic voice brushing aside the sounds assaulting Matt’s senses. Your soft hand rested along his jaw and brought his forehead to yours. Matt could feel your breath fan across his face. Warm and gentle and sweet.

“I… I’m sorry,” Matt said. He felt naïve. The world was harsh and cold and unforgiving. He shouldn’t have let himself get carried away by the allure you unintentionally provided. The sweet ambrosia that flowed from your lips could never compete with the torrential downpour of too much all around him.

“Sorry for what?” you asked. Your fingers brushed strands of Matt’s dark hair away from his face, then trailed their way down his cheek to rest on his collarbone.

Matt opened his eyes again in a desperate attempt to see you. See anything. But all he was met with was the clouded reds and oranges that submerged the world beneath a pool of blood.

He tried to focus on where your face would be, using the brush of air currents along your seated body to understand where you were on the bed. Your head was cocked, hair falling in front of your kind eyes. Matt could tell you were looking at him. From the way your heart calmly beat behind your ribs and the pheromones that surrounded you like an aura, Matt assumed you were happy. Content.

“I got caught up in the moment,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. You chuckled at his bashfulness, the sound ringing like a small bell around Matt’s head. Hopefully he could deflect from his lapse in awareness. Of course he had to be blind and easily distracted.

“That’s not a bad thing, you know. Just gotta remember to breathe,” you said. Matt scoffed playfully at the jab. He let his hands drift down to your waist, tucking his fingers beneath the bunched-up hem of your shirt.

“I don’t know, you seem to like it when I prevent you from breathing.”

Your breath caught in your throat as your heart leapt and your face heated. A flash of the intoxicating scent that was distinctly you floated from between your legs. Matt could feel his own arousal swirling like a whirlpool in his stomach. An uncontrollable tempest begging to be released over calm waters. Despite how desperately he wanted your clothes off and you beneath him, he pulled his mouth into a cocky grin while his fingers worked their way up to your bra.

“What’s wrong? Feeling embarrassed? Or are you just remembering how good it felt when I choked you?” he purred.

That got you riled up. Your chest started heaving as your skin grew hot and clammy over your entire body. A fresh wave of wetness and delicious scent warmed the inside of your thighs. You swallowed heavily and Matt could practically feel the way the muscles in your throat moved.

But you hesitated. Your fingers stopped their soft stroking along his sensitive skin. Your breath halted just behind your soft lips. Matt’s brow furrowed as a frown tugged at the edges of his lips.

“You okay?” he asked warily. Matt forced his hands to cease in their uphill climb and placed them on your hips. Anxiety gripped at his chest. Did he misread the situation? Misread you? Did he make you uncomfortable? God, what if you finally realized you’d made a mistake in dating him? It was bound to happen, sooner or later.

“Can I be on top tonight?” you asked, as though that sentence didn’t hit him like a ton of bricks to the stomach.

“W-What?” Matt spluttered.

“These past few times you’ve been making me feel good. Really good. I want to try to return the favor,” you explained. Your nails began to pick at a stray thread on Matt’s shirt collar. Matt’s ears picked up on the uptick in your pulse. Were you… nervous?

“If you don’t want to, that's fine, you can be on top. We can also just kiss if that’s more what you’re feeling today. I don’t want to make you feel weird and-”

“Sweetheart, slow down,” Matt said, interrupting your fast-paced tangent. Your mouth clamped shut as a deep breath filled your lungs. Matt grabbed loosely at your shoulders, thumbs rubbing back and forth on your bare skin, as an easy smile fell over his face.

He gave you a few seconds to catch your breath then said, “You can be on top. I just wasn’t expecting you to ask.”

In all honesty, he wasn’t expecting you to ask. Matt’s life was a never ending learning curve of discovering that love was not guaranteed. His mother left before he was a year old, his father died when he was nine, his mentor, Stick, abandoned him at the first sign of affection. He learned long ago to not expect anything from anyone. That was the first lesson Stick had taught him.

And yet, against all odds, here you sat. An enigma if ever there was one. Offering your affection on a silver platter at Matt’s feet. A clear sign of trust, of devotion, of love.

“Okay,” you said. A relieved smile broke out across your face. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you cleared your throat. Matt’s heart raced in time with yours. His fingers began kneading in the soft flesh at your hips.

“Lie down for me,” you said. Four words, spoken softly with the gentleness of a feather, yet they struck Matt in the chest like a wide haymaker. A sentence that carried the weight of authority and a gentle caress all in one. Suddenly all he wanted to do was follow instructions.

In a flash he had his head on the pillow, arms at his sides, breathing at an alarmingly fast rate. Anticipation burned its way through his veins and clouded his senses. The world outside the dorm room faded away. Like a memory retreating into a dense fog. Loud voices down the hall quieted into nothing, the humidity in the air evaporated, his shirt felt like the softest silk, and the scent around him. God, all he could smell was you. Your breath was like the first day of spring, your skin like rolling hills of green grass, your hair like soft strands of pure sunlight. Matt’s world was, yet again, sweet.

“Let me know if I’m making you uncomfortable,” you breathed, your lips suddenly brushing against his earlobe. Matt would have jumped had he not been so relaxed beneath your comforting presence. Your sense of calm had washed over him like a warm wave at low tide.

“I will,” Matt replied, having to use what remained of his mind to form two coherent words. A soft hum of acknowledgement rustled the baby hairs by his ear. He had just enough awareness to track you as you pressed a soft kiss under his jaw.

A sigh escaped his lips as he tilted his head back against the pillow. You smiled against his skin, rewarding the accommodation by pressing a firmer kiss into the soft skin beneath his ear. Tendrils of goodgoodgood shocked their way through his veins from where your lips connected to the sensitive skin. His breath hitched as he let his eyes fall closed.

“Good spot, I take it,” you said through a smile Matt could hear. Matt barely got out the word “yes” before you licked a broad swipe up his neck and ended at that sensitive spot. Matt’s back arched as a groan kicked its way out of his throat. His hands fisted into your tank top out of pure instinct, practically begging the source of his pleasure to stay put. Another pass of your tongue stoked the embers in his abdomen into a bonfire, flames licking their way over his damp skin.

“Sweetheart, please,” Matt begged, the words a whisper on his parted lips. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was begging for. All he knew was he never wanted you to stop.

Blunt fingernails traced the exposed skin beneath his shirt. Matt’s hips bucked up, chasing the light touch. The muscles beneath his skin jumped as you slowly, so slowly, started pushing his shirt up. It was agonizing, the feeling of your nails lightly scraping along his stomach. Each finger lit up thousands of nerve endings, each nerve ending pushing him further and further toward the edge of a steep cliff.

You pressed a soft kiss to the shell of Matt’s ear as you whispered, “Arms up, Matt.”

You could tell him to kneel at your feet for the rest of his life and he would.

Matt did the best his melted body could to help you take his shirt off. The two of you were a mess of limbs and cotton for a moment before you were able to pull the infernal garment away. Matt’s arms fell beside him like two sacks of grain. Palms as soft as calfskin ever so gently glided down his bare chest. You made sure every divot and round muscle got the attention it deserved, caressing Matt like he was the finest lace. When your pinky brushed against his nipple, a sharp hiss escaped through his teeth.

You hummed, hands retreating in their path, fingers dancing along the edges of Matt’s nipples. Matt choked out a moan, baring his neck as his back arched into your touch. Your tongue made another pass of his throat as feather-light glances of your fingers across both of his nipples chased the last coherent thoughts from Matt’s mind.

“Fuck,” Matt groaned. Every millimeter of his skin felt like it was aflame. Fire left in the wake of your gentle touch. Burning away all sense and reason until all that was left was Matt’s writhing body.

He was close. Embarrassingly so. Matt clung to the cliff’s edge by his fingertips, each kiss and caress prying his fingers off one by one. His hips moved of their own volition. He was bucking into your thigh like a dog in heat. Whines and moans flew from his glistening lips while his hands scrabbled against the sheets.

With your hands still toying at Matt’s chest, you shifted in his lap until the warm heat between your thighs settled over where his shorts had tented. A slurred string of curses and your name spilled from between his teeth. His wild grinding now dispersed your scent in the air around him. And God, there was so much. It settled into every inch of Matt’s skin until he could taste it on his tongue, feel it coat his lungs as he breathed it in.

“Sw-eetheart,” Matt choked out. He could feel his fingers falling away from the cliff in rapid succession. The precipice below him seemed to climb up the cliffside until it was just beneath his feet, tempting him to let go and plunge into its depths.

The final nail in his coffin was when you nipped at his neck, teeth closing around where his pulse flowed strongest. The air in his lungs leapt through his throat in one big gust. His unseeing eyes rolled back in his head, hands grabbing at anything in their vicinity.

Matt’s final grip on the cliff fell away, plunging him into warmth and gentleness and sweetness that surrounded him like a strong embrace. Held him tight and wove its way through every muscle in his body. A shock of white hot pleasure rolled through him like a steam train. Starting in his groin and washing over him in wave after wave of fuckyesgoodfuckkeepgoingdon’tstop. He could barely register how loud he was over the roaring in his ears. His heart pounded against his chest like an animal behind bars.

Your lips found his again and everything clicked into place. Matt lapped at your mouth like he was drinking his first glass after a month in the desert. The sweet nectar that you produced flowed down his throat and prolonged his orgasm. His hips rocked up into yours, chasing a heat that he could feel in his bones. Hands, trembling, bunched themselves in your shirt and pulled your chest flush to his.

It took several minutes for the aftershocks to calm down. Every breath, every twitching muscle made his overwhelmed senses go haywire. In his mind, the world around him was a swirling cloud of bliss. All he could hear was your breathing, all he could feel was your heartbeat against his chest, all he could taste was strawberries and cherry blossoms. He let his fingertips trail along your exposed shoulders, zeroing in on the feeling, bringing himself back to reality.

When you felt the movement, you lifted your head to look at him, “Back with us?”

A tired smile spread itself over his lips. Matt opened his eyes, the effort to lift his eyelids like lifting a dumbbell, and let his empty gaze land somewhere on your face.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he sighed. You responded by giving him a quick peck on the lips. Matt grumbled, brow furrowing, then guided your chin back up to kiss him again. You chuckled against his lips, a whisper of “ridiculous man” absorbed between your mouths. Matt relished in the familiar sweetness before letting you pull away.

“I take it you enjoyed that?” you asked. Matt gave you a solemn nod, at which you laughed. He shifted beneath you so he could attempt to meet your eyes.

“Did you like it?” he asked tentatively. He fiddled with the hem of your shirt as he waited for your answer. He hadn’t done anything for you, he just laid there and made you do all the work. What kind of boyfriend was he? Not to mention you didn’t even touch him. A few grazes of your fingers over his chest and he was done for.

“I loved it. It was fun to figure out what buttons to push,” you laughed. The tinkling tune of your laugh erased any negative thoughts Matt retained about the experience. He let his smile return, holding you tighter to his chest.

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll return the favor,” Matt said, letting that seductive edge find its way back into his voice. You shuddered on top of him. Your thighs clenched instinctively around his. You blew a stray strand of hair out of your face, attempting to mask the want clearly written on your skin.

“3 minutes, then we’re back in business.”

“Deal.”

HUGE thanks to the Murdock Tuna Team for being the inspiration for this fic. i have them to blame for the filth that fills my head on an hourly basis.

Murdock Tuna Team 🐟: @vigilxnte-shit @pastafossa @yarrystyleeza @ecxlipse @sunflowersandsapphires @amphitrite-5 @fuckyeahpommelstrike @mar-thewriter @zomtart @what-i-call-men

#charlie cox #daredevil #matt murdock #marvel #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock smut #college!matt murdock x f!reader #i love writing matt soooooo much #getting to play with how different sounds and smells effect him #man oh man is this guy fun to tease #murdock tuna team

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blueiscoool · 4 months ago

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'Once-in-a-Century' Discovery Reveals Luxury Bathhouse in Pompeii

After lying hidden beneath metres of volcanic rock and ash for 2,000 years, a "once-in-a-century" find has been unearthed in the ancient Roman city of Pompeii in Italy.

Archaeologists have discovered a sumptuous private bathhouse - potentially the largest ever found there - complete with hot, warm and cold rooms, exquisite artwork, and a huge plunge pool.

The spa-like complex sits at the heart of a grand residence uncovered over the last two years during a major excavation.

"It's these spaces that really are part of the 'Pompeii effect' - it's almost as if the people had only left a minute ago," says Dr Gabriel Zuchtriegel, director of the Archaeological Park of Pompeii.

The bathhouse changing room has vibrant red walls, a mosaic floor and stone benches

Analysis of two skeletons discovered in the house also shows the horror faced by Pompeii's inhabitants when Mount Vesuvius erupted in AD79.

The bodies belonged to a woman, aged between 35 and 50, who was clutching jewellery and coins, and a younger man in his teens or early 20s.

They had barricaded themselves into a small room, but were killed as a tsunami of superheated volcanic gas and ash - known as a pyroclastic flow - ripped through the town.

"This is a dramatic place, and everything you find here tells you about the drama," says Pompeii conservator, Dr Ludovica Alesse.

A third of the ancient city still lies hidden beneath volcanic debris from the disaster, but the new excavation - the most extensive in a generation - provides new insights into ancient Roman life.

The archaeologists have been followed by a documentary team from the BBC and Lion TV, for a series called Pompeii: The New Dig.

An entire block of Pompeii has now been uncovered, revealing a laundry and bakery, as well as the large private house. It's thought these were all owned by one wealthy individual, possibly Aulus Rustius Verus, an influential Pompeii politician.

The discovery of the bathhouse is further confirmation of his elite status, says Dr Zuchtriegel.

"There are just a few houses that have a private bath complex, so it was something really for the wealthiest of the wealthy," he says. "And this is so huge - it's probably the biggest bath complex in a Pompeiian private home."Those lucky enough to use the suite of bathing rooms would have undressed in a changing room with vibrant red walls and a mosaic floor dotted with geometric patterns inlaid with marble from across the Roman Empire.

Twenty to 30 people could bathe in the cold room's plunge pool, which is more than 1m deep

They would then head to the hot room, taking a dip in a bath and enjoying the sauna-like warmth, provided by a suspended floor that allowed hot air to flow underneath and walls with a cavity where the heat could circulate.

Next they would move to the brightly-painted warm room, where oil would be rubbed into the skin, before being scraped off with a curved instrument called a strigil.

Finally, they would enter the largest and most spectacular room of all - the frigidarium, or cold room. Surrounded by red columns and frescoes of athletes, a visitor could cool off in the plunge pool, which is so large 20-30 people could fit in it.

"In the hot summers, you could sit with your feet in the water, chatting with your friends, maybe enjoying a cup of wine," says Dr Zuchtriegel.

The bathhouse is the latest find to emerge from this extraordinary house.

A huge banqueting room with jet black walls and breathtaking artwork of classical scenes was found last year. A smaller, more intimate room - painted in pale blue - where residents of the house would go and pray to the gods was also unearthed.

The residence was mid-renovation - tools and building materials have been found throughout. In the blue room a pile of oyster shells lie on the floor, ready to be ground up and applied to the walls to give them an iridescent shimmer.

A small blue room used for prayer. Amphoras - terracotta containers used to transport olive oil or wine - are resting against a wall. Oyster shells are piled on the floor

Next door to this beautiful space, in a cramped room with barely any decoration, a stark discovery was made - the remains of two Pompeiians who failed to escape from the eruption.

The skeleton of a woman was found lying on top of a bed, curled up in a foetal position. The body of a man was in the corner of this small room.

"The pyroclastic flow from Vesuvius came along the street just outside this room, and caused a wall to collapse, and that had basically crushed him to death," explains Dr Sophie Hay, an archaeologist at Pompeii.

"The woman was still alive while he was dying - imagine the trauma - and then this room filled with the rest of the pyroclastic flow, and that's how she died."

The skeleton of a woman, clutching coins, was found curled in a foetal position

Analysis of the male skeleton showed that despite his young age, his bones had signs of wear and tear, suggesting he was of lower status, possibly even a slave.

The woman was older, but her bones and teeth were in good condition.

"She was probably someone higher up in society," says Dr Hay. "She could have been the wife of the owner of the house - or maybe an assistant looking after the wife, we just don't know."

An assortment of items were found on a marble table top in the room - glassware, bronze jugs and pottery - perhaps brought into the room where the pair had tucked themselves away hoping to wait out the eruption.

But it's the items clutched by the victims that are of particular interest. The younger man held some keys, while the older woman was found with gold and silver coins and jewellery.

A pair of gold and natural pearl earrings found close to the female skeleton

These are kept in Pompeii's vault, along with the city's other priceless finds, and we were given a chance to see them with archaeologist, Dr Alessandro Russo.

The gold coins still gleam as if they were new, and he shows us delicate gold and natural pearl earrings, necklace pendants and intricately etched semi-precious stones.

"When we find this kind of object, the distance from ancient times and modern times disappears," Dr Russo says, "and we can touch a small piece of the life of these people who died in the eruption."

Archaeologist Alessandro Russo holds a gold coin found with the female skeleton

Dr Sophie Hay describes the private bathhouse complex as a once-in-a-century discovery, which also sheds more light on a darker side of Roman life.

Just behind the hot room is a boiler room. A pipe brought water in from the street - with some syphoned off into the cold plunge pool - and the rest was heated in a lead boiler destined for the hot room. The valves that regulated the flow look so modern it's as if you could turn them on and off even today.

With a furnace sitting beneath, the conditions in this room would have been unbearably hot for the slaves who had to keep the whole system going.

"The most powerful thing from these excavations is that stark contrast between the lives of the slaves and the very, very rich. And here we see it," says Dr Sophie Hay.

Pipework and taps in the residence's boiler room

"The difference between the sumptuous life of the bathhouse, compared to the furnace room, where the slaves would be feeding the fire toiling all day.

"A wall is all that could divide you between two different worlds."

The excavation is in its final weeks - but new discoveries continue to emerge from the ash. Limited numbers of visitors are allowed to visit the dig while it's ongoing, but eventually it will be fully opened to the public.

"Every day here is a surprise," says Dr Anna Onesti, director of the excavation.

"Sometimes in the morning I come to work thinking that it's a normal working day - and then I discover we found something exceptional.

"It's a magic moment for the life of Pompeii, and this excavation work offers us the possibility to share this with the public."

By Rebecca Morelle and Alison Francis.

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knight-hiccup · 2 months ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₃

This is Chapter 3 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 7.2k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 3

You'd risen hours before dawn, the weight of sleep still tugging at your limbs as you forced yourself from the tangle of furs that served as your bed. The village of Berk lay hushed beyond your walls, its inhabitants lost to dreams while the first tendrils of morning crept over the horizon.

Slipping out into the brittle chill behind your home, you moved with purpose, boots crunching against the frost-rimed earth as you crossed the yard to the weathered wooden tub you'd filled the night before with a low fire—which was surrounded by the privacy of tall wood planks.

Winter's icy grip waited there, eager to claim you. The water hit your skin like a slap, clawing at your bare arms and back as you plunged into the barrel. You scrubbed fiercely with a coarse cloth, stripping away the sour grime of sleep and the sweat baked into you from days of strain—a ritual you clung to whenever time allowed, a stubborn defiance of yours against the exhaustion that hung over you.

The cold was merciless, biting deeper with each splash, stinging your knuckles raw and sending shivers racing down your spine. Steam rose in faint wisps from your flushed skin, curling into the dim air only to vanish against the gray pre-dawn sky. Your breath puffed out in sharp, white clouds, mingling with the frost that clung to the tub's edge like a crust of jagged teeth.

Through the icy shock, your senses sharpened, scouring away the fog of fatigue that had settled in your bones. You needed that clarity now—needed it to face what lay ahead. A day ago, a Gronckle's jaws had nearly ended you, its guttural roar still echoing in your ears, the heat of its fiery breath singeing the hairs on your neck. The memory jolted you as sharply as the water did, a reminder of why you couldn't afford to falter. Today, you'd make sure you were ready.

With a final shudder, you hauled yourself from the tub, water streaming off your trembling frame to pool in dark patches on the frozen stone ground. The air bit harder now, nipping at your exposed skin as you stumbled toward the rough-hewn bench where your clothes waited.

You snatched up the fresh tunic and trousers you had layed out—coarse wool scratched against your fingers, the leather patches stiff from years of mending—and pulled them on hastily, the fabric clinging to your still-damp body like a second, stubborn skin. Your breath hitched as the cold sank deeper, but you shook it off, lacing your boots with numb fingers before turning toward the village.

The wind howled low as you stepped beyond the yard, witnessing a thick fog carrying the faint tang of salt from the sea beyond Berk's cliffs. Your boots sank into the sodden earth, each step a squelch that tugged at your soles, as you followed the muddy veins of the village toward your destination.

The village was waking now, faintly—smoke curled from a distant chimney, and the muffled bleat of a sheep drifted through the stillness. With hands twitching from a restless hunger to create, you reached the forge and struck the flint, coaxing the furnace fire to life as the bellows wheezed awake.

You resolved it was time to forge a weapon uniquely your own. Axes bore a crude, swaggering heft you couldn't master; swords gleamed with a noble grace that felt unfamiliar in your grip; hammers landed with a heavy, dull thud, too blunt for the precision you craved—a coarse taunt against the keen edge you yearned to shape.

But in the training arena, amid the chaos, the knife you'd clutched had felt different. It had settled into your palm like an extension of your own will—sure, steady, a sliver of control just like the knives you held daily in the kitchen. That feeling lingered. You saw it now: daggers forged from black stone, sleek and wicked as a dragon's claw, light enough to dance between your fingers yet deadly enough to pierce a beast's hide—or a raider's flesh, should Berk's peace shatter again.

The vision gripped you, and you were determined to make it real. They'd be your secret, these blades—nestled snugly in your boots, hidden beneath the patched furs and leather, ready to flick free at the slightest provocation. A match for whatever Berk hurled your way next, be it beast or battle.

For now, they rested half-formed on the anvil before you, their edges raw and jagged, glinting faintly in the firelight, unpolished. The black stone drank the heat, begging for the hammer's strike to mold it into shape. You could almost feel their weight in your hands already, the sharp lines you'd etch into them, each blow a declaration of your intent to survive this training.

Time was slipping away, though, stretched thin the closer you got to the next challenge. Gobber's voice still battered your skull, gruff and unyielding from the last briefing, his words a relentless drumbeat in your memory.

"Deadly Nadder's up next, ye lot—sharp spines, much sharper temper, tail like a whip! And eyes—" he'd growled, dragging the word out with a gleam, "that'll spot ye afore ye blink—'cept for that blind spot, o' course."

His hook-hand had slashed the air as he'd paced, spitting warnings while the trainees nodded, weary and bruised, their minds half-lost in the haze of exhaustion. You'd clung to every detail, though—the Nadder's speed, its venomous dance—and now, in the forge's stifling heat, those half-heard lessons fueled your urgency.

Sweat beaded on your brow as you hefted the hammer, its handle worn smooth from use, and eyed the black stone blades. These daggers had to be ready—sharp enough to meet the Nadder's bite today, steady enough to prove you could stand against its venomous dance. The furnace roared at your side, a living beast of iron and flame, its heat surging forth in waves that licked your skin with a dry, insatiable hunger.

Ash stung your eyes as you worked, a streak of grease smearing across your cheek from a careless swipe of your hand. Each strike of the hammer rang out—a sharp, bone-deep pulse that shuddered through your joints, its rhythm swallowing the distant clamor of Berk beyond the forge's walls: Hooligan shouts, the creak of carts, and the faint, familiar clang of sword against sword from somewhere else in the village.

The forge clanged at the stomps of Gobber stumbling in, his heavy tread shaking the little floorboards it had, a tuneless whistle threading through the air like a frayed rope. He loomed against the firelight saying a quick 'mornin' before his broad frame casted a jagged shadow as he hunched over a battered table in the corner, sorting through a chaotic pile of materials—rusted bolts, scraps of leather, a tangle of wire.

"'Bout time you showed up," you said.

The words carried a bite of morning revenge—sweet, petty justice for all the times Gobber's barking had dragged you out of bed before the sun dared to rise. Today, you'd beaten him to the forge, and the rare chance to jab at him felt like a small, hard-won victory. His hook-hand gleamed as he picked at his teeth, the metal scraping with a faint, grating chime that cut through the furnace's growl.

"Aye, ye're hammerin' like ye mean to wake the whole island," he grunted ignoring your remark without looking up. His voice rough as gravel, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and focus. He busied himself with the assortment, tossing aside a bent nail with a snort.

A minute passed until a floorboard creaked again, softer this time, and a slighter figure slipped inside the open forge. Hiccup perched on a stool in front of his desk near the wall, half-shrouded in the haze of smoke and heat, his sketchbook splayed across the table. Charcoal scratched feverishly across the pages, as he tried to shield with a hunched shoulder.

His brow furrowed beneath a wild tangle of auburn hair, shadows pooling under his eyes bleary—probably from last night's conversations with you over the 'Book of Dragons.' Oh. . .how disappointed he looked when there was nothing about the Night Fury, so moved on to you both coming up with dragon plans, Nadder tactics, whatever it took to pass the trails for him—to distract him.

You caught his glance for a heartbeat before he ducked his head, the dodge quicker than usual, his fingers tightening around the charcoal pencil. He was hiding something—you'd bet your hammer on it.

Normally, he'd ramble about some new contraption or dragon theory first thing at the sight of you, his voice tripping over itself with excitement, but now he stayed silent, the sketchbook a flimsy wall between you. The air shifted with his presence, a thread of tension, and you wondered what scheme he was cooking up this time—something to do with the Nadder maybe, or something bigger, something he wouldn't share. Not yet. You turned back to the anvil.

You paused, hefting a half-finished dagger to eye level, its black stone blade snaring the furnace's red glow in a glint. You tilted it, testing the balance—light yet lethal, taking shape—and your gaze slid sideways, catching on Hiccup's hunched form across the forge. Perched on his stool. The faint scratch of charcoal on paper pricked your ears, and as he flipped a page, a shape flickered into view—sleek, shadowed, unmistakable. Curiosity flaring.

You stilled, the dagger settling onto the anvil with a soft, deliberate clink. The heat pressed against your back as you moved—silently, boots scuffing faintly against the dirt floor. The air hung in silence as you closed the distance, stopping just behind him. Close enough to catch the faint whiff of fresh pine clinging to his tunic, mingling with the smoky bite of charcoal smudged across his knuckles.

You leaned in, peering over his shoulder, and there it was: the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself, etched in stark lines—wings swept back, eyes piercing, every curve rendered with a precision that dragged you back to that day in the woods. The memory hit hard—the dragon's roar onto Hiccup, and his quiet choice to let it vanish—and yet here it lived, captured on paper, as if he'd never let it go.

"Sharp memory on that Night Fury Hic," you murmured, voice low and edged with a teasing lilt. Hiccup jolted upright, a yelp bursting from him—half-strangled, sharp as a snapped twig. The sketchbook slipped from his grasp, some pages slipping onto the table, and falling to the forge floor like a leaf, charcoal pencil skittering away like a startled rat across the ground.

His laugh barked out, high and brittle, a flimsy shield thrown up too fast as he lunged to snatch shut the book, fingers smudging the Night Fury's lines in his haste. He clutched it to his chest, green eyes wide and darting, breath hitching like he'd been caught sneaking to the kitchens late at night.

"Oh—uh, yeah, just. . .doodling, y'know," he stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush as he fumbled his feet, kicking up more dust.

His grin wobbled, too bright, too forced, and you caught the twitch in his gaze—sideways, fleeting, a quirk of his you knew all too well since you were little kids scrambling. He waved a hand, quick and airy, brushing it off.

"Just messing around—keeps the hands busy, and the mind working!" he added, voice pitching up as he tucked the sketchbook under his arm, hugging it tighter than a shield. But that silver tongue of his, the one that could spin tales to dodge Gobber's wrath, couldn't bury the truth from you—not after years of reading him like the grain in a well-worn plank.

"Mm-hm. . ."

Suspicion coiled tight in your gut, not a guess but a certainty. You straightened, arching a brow as you pinned him with a look—steady, unyielding, the kind that dared him to squirm. His grin stretched thinner, shifting under your gaze as you shifted your weight, one boot scuffing the dirt as you tilted your head, weighing him.

The forge's heat pulsed at your back, the half-formed dagger glinting on the anvil behind you, but this—this secret he was guarding—prickled sharper than the Nadder's spines in your mind. You bit back the prod itching on your tongue, letting the silence stretch instead, heavy as the hammer in your hand had been. For now, you'd let it lie, but the glint in his eyes promised you'd dig it out soon enough.

You turned from Hiccup's retreating hunch, the echo of his brittle laugh fading into the forge's din, and let your gaze settle back on the anvil. The half-finished dagger waited there. Your hands itched again, that restless hunger clawing up your spine, and you stepped back to the furnace's maw.

When the second dagger emerged from the quench, steam coiling around it like a dragon's sigh, you held them both up—twin blades in the firelight, their edges gleaming with a quiet menace. You ran a calloused thumb along one, testing its bite, and felt the faintest nick against your skin—a job fulfilled.

Two blades, finished, ready to nestle in your boots ready to face the Nadder's whip-crack tail. The furnace growled low behind you, its hunger sated for now, and you straightened, rolling your shoulders to shake off the ache. The day wasn't done, but this—this felt like a start.

"C'mon," You turned to Hiccup, "—drop the scribbles and let's go train," you said, voice steady but laced with a rough edge, a challenge stitched into the camaraderie.

"Nadder's next—sharp spines, sharper attitude, like Gobber's been bellowing. We could both use the practice before it skewers us into pincushions." The words rolled out with a grin.

Hiccup froze, his face faltering. He rubbed the back of his neck—already telling you he meant he was squirming out of something—and shook his head, auburn hair flopping over his brow.

"Uh, I've got something to do first," he muttered, eyes flicking to the forge door, quick and guilty. His boots scuffed the dirt, a restless shuffle.

You stepped closer, boots crunching on the ash-strewn floor, and dropped your voice to a whisper��a blade slipped beneath Gobber's tuneless whistle, too low for his ears to snag.

"You mean go looking for that dragon, don't you?" you pressed almost knowingly, the words sharp and quiet.

"You're thinking about going back to the woods—seeking that Night Fury again." The furnace's growl masked your tone, but your gaze pinned him, unrelenting.

His head snapped up, green eyes wide as guilt bloomed across his face in a lopsided smile—small, reluctant, "Yeah. . .maybe," he admitted, voice barely a murmur over all the noise.

His stare locking with yours for a heartbeat too long. The confession hung there and you saw it—the flicker of obsession in his eyes, the same one that'd lit up that day in the woods before and after he let the dragon vanish.

"I'm coming with you," you said, firm as iron, already turning to snatch your gear from the bench—the daggers, a cloak, the weight of resolve settling in your chest.

But his hand shot out, quick and desperate, clamping onto your arm with a grip that stopped you cold. His fingers dug in, calloused and warm against the stubborn stiffness of your patched sleeves.

"No! No—It's not safe," he said, voice low and taut. "If it attacks me, then at least it's just me—not both of us. I need you to come up with excuses—" His words snagged. His eyes flicked wide, pleading, but the logic twisted like a warped blade, useless and infuriating. Hiding the fact he had already found it again anyways.

"Hiccup! I'm not just going to let you face that alone?!" You snapped, protest surging hot and fierce up your throat, ready to shred his flimsy excuse.

But before the words could spill, his hand clapped over your mouth—rough, warm, cutting your breath mid-rise. The suddenness stole your air, your glare boring into him as his palm pressed firm, silencing you. His eyes darted to Gobber, oblivious at the anvil's far end, his hook-hand scraping at his teeth with a distracted grunt, his off-key whistle faltering as he wrestled a stubborn shred of gristle free.

Hiccup's grip eased, sliding away, but his stare held—urgent, raw, a silent plea stitched into his face. The forge's heat pulsed around you, the air thick with soot and the weight of his fear, and for a moment, you stood locked there—your suspicion warring with his desperation, the daggers glinting behind you like a dare to push harder. He dropped his hand fully, stepping back, and the space between you crackled, unfinished. You let out a sharp sigh, the air hissing through your teeth as you crossed your arms.

"Alright, fine. What do you want me to tell Gobber, then? That you're just not feeling well?" Your voice carried a dry edge, skepticism lacing each word as you jerked your head toward the anvil where Gobber still grunted, oblivious.

"He won't care. He'd drag everyone to the arena against that stinking Nadder today—ill, half-dead, or otherwise. You know how he gets."

You shifted your stance, eyes narrowing at Hiccup's stubborn hunch. He grins, a flicker of defiance breaking through his nerves, and scrubbed a hand through his tangled hair for the ninth time, smearing a streak of charcoal across his forehead.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," he said, voice low but steady, a conspirator's whisper. "He won't find me at home anyway, even if he goes stomping over there looking."

His green eyes glinted, darting to the forge opening again, and he shifted his weight, the sketchbook still tucked tight under his arm like a stolen prize. The faintest shrug lifted his shoulders, casual but calculated, as if he'd already mapped his escape through Berk's fog-choked paths.

Before you could have a say he turned on his heel, quick and quiet, the hem of his tunic flapping as he slipped out of the place. The wood planks around you groaned against the wind—in a low, creaking protest—letting a gust of cold air rush in, sharp and briny from the cliffs beyond. It clashed with the forge's heat, swirling soot and embers again.

This time, Gobber's whistle cut off mid-note, his head snapping up from the anvil's far end, hook-hand frozen mid-scrape against his teeth. His one good eye narrowed, tracking Hiccup's retreating figure that thudded out.

"Oi! Where's that scrawny lad scamperin' off to now?" he barked, voice rough as splintered wood, his broad frame straightening as he wiped his hook on his apron, leaving a greasy smear.

You froze for a heartbeat, the blood draining from your face, leaving your skin clammy under his glare. But you swallowed it down, cool as ice over a blade's edge, and shrugged, letting your voice roll out steady and bored.

"Outhouse," you said, flicking your gaze to the anvil like it was nothing, the lie slid out smooth, a practiced flick of the tongue, and you kept your hands busy, rolling the hammer in your grip to hide the faintest tremble.

Gobber grunted, a low, dubious rumble, but his eye lingered on you a beat too long before he turned back to his work, muttering something about 'weak guts' under his breath as his whistle sputtered back to life.

You exhaled slow, the tension easing from your shoulders as the winds growl swallowed the moment. Hiccup was gone, muddy prints fading fast on the dirt floor, off to chase his Night Fury through the woods—and you'd bought him time. Your gut twisted, sharp and sour, not just from the lie to Gobber but from the gnawing itch to know what he'd find out there.

He'd better come back, or you'd drag him out of the pits of Hel yourself.

Of all the times you'd lied for Hiccup, this day had to be the worst—a festering gamble of a mess that kept bleeding trouble for you both. Three times since noon, Gobber's gravel-rough voice had chewed you out, his anger slashing the air as he ranted about 'that scrawny no-show.'

Astrid piled on too, her blue eyes sharp, cornering you with questions between barked orders to the others. The arena sat empty—besides the walls put in for the Nadder-challenge, its stone walls slick with drizzle, the lot of you huddled under the gray sky, waiting for Hiccup to drag his sorry hide back from wherever he'd bolted. Couldn't start without him—not with the Nadder penned up, its spines rattling like a cage of knives behind those closed gates, ready to shred anyone dumb enough to step in half-cocked.

You'd all trudged to his house after, boots sloshing through the mud, the light rain stinging your face and soaking your tunic to a clammy second skin. Knocked on his door till your knuckles ached—nothing. The place was dead quiet, no flicker of candlelight, no Hiccup—which you already knew.

Just the wind howling in laughter, mocking you as Snotlout's nasal cackle cut through: "What's his bread-making girlfriend hiding this time?"

Astrid shot him a glare that could've split stone, but the jab stuck, festering with the others' muttered barbs—'dragon-whisperer's pet,'—'Hiccup's shadow'—each one a splinter under your skin.

To say everyone was pissed was like calling a dragon's fire cold, and you were the lightning rod for it all. They knew you knew where he'd gone—those woods, that damned Night Fury—but you clamped your jaw tight, loyal to a fault, even as their stares burned hotter than the forge.

Gobber wouldn't let it slide, though. He kept waiting, pacing the arena's edge with a scowl that could curdle milk, but in the meantime, he turned his wrath into punishment.

"Right, ye lot—laps 'round Berk till I say stop!" he bellowed, his voice booming over the rain's patter, hook-hand jabbing toward the village's muddy sprawl.

"Aw man!" Tuffnut whined. "Can't we just start without him?"

"Nope! I have orders' now so do ye. Now get out there!"

So, you ran—legs churning through the muck, breath rasping in your throat, the cold seeping into your bones as the drizzle thickened to a steady-light drizzle. Up past the mead hall, down along the cliffs where the sea churned gray and furious, back through the village's twisting veins—over and over till your muscles screamed.

Astrid powered ahead, blonde braid slapping her back, while Snotlout lagged, whining about his boots being soaked like sponges till Ruffnut shoved him into a puddle with a giggle. You kept pace, silent, the daggers in your boots a secret weight, their edges digging into your resolve with every step.

By the time Gobber finally called it quits, the rain finally calmed down. You stood panting, hands on your knees, water streaming off your nose as the others grumbled and shook off the wet like dogs. Gobber loomed nearby, his silhouette jagged against the torchlight in the fog, muttering about 'waste of time' and 'that boy's hide when I catch him.'

Your chest heaved, lungs raw, but your mind spun faster—Hiccup out there, chasing dragons while you took the heat. If they didn't get to him—or Thor forbid—the dragon first, then you will. Loyalty held your tongue though, but the ache in your legs and the sting of their words gnawed at it, fraying the edges. You straightened, wiping mud from your face, and caught Astrid's eye—hard, searching, daring you to crack. You didn't. Not yet.

After the laps, you all slogged your way to the Great Hall, boots squelching, the rain still dripping from your sodden clothes like a stubborn echo of Gobber's punishment. The hall's heavy doors groaned open, spilling you into its smoky warmth—a stark relief from the cold that had gnawed your bones raw.

Inside, it was quieter than usual, the usual clamor of laughter and clattering mugs dulled to a low murmur. The long tables stretched out under the flickering torchlight, laden with steaming bowls of stew and hunks of bread, but the air hung heavy, thick with exhaustion and unspoken gripes. You dropped onto a bench, the wood creaking under your weight, and rubbed at your aching thighs, the daggers in your boots a silent comfort against the day's grind that at least something was achieved.

Gobber held court at the head of the table, his voice a relentless growl cutting through the stillness, hook-hand jabbing the air as he rambled on.

"We'll still start if that twig of a boy shows his face—Nadder don't wait for no one, and neither will I!" he lectured, his words a steady drip of frustration, punctuated by the scrape of his spoon against his bowl.

The others picked at their food—Astrid glowering into her stew, Snotlout slouched with a scowl, the twins poking at each other with bread crusts—but no one argued. Too tired, too soaked, too fed up. You kept your head down, spooning broth into your mouth, its heat a faint balm against the chill still clinging to your skin, and let Gobber's tirade wash over you like the rain outside.

Then the Great Hall's doors banged open, a sudden crash that jolted every head upright. A gust of wind roared in, snuffing a torch near the entrance and sending a shiver of cold through the room. Hiccup stumbled through, soaked to the bone, his tunic plastered to his skinny frame, hair a dripping mess of auburn plastered across his forehead. It was just like last night when he showed up soaked after leaving the arena after the Gronckle.

Water pooled at his feet, dark and muddy, as he stood there, chest heaving, the sketchbook still clutched under one arm—soggy, smudged, but intact. The hall seemed like it fell dead silent, the weight of too many eyes pinning him in place. No one spoke—too astonished, too wrung out to muster a sound. Astrid's spoon hovered midair, Snotlout's jaw slackened, and even Gobber's growl snagged in his throat, his hook-hand pausing mid-gesture as he stared, one bushy brow arching higher and higher.

You felt your pulse quicken, a sharp thud against your ribs, as you locked eyes with him as he walked towards you. His green gaze flickered—wary, sheepish, but glinting with something wild, something he'd dragged back from those woods. The Night Fury, you'd bet on it. The silence stretched, thick as the smoke curling from the hearth, and you gripped your spoon tighter, the wood biting into your palm.

He was here, finally, but the questions—where he'd been, what he'd seen, was he okay, and he was going to get a kick in the hind—burned hotter than the stew in your gut, and you weren't sure if you wanted to throttle him or demand answers first. But first thing above all, you were so relieved he was alive as he sat beside you.

The silence that followed was a beast of its own, heavy and deadly, coiling around the Great Hall like the sea gone still. Hiccup hunched at the table's edge, water still dripping from his soaked form to puddle beneath him same as you, his shoulders drawn tight as if he could shrink from the weight of every stare.

His wide, nervous eyes darted, flicking from you to Astrid, then to Gobber, then back again, green and skittish like a cornered deer's. You caught Gobber's glare for a split second, and your stomach twisted—you both knew this quiet. It wasn't exhaustion or shock holding Gobber's tongue now. It was fury, the kind that burned cold and silent, the kind that meant trouble deeper than either of you could dig out of.

No one moved, breaths held, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and stew gone cold. Then Gobber's voice sliced through, clear as a blade's edge, sharper than anyone had ever heard it—none of his usual gravel or bluster, just pure, chilling command.

"Get to the arena. All of ye. Now."

The words landed like a hammer on steel, ringing in your ears, and the hall erupted into chaos between you all. Benches screeched across the stone floor, a shrieking sound as they toppled in a tangle of legs and curses. You lurched to your feet, heart slamming against your ribs, and grabbed at a bench to right it, the rough wood splintering under your grip as Snotlout's elbow jabbed your side in the scramble.

The others flailed too—Astrid shoving a bench back with a grunt, the twins tripping over each other with muffled yelps, Hiccup staggering up last, his soggy boots slipping as he clutched his wet fur gilet tighter. You didn't wait to sort it out—Gobber's silence had snapped into something alive, a threat pulsing behind his stillness, and none of you dared test it.

You bolted for the doors, shoving them open with a shoulder as the cold after math of the rain slapped your face again, the air biting after the hall's fleeting warmth. Boots pounded the mud behind you, a ragged chorus of splashes and gasps, everyone running flat-out for the arena before Gobber's next word—or worse, his hook—could catch up.

You stole a glance back as you ran, the hall's torchlight framing Gobber's silhouette in the doorway, unmoving, his face dark—haunting you guys. Hiccup was a few paces behind, head down, soaked hair whipping in the wind, and you felt that prickle again—anger, worry, the urge to drag him aside and shake him. But the arena loomed ahead, its stone walls slick and shadowed, the Nadder's distant hiss cutting through the rain. No time for that now.

Mercy wasn't on the table today—not a shred of it. The moment Gobber herded you all into the arena—locking you up, his hook-hand jabbing the air like a conductor of chaos, he swung the gate wide and unleashed the Deadly Nadder.

Its talons scraped the stone, a shrill screech ripping through the air as it shook out its vibrant scales, spines glinting under the gray, cloud-choked sky. Midafternoon light filtered dim and heavy, casting the beast in a dull, menacing sheen, and you couldn't help but shake your head—not surprised—when Hiccup, still damp from his earlier drenching, piped up from the lineup about Night Furies.

His voice cracked, bold and foolish, fishing for scraps like you'd seen him do in the great hall last night in that dragon book. You knew it—he'd been hunting answers on it.

"Today!" Gobber cut him off, voice booming over the arena's walls, sharp enough to slice through Hiccup's stammer. "Is all about ATTACK!"

"Nadders are quick and light on their feet. Your job's to be quicker and lighter." He leaned against the railing, picking at his teeth with the tip of his hook-hand, a faint scrape echoing as he grinned, savoring the mayhem about to unfold.

"Look for its blind spot—every dragon's got one. Find it, hide in it, strike." His words hung like a dare, and the Nadder's head snapped up, eyes glinting as it prowled, tail twitching like a whip primed to crack.

The twins charged first, reckless as ever—Ruffnut behind Tuffnut swinging their spears and shields as they stilled before the dragon casted its raging fire toward them—Then the Nadder spun in your direction, its spines flaring. A quick lash of its tail sent you sprawling, a hail of barbs thudding into the wooden barricade with sharp thunks and into your shield.

Then its gaze locked on you, alone in the dust, the others scrambling too far to help. Heart pounding, you slid into its blind spot—right near the center of its mouth like the twins had, where its head couldn’t twist—and felt the air shift, thick with the musky scent of its scales and the faint tang of your own sweat. Quick as a blink, you slipped a black stone dagger from your boot, its weight steady in your palm, and reared back to throw, aiming for the soft patch under its wing.

But Hiccup—with bad timing, didn’t see the dragon—blundered in, his lanky frame crashing into you as he stumbled over the uneven stone, muttering, “There you are!”

The jolt knocked your aim wide, the dagger skittering harmlessly across the ground with a metallic clatter. The Nadder’s head whipped around, eyes narrowing as it caught the motion, and its tail flicked—fast, vicious. A volley of spines shot out, slicing the air with a high-pitched whistle.

You shoved Hiccup aside so he wouldn’t get hit, diving low, but one barb deeply grazed your upper arm—missing your face by a second, a hot sting blooming as blood welled under your torn sleeve. You hissed through clenched teeth, rolling to your feet, the dagger lost but the second one still snug in your boot. The Nadder loomed closer—searching, its beak-like snout snapping, and Hiccup’s wide-eyed stare met yours—half-apology, half-panic over you.

“Move!” you barked, grabbing Hiccup’s arm and yanking him up, as he went tumbling to the dirt as he flailed. The Nadder screeched, talons gouging the stone as it charged, its tail coiling for another strike. You bolted, dragging him with you, legs pumping as you darted for the arena’s maze of wooden barricade—holding your wound with one hand, the other gripping Hiccups hand.

The air burned in your lungs, the graze on your arm throbbing with every step as the poison sunk through your blood stream, but you didn’t stop—couldn’t. Hiccup’s boots pounded beside you, uneven and frantic, his breath ragged as he muttered, ‘Sorry—sorry!’ over the dragon’s shrieks. You veered sharp behind a splintered wall, shoving him down into a crouch as the Nadder’s spines thwacked into the wood above your heads, splintering it like dry kindling.

You held your breath, the musky stench of the beast thick in your nose, as you peered through a gap to watch the Nadder prowled past, its head twitching, scaly spikes ruffling as it searched—quick, light, just like Gobber said. But you were quicker. You waited, counting its steps, until it turned toward the twins’ shouts across the arena, their chaos a perfect lure.

“Now,” you whispered, and bolted again, Hiccup scrambling after you. You wove through the barricades, ducking low, the gray sky a blur overhead, until you hit the far wall and slid behind a stack of crates, the dragon’s hiss fading into the distance. It had lost you—for now.

You slumped against the wood, chest heaving, the second dagger clutched tight in your sweaty grip. Hiccup sank beside you, panting, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, sketchbook gone somewhere in the dust. The graze on your arm pulsed, blood trickling down to your elbow as you held onto it. Hiccup got to his knees muttering apologies again, but you waved him off saying to just focus on the task at hand.

“I didn’t mean—” he started, voice soft but a shadow loomed over you both—Gobber had barreled down from the stands and into the arena.

“Aye—That’s enough for you lass” he whispered, voice rough but edged with something rare—worry.

Gobber steadied you with his hand under your elbow, grunting as Hiccup scrambled to your other side, his damp grip gentle but firm as they hauled you up from the dust. “Get ‘er to the front gate,” Gobber ordered Hiccup, nodding toward the iron bars cracked just wide enough for a quick slip-through, the hinges creaking faintly.

Hiccup’s mouth opened, another apology tumbling out—“I’m so sorry, I didn’t—“ but you cut him off with a bright, lopsided grin, the sting in your arm fading under the warmth of it.

“It’s fine, Hic,” you said, voice steady despite the blood seeping through your sleeve. “We’ll get that beast next time—you go back in there and beat it for me, alright?”

The dragon hissed, distracted by Astrid while Gobber grabbed your good arm, hauling you up with a grunt. “Out with ye—now,” he said, quieter, his grip firm but careful as he steered you toward the gate. You glanced back at Hiccup, still crouched, his face pale but relieved, and you gave him a small nod—it’s okay—because even with your arm stinging, you couldn’t muster anger at him, not ever.

The arena gate clanged shut behind you, the Nadder’s cries muffled as Gobber hustled you out into the gray afternoon light. The air felt cooler against your flushed skin, the clouds overhead thick and brooding, promising rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Gothi was waiting near the edge, her hunched form bundled in furs, staff tapping the ground as she squinted at you.

Gobber shoved you gently toward her. “She’s nicked—fix ‘er up,” he muttered, then turned back to the arena, barking at the others to “keep it movin’!” Gothi’s bony fingers prodded your arm, her touch sharp but sure, and she clucked her tongue, gesturing for you to sit on a nearby crate. She rummaged in her pouch, pulling out a wad of herbs and a strip of cloth, her wrinkled face set in a frown as she mashed the leaves with a stone, the sharp, earthy scent cutting through the arena’s dust.

You sat on the crate, the graze on your upper arm throbbing with a dull, insistent pulse, each beat a reminder of the Nadder’s barb. Gothi hunched beside you, her sharp eyes narrowing as she scooped a thick, green poultice from her stone bowl, the air filling with its sharp, earthy-minty like tang—like crushed pine and bitter roots.

She smeared the poultice over the raw flesh, her bony fingers pressing it in with a steady hand, the coolness sinking into the wound and stinging fierce at first, a jolt that made you grit your teeth. The pain ebbed as the herbs did their work, numbing the edges, and she lingered there, dabbing gently to coax the torn skin into stillness, her touch careful now despite the calluses roughing her palms.

She reached for a strip of cloth from her bundle, its edges frayed but clean and began wrapping it around your arm. Her hands moved slower this time, trembling faintly with age, but precise layering the fabric snug but not tight, letting it cradle the poultice against the graze.

The bandage hugged your skin, a soft pressure that steadied the ache, and she tied it off with a small, deft knot, her knuckles brushing your shoulder as she worked. When she finished, she gave your shoulder a gruff pat—a quick, firm there—her wrinkled face softening for a blink before she turned to her pouch again.

From it, she pulled a small clay vial, stoppered with a cork, and thrust it into your hands with a grunt, gesturing sharply to your mouth. You popped it open, the sharp whiff of something sour and medicinal hitting your nose—fermented berries, maybe, mixed with a bite you couldn’t place.

“For the poison?” you asked, as she nodded with a twinkle in her eye.

The Nadder’s barb hadn’t just cut—it’d left a sickly heat creeping up your arm, a faint queasiness knotting your gut, and you nodded, of course trusting her. You tipped the vial back, the liquid bitter and thick on your tongue, burning down your throat like fire-warmed mead.

It hit your stomach hard, a jolt that chased the nausea back, leaving a strange, tingling warmth in its wake. Gothi watched, tapping her staff once as if satisfied, then waved you off, her furs rustling as she shuffled away.

The screams echoing through the arena had dwindled to a tense hush after a while, the air settling thick and heavy under the gray, cloud-choked sky. Astrid had ended it—not with her axe, but with a shield, slamming it against the Nadder’s head with a resounding clang that sent the beast reeling.

The dragon shook its vibrant scales, spines and wings drooping, and stalked off to the pen’s far end, its interest in the fight snuffed out like a torch in the wind. Midafternoon light still hung dim over the stone walls, casting long shadows as Gobber’s voice rumbled through, sharp and gruff, laying into Hiccup and the others with a lecture about ‘focus’ and ‘not tripping over yer own feet.’

You caught snatches of it from beyond the gate, the words muffled by the distance and the steady throb in your bandaged arm. Gobber stumped over to you after, his heavy boots kicking up dust, hook-hand swinging at his side. He stopped short of the crate where you sat, staring down where Gothi’s poultice still tingling under the cloth wrap, and squinted down at you, his broad face creased with a frown.

“Ye alright, lass?” he asked, voice lower now, rough but threaded with a rare fatherly softness he had for you.

He scratched at his beard with the hook’s tip, a faint scrape cutting the quiet, then nodded when you managed a small, tired smile.

“Good. Rest that arm—Nadder’s got a nasty bite. We’ll let you all rest for several days before the next challenge.” With a grunt, he turned and trudged off toward the village, his silhouette fading into the gray haze as he muttered about him becoming soft.

Astrid and the others filed out after, brushing past without a word—her blonde braid swinging, jaw tight; Snotlout slouching with a scowl; the twins bickering over a bent shield. Their boots scuffed the dirt, leaving you and the crate in a wake of silence, the arena’s dust settling slow under the brooding clouds.

Then Hiccup appeared, hesitating at the gate before stepping closer, his damp tunic still clinging to his skinny frame, hair a tousled mess from the day’s chaos. He sank onto the crate beside you, gentle and quiet, his shoulders hunched with a weight you knew too well—shame, gnawing at him for the graze, for the stumble, and the accident with Astrid.

His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers twisting together, avoiding your gaze. You didn’t say anything—no words felt right, not after today. Instead, you reached out, your hand finding his, your soft palm brushing his more callused skin as you curled your fingers around his. He stilled, breath catching, and you squeezed gently, a silent tether pulling him back from wherever his guilt had dragged him.

Slowly, he turned his head, green eyes lifting to meet yours, wide and searching, shadowed with worry. But you smiled—soft, steady, the kind that said you were okay, that they were okay. The poison’s ache lingered, Gothi’s bitter drink still warm in your throat, but here, with his hand in yours under the gray sky, the day’s sting faded. His lips twitched, a small, relieved curve answering yours, and for that moment, the world held still—no lectures, no dragons, just the two of you, unbroken.

This is Chapter 3 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

#chapter 3 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge

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fernpetals · 1 month ago

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Bump in the Road

Masterlist

Yandere Ex-Boyfriend Tom Ludlow Headcanons

Part II

Based on this and this post.

Warning: Toxic behaviour, controlling tendencies, mentions of alcoholism, obsessive tendencies, stalking, red flag relationship dynamics

Credit to the original owner of the GIF

Unedited Piece

Imagine dating Tom Ludlow. You never heard anyone call him Thomas before. Tom, everyone knows him as Tom.

Seems like an easy-going person’s name, right?

Wrong. Tom is anything but easy-going. Since the devastating death of his marriage and then his wife, Tom has never been the same. He is self-destructive, he is relentless and reckless.

But then, you come into his life and for the first time in a while, he acknowledges the need to be held.

Your relationship with Tom starts sweet. It even helps him to become a better man, the version of himself he had left behind. Almost, close enough. He can never be the same again.

But his alcohol intake reduces significantly, and he actually begins to eat home-cooked food, enjoys cooking, even, especially if it is for you.

It is all going well; you could never have thought of being loved and held like Tom was. Thomas Ludlow is the most unexpected and sweetest surprise life has thrown at you.

It’s life you’re floating on a pool of fragrant water, and nothing can disturb your peace.

And then, something plunges you right into the water, and no matter how sweetly lukewarm it has been on the surface, deep down, it’s frozen.

It does feel like you are being plunged into ice-cold water when your friend points out that your phone is bugged. She works for a software company, and hacking is a cakewalk for her.

Turns out, all your messages, your location, your call record, everything shows up in Tom’s phone.

You refuse to believe it until you do manage to get hold of his phone under the pretext of booking a cab.

The feeling of being plunged into freezing water is followed by hot rage. You confront him, expecting at least an apology, an answer.

But he has the audacity to scoff, to talk down to you, and you finally see it, the patronizing tone behind his caring nature.

You realise how that one time he showed up at the bar you went to, without informing him.

He acts like you do not know what is right for you. He has your best interests in mind. The patronising tone, the overprotectiveness, the possessiveness, you have dealt with them for so long, seeing them as flaws he will work on, just like he has on his alcoholism and self-destructive tendencies.

Looking at him now, you come to a realisation. Something you should have realised long before. You cannot fix him. No one ‘fixes’ anyone. If someone wants to be better, he acts on it, he works on it, he acknowledges every flaw he sees and thinks ‘no, I am going to do better because she deserves it, I deserve it.’

But Tom has been selective. He is not dependent on alcohol anymore, and it would have been a good thing if he were not dependent on you. The haze of roses and carnations clears out, and you finally see it. His need for control, to keep you close. He is isolating you, and your bugged phone is the final straw.

He has called you an anchor; he said you ground him. But at what cost? He is sucking up your independence, your individuality, your freedom and yous se the hooks all too clearly now.

“I can’t do this anymore.” You shake your head, hugging yourself as you try to create some distance “I can’t, Tom, I can’t. This is it.”

“You don't know what you're talking about, honey, look here, look at me.” You feel him cup your cheeks and his forehead softly bumping against yours, but you cannot bring yourself to look him in the eye. You feel betrayed.

The relationship with Tom is over from your end. He becomes your ‘ex’. It is one of the most painful chapters in your life, but it is history, nevertheless.

But the relationship is over for you, not Tom Ludlow. For him, this is just a difficult phase, a bump in the road to your and his happily ever after. He has learnt from his mistakes. He was going to do everything right this time, you simply happen to find out that he bugged your phone(for your safety) because of one bitch of a friend.

He tries, he really does try to be everything he envisioned himself to be— giving you space, texting and calling you, but you refuse to reach out to his outstretched hand. You are stubborn, adorable, but rigid in your ways, it pinches his heart just a little.

Tom is not known for his patience, but for you, he can learn.

#yandere tom ludlow #yandere tom ludlow x reader #yandere exboyfriend #yandere cop #keanu reeves x reader #tom ludlow imagine #tom ludlow x reader imagine #possessive tom ludlow #keanuverse #dark tom ludlow

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dallassauna · 3 months ago

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Experience ultimate relaxation with a traditional dry sauna for home. Enjoy the soothing heat, improved circulation, and stress relief in the comfort of your own space. Perfect for wellness and relaxation.

#traditional dry sauna for home #cold plunge pool home #home sauna and cold plunge

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victoria-daydreams · 1 month ago

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In Her Place, I Stand

Part II: The Gilded Cage of Mourning

AN: Friends! I'm back, so sorry for the long wait! My wifi has been going in and out, work and school have been overwhelming, and my country is plunging into fascism. Hope you guys enjoy the chapter. Sorry for any typos.

Trigger warnings: mentions of racism and SA, period typical misogyny and sexism

Word Count: 8.6k

Part III: Little Things Mean A Lot

"Damn it all!" Dorothea cursed quietly, tossing her bed covers aside in frustration.

Sitting up in her bed, she swung her legs over the mattress and planted her feet onto the cool floor, quickly sliding them into her waiting slippers. Sleep had abandoned her this night, the reason remained unknown to her. With a sigh, Dorothea reached for her robe, the soft material pooling around her as she slipped it on. The moonlight and dying embers of the hearth providing the only illumination in the shadowy room. Picking up the gas lamp from her bedside table, she switched it on and began her trek to the kitchen, softly closing her bedroom door behind her.

The dark hallway stretched before her, a cavern of shadows, which was combated only by the nervous, flickering flame of the lamp. The house was silent, the servants had long gone to bed. The stillness was broken only by the sound of the home settling, the hiss of the lamp, and the padding of her slippers that barely made a sound on the polished, wooden floor. Occasionally, the floorboard would groan, announcing her passage as she made her way to the kitchen, her figure casting a long, dancing shadow down the hallway. The promise of chamomile tea offered her a fragile hope of solace.

Creak.

A board groaned directly behind her, the sound slicing through the silence, sharp and unsettling. Dorothea's spine stiffened as she whirled around, the lamp swinging wildly in her trembling grasp. The light momentarily blinded her before its brightness cut through the darkness. Friedrich stood a few feet behind her, a tall, dark silhouette against the faint light emanating in the hall. He looked like a ghost, his features obscured by the shadows, his presence both imposing and unnerving.

"Friedrich! God in heaven!" she gasped, clutching her chest. "Have you been following me this whole time?" she asked, struggling to hide the annoyance in her voice, her heart pounding against her ribs like a drum.

"No," Friedrich answered, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the stillness. It offered no explanation, no apology. "Not long," he added, as Dorothea began feeling the weight of his gaze.

The single, terse word felt like a dismissal. Dorothea tightened her grip on the lamp. A litany of colorful curses Dorothea learned from her father's stable hands threatened to spill forth from her lips, but she but she clamped down on them, fighting the urge. A lady did not speak that way, even in the face of being scared out of her wits. A lady did not swear, at least not aloud. Straightening her shoulders, Dorothea forced herself into a semblance of composure, her chin lifting a fraction.

"I'm making tea to help me sleep. You are welcome to join, since you decided it was wise to stalk behind me," Dorothea informed, the barb was subtle, but she knew it landed seeing the pinprick of irritation on his face in place of his usual stoniness.

She spun on her feet, not waiting for a reply and continued her journey. Friedrich didn't respond, but he did follow her toward the kitchen, the silence thick with unspoken things. Entering the kitchen, the lamplight illuminated the space, revealing the gleaming copper pots hanging above the stove. Being inside the kitchen was a comforting contrast to the shadowed hallways, though eerily quiet without the usual flurry. The room was cold with the fire from the hearth extinguished, but the familiar scent of herbs and spices still lingered in the air. It was a stark contrast to its daytime vibrancy, usually a bustling hive of activity with the chatter of servants and a symphony of clattering pots and pans, was now was still and dim.

The long oak table, typically laden with ingredients and utensils, stood bare. Dorothea placed the lamp on the table, its glow pushing back the darkness along with the faint moonlight filtering through the large window above the sink. Dorothea moved to the stove and looked over her shoulder to see Friedrich standing outside the doorway, a dark shadow against the pale walls. With a single, beckoning gesture, she invited him to come in before busying herself with her preparation. Friedrich sat down heavily at the table, his presence a weight in the already stifling atmosphere.

Dorothea moved with familiar grace: striking a match to light the stove, filling the kettle at the pump, the clatter of metal as she placed the kettle onto the burner. The routine was a small comfort from the charged, uncomfortable tension that hung in the room, broken only by the soft rustle of her nightgown. The soft gurgle of the kettle told Dorothea the water had been brought to boil and she wrapped a towel around the handle before pouring into the waiting teacups. A faint, earthy aroma filled the air as she poured the water onto the leaves, the steam swirling around her face like a veil.

She placed the kettle on a back burner, "Chamomile," Dorothea named, picking up both of their cups.

She turned around to see Friedrich's posture rigid, his hands clasped tightly together on the wood.

"I find it soothing," she informed, moving around the table to sit across from him.

A vast expanse of polished wood separating them. She offered him the cup, their fingers brushing briefly as he took it. He nodded curtly before taking a sip, his face still partially hidden in shadow. A moment of silence stretched between them, wider than the table itself.

"What woke you?" she asked, her voice now gentle as the earlier anger receded

"Dreams," he said, his answer was almost a whisper. A raw vulnerability she didn't experience often. "Always the dreams," he repeated, his gaze fixed on some unseen horror in the distance.

She didn't press Friedrich. She knew what those dreams entailed. The faces of Anna and his girls, their laughter replaced by the chilling silence of death. She understood. The memories clung like cobwebs in the dark corners of the mind.

A lull fell in the stilted conversation and Dorothea found herself studying him, really studying him. Almost as if it was a forbidden act to truly see her husband in this vulnerable state, but she couldn't help herself. Her eyes lingered on his sleep-tousled dark locks, the usually neat curled strands now endearingly falling across his forehead, framing his face. Her stare drifted lower, lingering on the meticulous grooming that was so characteristic of him. The way his sideburns blended seamlessly into the finely trimmed hairs of his beard, softening the strong line of his jaw. Her eyes traced the sculpted lines of his mouth, the flickering lamplight catching the delicate hairs of his mustache and goatee. He was a handsome man, undeniably so, even amidst his sorrow.

A fact she had often tried to ignore, a defense against the sharp sting of his emotional distance.

That's when her gaze snagged on his eyes. The lamplight highlighted the lines of fatigue etched around them and the faint silvery scars near his eyes, nestled just shy of the fullness of his cheeks. They were almost invisible, a subtle marring of his otherwise perfect skin. They spoke of a past she knew little about, a suffering she could only guess at and one Friedrich refused to share. Her fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and touch them, to trace the paths of the pain he had endured.

Instead, Dorothea settled with letting her fingers tighten around the warm porcelain of her cup.

Friedrich’s gaze was fixed on the grain, its surface worn smooth by years of use. He traced the swirling patterns with his finger, lost in a world only he could see, in the wood's silent story. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes snapped up and locked with hers. His dark, intense stare piercing into her very soul. He had sensed her unabashed staring had become a tangible weight on his skin.

"Did your parents not teach you it’s rude to stare, Dorothea?" he chided, his voice sharp and biting, like a winter wind.

His words stung, delivered with the dismissiveness of a scolding parent, addressing a misbehaving child. Dorothea flushed, darting her eyes down to the swirling tea in her cup in front of her which she suddenly found more fascinating. Shame burned in her cheeks.She felt absurdly small, exposed and foolish under his scrutiny. From the corner of her eye, she saw she saw a flush creep up his neck, staining his collar a deep red. A sign of his own discomfort. He too, was embarrassed. After a moment of charged silence, she spoke, her voice barely audible.

"Father said you were quite ill before we married," Dorothea said quietly, seizing on the opportunity to broach the subject and delve deeper.

The little information she had been offered by her father was in the hushed tones that were often reserved for delicate subjects, a warning about the fragility of her new husband. She remembered the whispered words her father said to her just before he handed her off at the wedding altar.

"Be careful, Dorothea. He is broken."

"I was his patient. It's how we first met," he answered stiffly, his posture rigid in the chair.

The words hung in the air, a reminder of the circumstances that had thrown them together. His eyes held a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher, but it felt suspiciously like resentment. But towards who? Her father, for orchestrating this unlikely union? Or her, for being the beneficiary of his miraculous recovery? A daughter traded for a life saved.

"Did he...did he tell you how I fell ill?" Friedrich asked, a tremor now present in his voice, a subtle crack in his carefully constructed facade. It was this fleeting vulnerability that intrigued and frightened her.

Dorothea's mind conjured up the hushed whispers she overheard, the disturbing tales that haunted her since the news of her engagement. It was a stain on their marriage before it had even begun. Those rumors followed Friedrich like a dark shadow. The stories of a man driven to madness, his grief so consuming it had driven him to the brink. The most horrifying tale being the one that he was found in an indecent state in his family mausoleum, clinging to his dead wife. The skirt of her burial dress hiked up, his pants undone and in between her legs. His face was said to have been buried in her neck feverishly whispering her name, begging her to wake up and come back to him.

He had ultimately been discovered by the groundskeeper.

Some said he hadn't been between her legs, but merely cradling her, sobbing uncontrollably. Others charged him with a far more sinister act, necrophilia. How he moaned and sobbed as he thrust into her corpse. A grotesque mockery of the love he had lost; a desperate attempt to seek solace in the cold, lifeless embrace of his Anna.

Dorothea swallowed, the image so stark and macabre it was an unwelcome intrusion in her mind, shocking her to her core. But, a sliver of curiosity, and a strange, unsettling thrill, had pierced through her disgust. She suppressed that image, reminding herself such lurid tales were likely twisted and embellished by gossiping ladies who's tongues wagged behind their fans.

"No, Father said it was not relevant," she answered, a half-truth and a lie. Dorothea was unwilling to betray the knowledge that both terrified and intrigued her. She would never admit to knowing the terrible specifics, not without him offering them first. "Just that you survived," she added, wanting to give him some semblance of privacy, to offer him some dignity and distance from the scandalous whispers.

It was a fragile shield against the judgement that surely hovered over him, even now. She held his gaze, trying to look indifferent, as if the rumors did not bother her, but she felt him looking through her.

Dorothea could hear Liese's voice echoing the same words that crossed her mind when their father first broke the news of the proposal. The memory stung, reminding her of the pity she saw in Liese's eyes.

"You married her to a madman?" Liese asked, her tone sharp with incredulousness. "A widower, barely recovered from…whatever illness plagued him. Father, you cannot be serious!" she exclaimed.

"I am to be wed to an alleged madman?" Dorothea thought.

Was she truly married to someone teetering on the edge of sanity?

"Dottie deserves better than that," Liese added, her face etched with concern. "She deserves a husband who is not a haunted shell of a man consumed by grief!" Liese’s words, dismissed at the time, now echoed with a chilling resonance.

"He belongs in an asylum, Father! Not a marriage bed!"

"He said your recovery was miraculous," she continued, driven by a desperate need to fill the silence. "Told me God must favor you. Most people wouldn't have survived," she quoted unthinkingly, repeating the words her father had used to reassure her, to justify the union.

The words, intended as a compliment, now felt like stones in her mouth, she was only echoing the platitudes she'd heard so often. And she instantly regretted them, watching the little color that present drain from Friedrich's face, leaving him looking gaunt and hollow-eyed. The phrase "a lucky man" would have been a cruel mockery to one who had endured the ravages of illness. But for Friedrich, it must have been like ripping open his wounds and then pouring salt into it for good measure. By the coldness in his eyes, she knew she had erred.

His mouth drew into a thin, hard line. The blue of his eyes seemed to darken, becoming almost glacial.

"I am aware," he replied, his voice tight and controlled.

The air grew unbearably thick with tension.

Her hand flexed on the table, wanting to take his hand, to offer some comfort, but hesitated, unsure of how he would react after the insensitivity of her remark. Friedrich saw the movement, the unspoken gesture, and his expression softened. Just a fraction. But then, he looked away, into the shadows beyond the lamp's reach.

"I-I didn't mean—" Dorothea stammered, scrambling for the right words to undo the damage she had inflicted.

He silenced her with a harsh, mirthless laugh that cut through the air.

"I wish I hadn't survived," Friedrich admitted, the confession hanging in the air, heavy and suffocating. "Perhaps it would have been better for everyone. For you, especially for me," he added harshly.

He finally met her gaze, his eyes filled with a profound sadness. The air in the kitchen seemed to drop and become several degrees colder, the shadows darker. Dorothea's breath was caught in her throat, staring at him speechless. Their conversation had suddenly veered into dark, uncharted territory. He held her stare, revealing a glimpse of the depths of the that had been consuming him. She had no idea how to respond to such bleakness, such raw despair.

"If this is God's favor," he went on bitterly, his gaze hardening. "I don't want it," he whispered.

Friedrich pushed back his chair, the scraping sound echoing in the silence. He rose and strode toward the door, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. He didn't spare a glance at her. He didn't say goodnight. As he walked away, Dorothea saw a tremor in his hand as he raised it to his mouth. Reaching the doorway, he paused, his back to her, a rigid silhouette against the soft glow of the lamp. He stood there for a moment as if battling some inner demon. Then, without turning, he spoke, his voice barely audible and strained.

"Sometimes," he said, his voice cracking. "I see their faces in yours. The way you tilt your head when you listen, the way you hum softly to yourself, the way you sometimes smile," he listed, pausing to take a shuddering breath. "And I hate it. I hate you for reminding me," he whispered.

And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway, his footsteps echoing dully in the distance. Dorothea sat alone in the cold, silent kitchen, the weight of his words crushing her, each syllable a blow to her heart. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the intense and sudden chill that had settled over her.

Last month, he had placed a single, perfect tulip on her desk, a gesture of...what? Remorse? Guilt? Something akin to apology? She wasn't sure. It was a start, an acknowledgement of her existence after months of being treated like a ghost in her own home. It felt like a lifetime ago and after this conversation, a cruel joke played by fate.

The tea in her cup had gone cold, and the sleep that had eluded her as a distant prospect, now seemed utterly unattainable.

~~~x~~~

Dorothea hummed softly, pleased with the posy of lily of the valley and budding periwinkle she’d arranged in a porcelain vase. Fiona, a young serving girl was just finishing dusting the sideboard, her eyes lingering on the arrangement.

"Such a beautiful arrangement, gnädige Frau," she had murmured earlier, her eyes crinkling with genuine appreciation.

Dorothea had offered a small, private smile in return, it was a small victory in a house that often felt stubbornly barren and cold. Dorothea returned to her breakfast, a precisely arranged hard boiled egg, thinly sliced ham, and two perfectly, neatly stacked slices of toast. A silver butter knife and egg spoon gleamed beside them. The crisp rustle of the newspaper, the gentle clink of the spoon against the eggshell were the only sounds in the room. Then, the heavy oak door swung inward.

Dorothea looked up, her breath hitching. Friedrich stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space. He rarely joined her for breakfast, since they first married, she'd grown accustomed to his absence at the table. He entered the room his stride deliberate, but instead of taking his usual seat at the head of the mahogany table, he came to her side. His presence filled the space around her.

Friedrich's shadow fell across the table with him standing in front of her, his tall frame silhouetted against the bright morning light streaming through the arched windows. She could smell the faint, familiar scent of pipe tobacco clinging to his clothes. Friedrich rested a hand lightly on the back of her chair, the hesitant touch causing her fingers to unconsciously tighten around the silver spoon.

"Dorothea," he began, his voice low. "Forgive me. I should not have said what I said last night."

Dorothea looked down at her plate, every syllable of his late night confession echoed in her mind, raw and wounding.

"And I hate it. I hate you for reminding me,"

His words were similar to a jagged shard that had been lodged in her heart.

Dorothea let her eyes linger on the dish for a moment longer, her fingers tracing the rim of the porcelain plate. Swallowing, she forced herself to meet his gaze. The lines etched around his eyes seemed deeper this morning, the remnants of a sleepless night. There was genuine regret there, as well as torment, warring with something else she could not name.

She forced a small, neutral smile, "It is forgotten, Friedrich," Dorothea assured. Though, truly, it was far from forgotten. This was merely the practiced diplomacy expected of a woman trying to navigate the treacherous, unfamiliar waters of her unconventional marriage. "My mother once told me," she continued softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "That words spoken in the dark hold less weight in the light," she recited, but she knew it wasn't true. The darkness had simply stripped away the veneer of politeness, revealing the painful truth he had kept buried within him. "You are forgiven," she finished, with a small nod.

Friedrich seemed to deflate slightly, tension leaving his shoulders. He moved then, taking the chair opposite her and pulling it out with a scrape that grated on her nerves. Settling in, he snapped his fingers, summoning a servant who materialized silently. With a curt nod, the man hurried away to the kitchen. Friedrich cleared his throat, the sound echoing slightly in the still atmosphere.

Sensing there wasn’t anymore conversation to be had, she delicately tapped the egg spoon against the shell of her hard-boiled egg. A moment later, a plate laden with smoked fish and rye bread was placed before him. Friedrich gestured to the servant to pour him some coffee.

"The latest reports from the shipyard are troubling," he began, his voice regaining its more authoritative tone, the businessman replacing the grieving widower.

Dorothea looked up. The stark shift in subject was almost comical, but she recognized it for what it was. An olive branch being extended and she chose to accept it. He was including her, inviting her into a part of his life that he had previously shut her out from.

"Troubling how?" Dorothea asked, dipping her spoon into the egg.

“The government is considering imposing new tariffs on imported wood. It would significantly impact our profit margins."

Dorothea knew nothing of this topic. Her world had been one of music, art, and social gatherings, a far cry from Friedrich's business. It had always been accepted, even before their marriage, that such matters were beyond the purview of a woman. She had been educated, yes, but her understanding of shipbuilding and international commerce was, at best, rudimentary.

"Tariffs?" she repeated, tilting her head. Unconsciously mimicking the very gesture that haunted him so. "Would that mean you would have to charge more for the ships you build?" she asked, carefully choosing her words.

He looked up, a spark of surprise, and something akin to respect flickering in his eyes.

"Precisely," he answered, nodding his head. "Higher prices drive away potential clients, especially those from overseas."

He continued to elaborate on the complexities of supply chains, trade agreements and Dorothea listened intently, her dark eyes fixed on his face. She asked questions, simple ones, born of genuine curiosity and an attempt designed to draw him further out his shell. She knew her questions were naive, perhaps even foolish, but Friedrich answered them patiently. He answered each inquiry with a surprising degree of care, explaining the complexities of his world with a thoroughness he had never shown her before. The air was thick with technical jargon, but beneath it, Dorothea could almost physically feel a subtle shift. He was not merely talking at her, but to her.

As Friedrich spoke, he unconsciously straightened his posture, the lines of his face softening. For a fleeting moment, his appearance was almost…boyish. His eyes gleamed with a passion she rarely witnessed. It was a glimpse into the man before the tragedy, the man who had carried on his father's successful business and grew it further himself. Dorothea could have sworn she saw a tiny, almost imperceptible, smile flicker across his lips when she asked why wood from the Netherlands is more desirable, was there no suitable woods closer to home.

He faltered suddenly, his voice losing its momentum. There was a glint of uncertainess in his eyes, he thought she was losing interest in his work.

"I…I bore you with all this jargon, don't I? Friedrich questioned, the brief moment of lightness vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He cleared his throat, the shadow of his usual self returning once more. "These matters are of little interest to you, I am sure," he said, his voice suddenly gruff. "Are those lilies your doing, Dorothea? The servants seem quite taken with them," he commented, changing the subject abruptly.

"Yes," Dorothea answered softly. "I arranged them this morning. I found the colors quite…restorative, with spring upon us," she trailed off briefly, searching for the right word. "But please, continue," she urged. "On the contrary," she said, her voice growing firm. "I find it enlightening," she said, warmth sparked in her eyes.

He stared at her, his eyes momentarily unguarded. Friedrich's lips twitched. He quickly reached for his napkin, feigning a need to dab at his mouth, the linen momentarily obscuring his face. But Dorothea knew better, she saw it. A ghost of a smile, small and hesitant, played on his lips. He lowered the white cloth a moment later, his expression carefully neutral, but Dorothea noticed a hint of color rising in his cheeks.

"Really?" Friedrich asked, his voice betraying a hint of amusement.

"Yes, really," she affirmed, a gentle smile gracing her lips. "It is your life, after all. I wish to understand it,"

Friedrich leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxing slightly, "Well, in that case," he began, a shy smile tugging on his lips, his voice regaining its former strength. "Let me tell you about the intricacies of the shipbuilding process," he went on, his voice growing in enthusiasm with every word.

~~~x~~~

Two weeks later

The sun warmed the exposed skin of Dorothea's neck and through the cotton material of the dress she wore. The heat was not too uncomfortable yet, but it had her wiping a sheen of sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. Letting her eyes sweep over the garden, Dorothea couldn't help but smile. The rain over the past few days had been good for the plants, weeds or not. She inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the soil and flowers before rocking back onto her heels and slowly rising to her feet. Moving to the next plot, Dorothea let her knees sink into the garden soil which was surely ruining her dress despite the apron pinned to it.

Wrapping her fingers around her trowel, she began the process over. She ripped out stubborn weeds, loosened the soil before soaking it with water, then she carefully nestled the seedlings into their new home in the earth. This work was calm, quiet. In a matter of weeks, the seeds would take to the soil, some would begin the process of flowering. Others, would need more coaxing, perhaps better soil, or protection from rodents she knew would come and disturb them.

Dorothea shifted over to another plot, this time not bothering to stand up to do so as moved on to her next task of pruning her rose bush. Leaning in, she smiled gently as she inhaled the intoxicating, sweet perfume it emitted. These roses had taken months of nurturing to grow, now the branches were full of fat pink blossoms. Grabbing her pair of shears, she clipped the thorns and stem and started humming.

It was in that moment, Dorothea heard the sound of footsteps approaching, the gravel leading to the garden crunching underneath their shoes. There was an unevenness to each step, an almost hurried manner to them. She knew exactly who those steps belonged to.

"Dorothea!" Friedrich called sharply, his voice tight. "What in God's name are you doing?" he asked. "I arrive home to find… Sofie tells me…you are gardening?"

Finishing the last note of humming, her brow furrowed in concentration as she snipped a dead bloom from the rosebush. Dorothea sighed softly, but didn't look up toward the entrance of the garden. Instead, she continued to prune with steady hands.

"Indeed," she answered, still focused on her task. "Good afternoon, Friedrich," Dorothea greeted politely.

Friedrich took a step closer, "Good afternoon"? Is that all you have to say?" he questioned incredulously.

"I am pruning, Friedrich," she explained, a tiny smirk on her lips as she snipped a branch off with precision. "Surely it's plain enough," she added, tilting her head up and looking at him.

"This is highly improper!" Friedrich asserted, his voice rising slightly

"You're home early," Dorothea remarked casually.

"That is hardly the point!" he snapped, his face a mask of disapproval and frustration. "A woman of your station kneeling in the dirt?" he said, a scoff leaving him. "It's simply not done. You should be inside, overseeing the household," Friedrich reminded irritably.

"I do oversee the household, Friedrich. I assure you," Dorothea corrected pointedly, a hint of steel in her eyes. "The linens are pristine, the meals are planned, the servants are adequately supervised, and I even know how to make polite conversation at dinner parties we never host," she listed, with an insincere grin. "All duties fulfilled, all profoundly monotonous," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, how terribly dreadful, Dorothea. Those are the duties, the responsibilities, of a wife in this house," Friedrich replied dismissively, extending his hand out. "Now, come, up you get," he demanded.

Instead of obeying, Dorothea merely turned back to the rosebush.

"Dorothea, please. Don’t be…difficult. Come inside. I'll ring for tea," Friedrich said, his voice strained and she knew his patience was thinning.

"I find nothing improper about tending my own garden, Friedrich. This may come as a surprise to you, but the flowers are indifferent to who wields the shears," she informed, resuming her pruning, her movements deliberate.

Her defiance, though delivered softly, pricked him.

"Dorothea, I forbid it. You will come inside," he ordered, his voice thick with the authority of a man accustomed to obedience.

She looked back up at him, her eyes flashing, "I will not," she retorted.

Dorothea rose from her crouching finally pulling herself to her full height before placing her shears carefully on a nearby stone bench. A sudden breeze blew gently pulling the dark strands of her hair free from beneath her wide-brimmed hat.

"My days are an endless cycle of wifely duties that all begin to blur together. From the moment I open my eyes in the morning to when I lay my head down on the pillow at night, I know with certainty that nothing will be different. The same tasks, over and over again," she paused, a hint of desperation in her voice. "Do you have any idea what that's like?" she wondered. "So, yes! I came here. To the garden, to work with my hands. I needed to do something other than meticulously polish the silverware until my fingers ached. Something that bore tangible fruit," she went on. "This," she gestured to the garden with her hand. "Is something different. This…this brings me a peace I can't find anywhere else, Friedrich," she finished, her voice growing softer.

Friedrich stood ramrod straight, his posture rigid, but she knew her words had deflated his bravado. That he recognized the truth in them, but refused to admit it. Deliberately averting his gaze, Friedrich stared off into the distance, his hardened expression softening ever-so-slightly as a flicker of understanding dawned in his eyes, an emotion he was determined to conceal from her.

Dorothea tugged at the fingers of her gloves one by one before pulling them off her hands entirely and laying them next to her shears.

"When I was younger, Liese was a regular at the social outings, but I wasn't always welcomed or allowed," Dorothea began, walking to another plot of blooming flowers passing Friedrich as she did. "So, I found solace in the gardens at home. Mother taught me everything and Father allowed me full rein of the garden," she continued, her gaze drifting over the flowerbeds. "It became my sanctuary. The soil never judged my skin, Friedrich. The flowers never cared that I was different," she remarked, a subtle edge of bitterness creeping into her voice.

Dorothea looked over shoulder and was pleased to see Friedrich trailing behind her, his arms folded behind his back. Resting one hand on her stomach, she let the other one brush against the petal of the flowers.

"These irises, so elegant, so beautiful. You would never know they're almost as fragile as a butterfly's wing," she commented, her finger gliding down their deep purple, velvety petals. "They need dividing every few years to encourage new growth," she informed, moving past them. Her hand then grazed over a towering spike of delphinium, its azure blooms reaching for the sky. "Delphiniums, they are so temperamental, but the blue is unparalleled, don't you think? Like a summer sky just after a storm," she described, grinning to herself.

Dorothea stopped at a cluster of vibrant peonies, their heavy heads nodding in the breeze. She let out a small hum of approval.

"And just look at these peonies, such a fleeting beauties, wouldn’t you agree?" she asked, delicately cupping a perfect bloom in her hand. "Once they burst into bloom, they're a riot of color and fragrance for a short time. And then, they're gone. When the time is right, I'll prune them to encourage a second bloom. It's unfortunate they will probably be not as spectacular the second time around," she explained, turning the flower in her fingers.

Dorothea's praise of the flowers was met with Friedrich's characteristic stony silence, causing her to scoff inwardly. Glancing up from the peony, she was momentarily startled to find him at her side, but she quickly regained her composure as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a crisp, linen handkerchief.

"You haven't listened to a word I said—" Dorothea began, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

Without warning, he reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before gently touching her cheek. Her breath hitched in her throat at the unexpected intimacy of his gesture.

"You...you have something," Friedrich murmured, his voice barely audible above the murmur of the wind.

He gently dabbed at her skin, the movement surprisingly delicate, almost reverent. Dorothea stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise, a question forming in her gaze. His fingers lingered, tenderly tracing the curve of her cheekbone. The pad of his thumb soft against her skin. She felt a warmth spread through her, not just from the sun, but from the rarity of his touch.

Their eyes locked with one another's, and the birdsong seemed to fade into the background. Only the gentle breeze and the scent of roses remain. For the first time, Dorothea saw not just a distant husband, but a man. A man who's gaze was shifting before her very eyes, something akin to...admiration? Or, at least a flicker of something that wasn't grief or disapproval.

"Friedrich?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He didn't speak, his eyes searching her face, lingering on her lips.

"I heard every single word," he uttered finally, withdrawing his handkerchief, his gaze now fixed on hers. "You'll put poor Herr Fischer out of a job with your knowledge," he added, a faint, almost playful warmth entering his voice.

A slow grin spread across Dorothea's face. "Perhaps that's precisely my intention," She tilted her head, the sunlight catching the copper highlights in her hair. "Someone needs to teach him the proper way to prune a rose, after all," she insisted, laughing softly. "So, if you don't mind," she continued, her tone firm but with a playful glint in her eye, "I have a garden to tend to," she said, making it clear she was not asking for permission.

"This is unconventional," he commented, the warmth in his voice fading, replaced by his usual disapproving tone but without the same sting.

"Unconventional doesn't always mean improper, Friedrich," Dorothea countered softly, her eyes still locked on his. "Sometimes, it just means new," she added

She began to walk past him, intending to return back to her flowers, but he was surprisingly swift. Friedrich's arm snaked around the small of her back, pulling her back with an unexpected forcefulness and spinning her back to face him. Chest to chest, her pulse quickened under his gaze. Dorothea was breathless, not just from the sudden movement, but from the closeness, from the unexpected intimacy. Friedrich himself appeared stunned by his own audacity, his eyes widening slightly.

"At least…at least join me inside for tea? Coffee? It's your choice," he offered, the words tumbling out in a rush, a stark contrast to his usual measured demeanor. It was an invitation, not a command. "With this heat, you must be feeling fatigued from your labor," he suggested, removing his arm and leaving her slightly off-balance, acutely aware of the space that suddenly stretched between them.

Dorothea could only nod, momentarily speechless. "I…I would like that very much, thank you, Friedrich," she managed breathlessly, her cheeks flushed.

Extending his arm out, Friedrich offered it with a hesitant grace. Dorothea hooked her arm with his, the touch tentative, almost shy. They made their way back to the house, the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. Just before reaching the garden gate, Friedrich's other hand covered hers where it rested on his forearm. Dorothea glanced down at his large, pale hand covering hers and her heart quickened. The warmth of his hand, the unexpected intimacy of the gesture, sent a wave of warmth flooding her body, her face growing hot. She dipped her head, letting the brim of her hat partially obscure her features, hoping to hide the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. But deep down, she knew Friedrich had seen it.

~~~x~~~

Same Night

The sudden and insistent knocking at her bedroom door startled Dorothea awake. The book of sonnets resting on her stomach fell to the floor landing with a soft thud on the Persian rug. She scrambled up to her feet, the thin cotton of her nightgown sliding off her shoulder. She barely noticed, her heart hammering against her ribs. Who could be calling at this hour? The knocking came again, more frantic this time.

"Just a moment!" she called, her voice thick with sleep.

She hurried to the door, fumbling with the latch before finally yanking it open. Standing there, in the hallway dimly lit by a gas lamp that cast long, dancing shadows was Friedrich. His face was pale and his eyes, usually a cool, assessing blue, were wide with a raw, undisguised terror. He was breathing in short, shallow gasps. For a fleeting moment, he simply stood there, he seemed momentarily struck dumb, his gaze lingering for a fraction too long on the exposed skin of her neck and shoulder.

Dorothea felt heat creep up her neck and to her cheeks. Her nightgown had indeed slipped, baring a sliver of the delicate hollow of her collarbone and the curve of her shoulder. The warmth from her neck had now blossomed across her chest. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, a primal hunger that made her breath catch in her throat. A flicker of…something she couldn't quite decipher…in his eyes. Desire, perhaps? Ridiculous.

Feigning nonchalance, she adjusted the fabric and pretended not to notice his scrutiny, though her body screamed a different story. Her skin felt like it was on fire while every nerve ending was suddenly alert and humming with awareness.

"Friedrich? What is it? Are you alright?" she asked, her voice a careful balance of concern and cautiousness, ignoring the way her own pulse quickened.

He blinked, drawing himself back from whatever thoughts had consumed him. He quickly averted his eyes, as if ashamed.

"I…I had a nightmare," he stammered, brushing a hand through his disheveled hair. "A terrible dream," he added, his voice a low tremor as he finally met her gaze.

Dorothea's heart ached, she knew exactly the type dream that was haunting him.

"Come in, Friedrich. You're trembling," she said softly, stepping aside and ushering him in.

Closing the door behind her, Artemis, who had also been startled awake, brushed against her ankle yowled softly, arching her back. Dorothea scooped her up, stroking her fur soothingly.

"There, there, my sweet girl. It's alright," she murmured, gently rocking her as she approached him.

Friedrich stood awkwardly in the center of her room, a statue of unease as his shadow stretched long across the floor in the weak firelight. A wave of what looked like embarrassment washed over his face.

"I should go. Dorothea, forgive me. I…I shouldn't have disturbed you," he apologized, he moved to leave, ready to retreat back into the hallway.

"Friedrich!" she called, her voice was soft but firm.

She reached out, her hand instinctively going to his arm to stop him. Instead, her fingers brushed against something harder, more defined than she expected. Beneath the thin linen of his nightshirt, his abdominal muscles were taut, firm. She quickly withdrew her hand, cradling Artemis tighter as a jolt ran through her. Unbidden, images flashed through her mind, images of him shirtless, strong, virile… Dorothea mentally scolded herself. Such thoughts were unbecoming, unladylike. Artemis' contented purring against her chest, pulled her from her thoughts, the small creature was oblivious to the turmoil within her mistress.

"Please," Dorothea said, her voice barely a whisper. "Stay. Talk to me," she pleaded, masking the swirling chaos within.

For a desperate moment, she thought that he would resume his path to her door and she would lose him once more. But he stayed. Walking to her bed and settling heavily on the edge of the mattress, his posture rigid.

Artemis, now placid, nuzzled against her neck, finally back asleep. Dorothea gently deposited her back onto the lounge chaise in front of her bed.

Keeping a respectful distance, she sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking softly beneath her weight. The silence stretched between them and the faint embers in the fireplace cast flickering shadows across the room, painting the walls with dancing light and dark.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dorothea finally asked, her voice low and soothing.

Friedrich swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "It was…the girls. Anna. All gone again," he answered, his voice was strained, barely audible. He looked like a man lost in a storm. "And…and then I woke, and I was alone," he shuddered, his voice cracking on the last word. "I couldn't bear the solitude, Dorothea. I was terrified to be alone with it," he admitted.

She reached out, hesitantly placing her hand on his, her touch barely there against his clammy skin, but he didn't flinch away.

"It fades, doesn't it?" he asked, turning to face her, his eyes haunted. "This pain. I was so sure it would consume me forever. But it fades… and I fear that. I fear forgetting them. I fear losing…" he trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

Friedrich's words struck a chord within her. She knew what it was like to live with fear, with a constant, gnawing uncertainty. Another long silence hung between them, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. Dorothea removed her hand and drew a deep breath, steeling herself. The question that had plagued her for as long as she could remember now bubbled to the surface. The darkness of the room felt like a confessional, a place where secrets could be whispered and burdens shared.

"I understand what it is to fear. To fear the unknown, to fear the past," Dorothea began, her voice low and trembling slightly. "There is something I fear as well, something that has haunted me since I was a young girl," she confessed softly.

Friedrich turned to her, his gaze now focused on her face and his brow furrowed.

"What is it?" he prompted softly.

Her breath caught in her throat, her fingers twisting in the folds of her nightgown. This was a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself, a fear she guarded fiercely.

"I…I have always feared the truth of my origins," Dorothea explained, her voice a whisper. "About my own beginnings," she paused, releasing a shaky breath. "My father…he loves me dearly," she continued, her voice still shaking. "He was a doctor, working in Africa for a time when I was born. My mother, she was a local woman he had met in the village he was in. I never knew her. She died giving birth to me. Or so my father told me," she swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. "But sometimes…sometimes I wonder…I wonder was I conceived in love? Or…or by something far more brutal, sinister—" She cut herself off, her throat tight with unshed tears.

Her words hung in the air as she struggled with the turmoil within her, the secret that she carried for so long.

"That my father, who has always been kind and cherished me, whom I have always adored, that he lied to me. That my mother didn't die at all, but was…discarded. He forced himself on her and simply never looked back, and then lied about her death to protect me from a truth too horrible to bear," she swallowed hard, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "What if she isn't dead? What if she is still out there?" she wondered, her voice wavering, the long-held fear finally breaking free. "Did he nobly claim me as his own? Or did he take me?" she questioned, tears welling in her eyes and blurring her vision. "My father has been the only father I ever known. How can I think of him in such a manner?" she asked again, Friedrich watching her intently. "And do you know the worst thing about all of this? I'll never know the truth. If I asked him how I came into this world, I wouldn't believe the answer he gives me, there would always be a nagging doubt that he's lying either way," she finished, closing her eyes, the weight of years pressing down on her.

The words were out now, hanging heavy in the air like a toxic cloud. The fire crackled, each pop and hiss punctuating the silence. Dorothea reopened her eyes keeping them fixed on her hands, ashamed of the vulnerability she had just revealed. With shuddering breath, she raised her eyes and met Friedrich's stare, bracing herself for the judgment, the disgust that she had always feared. But, she saw none of it. Only understanding, and empathy. Mirroring her actions from earlier, he slowly reached out and took her hand in his, his touch surprisingly warm and firm..

"Dorothea," he said, his voice a low rumble as he squeezed her hand. "Why would you think such a thing? Your father, I've seen the way he looks at you. He adores you. He treasures you—"

"But what if he was lying to protect me?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "To shield me from the truth? What if I'm the product of something shameful?"

Friedrich gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face.

"You are not shameful, Dorothea. You are intelligent, kind, and you are loved," he stressed, compassion in his voice. "Your father chose you," he said, his voice firm. "He wouldn't have raised you with such devotion if his heart harbored darkness. He would not have gone through the lengths he had to secure this marriage," he continued, his voice low and soothing. "Even if…even if what you fear is true, it doesn't change who you are. It doesn't diminish your worth. You are not responsible for the actions of your father. You are only responsible for your own," he paused, looking deep into her eyes. "And you, Dorothea, have chosen to be good. To be kind. To be a light in the world. And that, my dear, is all that matters,"

"My dear?" she thought, repeating the endearment.

She squeezed his hand tightly, drawing strength from his touch. "Thank you, Friedrich," she said quietly, her heart overflowing with gratitude.

His words were a balm to her wounded soul. She wanted to believe him, to trust that her father had always told her the truth. But the seed of doubt had been planted long ago, and it was hard to uproot.

The fire continued to crackle, casting their shadows in a dance of light and darkness.

"Friedrich," she called softly, "Would you...would you like to stay the night? Here, with me?" Dorothea asked nervously.

He looked at her, his eyes searching, and after a long, pregnant pause, he answered.

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I would," he repeated, nodding his head.

They settled into the bed, a vast gulf separating them, both facing away from each other, lost in their own thoughts. Dorothea pulled the covers up to her chin, feeling a strange mixture of nervousness and trepidation. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, each breath, each heartbeat echoing in the silence. The fire continued to crackle, casting dancing shadows on the walls. She was drifting towards sleep when she heard him whisper her name.

"Dorothea?"

She tried to respond, but her body felt heavy, unresponsive. She was caught in that strange limbo between wakefulness and sleep, unable to fully rouse herself.

"Dorothea?" he whispered her name again louder, a question hanging in the air.

She tried to answer again, to acknowledge him, but her tongue felt thick and clumsy. Then, she heard the rustle of sheets and bedclothes from his shifting in the bed, the subtle creak of the frame as she felt the mattress dip as he moved closer. A wave of anticipation washed over her. She braced herself for…what? She didn't know. A moment later, a kiss, soft as a sigh, landed on the lace nightcap that covered her hair. It stunned her, the unexpected intimacy sending a jolt through her, every nerve ending tingling. She stilled, her heart pounding in her chest.

Dorothea thought that would be all, a sweet, innocent goodnight. A comfort, a gesture of gratitude. But then, the heat of his breath grazed the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His lips, soft and hesitant, followed, planting a gentle kiss just below her hairline. The tip of his nose grazed her skin, a delicate tracing that sent goosebumps erupting across her body. He followed the curve of her neck with the a slow, deliberate slide of his lips along the sensitive skin as the coarse hairs of his mustache tickled her with each fleeting caress. He inhaled deeply, as if he was taking her in her very essence, trying to memorize her scent, a faint fragrance of lavender from her bath.

A low, almost inaudible, shaky groan escaped his lips, a sound that spoke of raw longing and the desperate battle he was waging with his own self-control that was stretched to its limit. She could feel it fraying, by the tremor in his touch, the unsteadiness of his warm breath against her skin. Dorothea held her breath, every nerve ending alive and tingling. Finally, he pressed one final kiss against the exposed skin of her shoulder blade, slow and lingering.

"Thank you," Friedrich murmured, his voice thick with emotion as the words vibrated against her skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Dorothea laid there, fully awake and her senses reeling. She was acutely aware of every inch of her body, and it was humming with a mixture of shock and anticipation. The heat that had flickered earlier now blazed, threatening to consume her with a longing she had never dared to acknowledge. And in that moment, Dorothea knew that something had irrevocably shifted between them.

#black!reader #black fanfiction #friedrich harding x reader #friedrich harding x oc #nosferatu x reader #nosferatu fanfiction #friedrich harding #black!oc

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rebelssvy · 5 months ago

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MSBY black jackals walking in on you touching yourself ✧.*

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

mutli x reader, bokuto x reader, sakusa x reader, astumu x reader, hinata x reader

LABELS: smut, master baiting, mutual masterbaition, fingering, eating out, sex toys.

for this fic, you and msby character r roommates, having a flirty relationship with your doormie. you think you have the house all to yourself…. you wrong.

BOKUTO KOUTAROU

⋆·˚ ༘ *

you had just settled into bed. you had just also put on some pornographic sounds into your earbuds before making yourself comfortable.

you hadn’t had the apartment you shared with bokuto alone for a while. your drop dead handsome roommate was always here.

so when you found out his practice time got changed today you finally let yourself relax.

audio of girls and guys moaning played into your earbuds as you started to play with yourself. tapping at your clit for the wettness to pool in your panties. you were sprawled out on your bed. wearing nothing but your panties and a shirt you had stole from your beloved roommate.

rubbing circles into yourself you began to take off your underwear. pushing them down yourself. you felt the cold air of your room flood against your naked core.

edging your fingers to your entrance, you played with yourself a little. not ever fully putting them in…..

the door of your bed room had slammed open. you were mortified. every inch of you was on fire with pure embarrassment.

bokuto took in all of you. “hey- uhhh.” he stopped himself after seeing what you had been doing.

“OH MY GOSH GET OUT! GO! LEAVEEEE!” you yelled at him grabbing at whatever blanket you had near you to get come cover.

“hey…” he hesitated.

“that’s my shirt.” he stated matter of factly.

you were aware you were wearing it. for the sole purpose of thinking it was scandalous to wear your hot roommates shirt while you played with yourself.

well it was all to real now.

and he was walking to your bed.

“bokuto. i told you to get out.” you told him. firm. you almost wanted to cry.

he didn’t say anything for a second. then you could see his brain craft somthing up.

“how about…. if i make you cum… you’ll give me my t shirt back?” he said as if it was casual.

“what.” you replied.

“honestly it’s kinda a win-win for me because i would make you cum and get my tshirt back.” he said with a grin now sitting on the bed with you.

“i mean…. if you want too.” you hesitated. you would be lying if you said you didn’t dream of this.

before you knew it he had you laying ass up on his lap. there was a fire in him you only say when he played volleyball.

“fuck- your so wet.” he said. you only moaned in response.

“did you think about me… while you were fingering youself? i mean you are wearing my shirt.” he said plunging his fingers into your cunt.

“fuck-! yes!” you admitted amongst a scream.

“mmmh tell me more baby..” he spoke.

“you are so- mmph… hot kou!! i got all bothered thinking about you! i’m so sorrrryyy” you said amongst whimpers .

he let out a groan in response.

his fingers quickened with each second.

“kou!!… ple- please slow down!” you screamed out. grabbing at whatever you could.

“nuh-uh.” he said curling his fingers against your gummy walls.

fuck.

before you knew it you spasmed in his lap. moaning mess. everything was happening too quickly.

you gushed around his fingers. eventually riding out your high.

“sooo can i get my shirt back now baby?”

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

⋆·˚ ༘ *

your roommate was all cooped up in his room. the introverted man had actually grew quite fond of you. but he still liked his alone time.

and you loved your alone time. he had been in his room allllllll dayyyyyy. only coming out to leave for practice then immediately coming home after it was done.

the twitter links on your phone had just been too good.

so there you were, on your shared couch, fingering yourself under your blanket. it was so sinful. and part of you wanted your roommate to walk out and catch you.

well that was untill he literally walked out.

“y/n? are you okay? you aren’t sick right?” he said in response to your discomforting face.

you didn’t move. you were to shocked. you didn’t actually think he would come out. ugh what the hell were you thinking.

“wait.” he said. studying your figure.

“are you getting off right now?” he said bluntly. he looked disgusted. but his growing bulge in his pants said somthing different.

“ummm…” you replied. you didn’t know what to say. it was so embarrassing.

“no. i’m not.” you said. might as well save the dignity you have left. maybe he will just walk away.

“so you wouldn’t mind if i came over and sat next to you..? maybe even watched what’s on your phone?” he said snarkly.

“no i wouldn’t.” you argued. what were you thinking!!!

he came over and sat right next to you. you turned and reached for your phone. there is no hiding what’s on there tho… you might as well come clean.

“ugh fine i was and you caught me and this is so embarrassing.” you rambled.

“i still want to see what you were watching.” he said. you looked at him in shock.

you just nodded before showing him what exactly they were doing. it was mutual masterbaiting. and well, it was exactly was sakusa wanted to do with you.

“lets do that.” he said bluntly.

“yes. ok. yes.” you reassured yourself. slowly you pulled the blanket off yourself to reveal your naked center.

“your turn.” you said to him shyly.

without another word he pulled his pants down slightly and freed his cock from his boxers.

it was perfect. you caught yourself staring too long. sakusa took your phone out of your hand and started playing the video.

the two people were positioned right next to eachother, sakusa shuffled himself into a close enough position next to you.

the moans in the background were suddenly drowned out by the sound of him pumping his cock.

you stared with open eyes.

“you like that?” you heard him say boldly, your eyes shot open looking at his.

“cmon your turn, don’t leave me lonely over here..” he said never stopping his actions.

and so you did, you played with your pussy infront of your roommate, legs spread for him to see.

he groaned at the noises you made. letting his head fall back.

he pumped his cock harder and faster, you watched with an open mouth.

“y/n…” he moaned in a low tone. never haunting.

before you knew it his cock spurted cum onto his body. oozing over his hand, some getting on his t shirt. and some… got on you.

you gasped at the tiny amount that landed on your thigh.

about to wipe it off, he beat you to it.

“sorry..” he flushed.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

MIYA ATSUMU

⋆·˚ ༘ *

holy shit. you thought forsure he wouldn’t be back for another hour. maybe he didn’t notice… oh god this is so embarrassing.

you had been touching yourself on a chair next to your shared, dinner table.

you hid your body under the wood. suddenly very self aware. your panties were down to your legs. dangling off your ankle.

it wasn’t unusual for you to walk around in only your panties, but to not have them on at all. god.

“whatcha doin’?” he asked sitting down at the table across from your.

your skin grew hot. needing a release.

you shrugged hoping he would just get up and leave. but he didn’t, he stayed.

“you thought i wouldn’t notice?” he spoke up, eyes turning dim.

you gasped. not saying anything.

he stood up and made his way over to you. turning your chair to him, he leaned down and took your underwear off your foot.

“look at that…” he said, taking in your expression. you were now only in a shirt, nothing else.

“may i?” he asked, waiting on your answer.

you didn’t have to ask him what he was going to do. whatever it was, it was going to be good.

you shook your head yes.

he dropped his figure inbetween your legs, pushing them open for him to see. his face was planted right inbetween your heat. blowing air at your core.

you awaited his next move.

“so pretty…” he said before taking in your soft gummy pussy into his mouth. slobbering over your core.

wet sounds filled your shared apartment. you moaned, feeling his tongue prod at your entrance.

you couldn’t believe his boldness. eating you out in living room.

he licked over you, bring his tongue flat. shaking his head all directions. never once his he look away from you.

all of a sudden the heat in you felt like it was going to boil over.

“atsu-“ you started before he cut you off.

“cum.” he depended, still mouth against you.

and so you did. hands on his head you dragged his face on your pussy. shaking in your chair.

it was embarrassing. but atsumu thought it was the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

SHOYOU HINATA

⋆·˚ ༘ *

“can i help you?”

you had your head phones on your head, you were in your room and had a vibrator pressed against you.

it wasn’t until you felt the weight of your bed shift. your eyes shot open. finding your breath taking hot roomate staring dead at you.

you took your headphones off, about to yell but he beat you to it.

“let me help… please” he begged. his hands moving their way to your naked body.

you wanted him to help. growing shy you answered him “please..”

in that moment he changed into a completely different person. one you had never really seen before.

“thank god. your so pretty..” he said to himself taking your vibrator out of your hand.

he positioned himself behind you. back flush against his chest. he spread your legs for you. you were all out.

without another word he pushed the machine against your bud. your back arched farther into him.

“sho…” you moaned out. grabbing on to his wrist. you could feel everything.

“mmm yeah baby?” he groaned watching your body fluctuate.

“it-sss to muchhh” you moaned digging your claws into his skin.

“seems like you can take more.. you know it.” he said clicking the vibe a higher note.

you really couldn’t take it anymore. without warning you came. body shaking.

you tried closing your legs but he wouldn’t let you. moaning his name. you pleaded for him to stop.

seconds later he took the pressure off you.

“fuck.. that was hot.”

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

adlers next? who knowssss

leave me some asks!!!

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joelscruff · 2 years ago

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feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART FOUR

previous chapters | kofi | ok babes, lemme preface this chapter by saying i'm not exactly sure how i feel about it. i wanted it to be longer and i wanted more things to happen but this week has simply been a clusterfuck for me and i wanted to at least get something out to you guys cause you deserve it. i hope yall like sexting and phone sex cause that's all this part really consists of, so if that's not your thing i'm sorry and i hope the next part will be more enjoyable for you. thanks for bearing with me 💕 chapter summary: joel is busy with work but that doesn't mean there aren't other things you can do without being in the same room. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age difference (reader is in her 20s, joel in his 50s), innocent/inexperienced reader, corruption, praise kink (joel calls reader babygirl, sweetheart, etc), dirty talk, mentions of religion (reader’s family are very catholic), sexting, phone sex, mutual masturbation word count: 4.2k ao3

Now that you have Joel's phone number, it's ridiculously difficult not to text him constantly, especially considering he hasn't reached out since his first initial response. You'd replied to his first message with a heart emoji, something you'd almost immediately regretted but have had to come to peace with. You manage to keep yourself busy for most of the day, reminding yourself that he's at work and probably doesn't have time to be texting some shy and inexperienced college girl. It's not like you're in a relationship or anything; you've known the man for three days.

"Three days," you whisper to yourself, settled in your favorite spot in the backyard, near the pool. Three days and he already has his claim on you, the ghost of his touch still peppered all over your skin. You'd put on a bathing suit in case you decided to go for a swim, but also because you wanted an excuse to look at your body again, look at where his hands had been.

It's been so rare for you to ever look at yourself the way you do now, the way Joel has taught you to. You were almost ashamed of having a body to begin with, embarrassed by your legs, your breasts, and especially what lay inside your underwear. You'd been raised to view them all as taboo, despite them all literally being a part of you. The swimsuit you wear now isn't necessarily the sexiest thing, just a black one-piece you'd bought at the beginning of the summer with modesty in mind, but you find yourself feeling different in it, more confident. Mr. Miller likes this body. I like this body.

Your phone buzzes near your head and you scramble to reach for it, pushing your sunglasses down your nose and peering down at the screen. Disappointment floods you when you see it's just from your mom, but your eyebrows raise in curiosity when you read the contents of the message:

Will be home after your father. Don't tell him about Mr. Miller.

Your mother? Asking you to keep a secret? It's probably one of the most uncharacteristic things she's ever done; you have to read the message a second time to make sure you're understanding correctly. Why doesn't she want your dad to know? He was the one who'd attempted to defend Joel in the first place, wasn't he?

Almost like she knows you're going to question her logic, another messages comes in a few seconds later:

I will tell him on my own.

Interesting.

You swipe back to your "conversation" with Joel and feel your heart flutter at his one-word reply. God, you really are insatiable. You wonder what he's doing right now; lifting heavy things? Ordering people around? You certainly know that he's good at telling people what to do...

Your skin warms at the thought and you quickly shake it away, tossing your phone back into the grass and taking a few steps toward the pool. You plunge into the cold water just to soothe the hot ache you already feel between your legs.

Dinner is normal, although the secret hanging in the air between you and your mother isn't lost on you by any means. You definitely didn't get your ability at keeping secrets from her; she's flustered, quiet as she chews her meatloaf and awkwardly questions your father about his day. He doesn't notice anything is amiss though, just scarfs down his food and mutters something about paperwork before disappearing into his office.

"Why don't you want me to tell Dad?" you whisper as you help her do the dishes, watching as she scrubs a plate unnecessarily hard.

"Because," she hisses, eyes darting to his closed office door in the hallway, "Your father will want to ask him over for dinner again and I am not having a repeat of what happened last time." She makes a face at the thought of Joel's previous insult, "If we're going to help this man find his faith we have to take things slow, just like you said. I'll tell your father when the time is right."

You're at a loss for words at the way your lie has somehow already wormed itself into your mother's brain without a shadow of a doubt. She's genuinely convinced you're trying to do the right thing, turn Joel Miller into a God fearing Catholic. It makes you uncomfortable to think about how your lie has already gotten this deep; for a moment you briefly consider calling the whole thing off, changing the story, maybe even telling the truth.

And then your phone buzzes in your pocket.

"Whatever you say," you reply quickly, drying the last plate and backing away, "Um, I'm gonna go read in my room for a bit."

How was your day?

The text makes your heart positively soar as you flop onto your bed again like you had this morning, bringing your phone to your face and grinning like an idiot. He didn't forget about you.

boring. i missed you.

You don't care if you come across as clingy; it's how you feel. Your heart does stutter a bit when you hit send but all nervousness fades when he responds just as quickly:

Missed you too, angel.

You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat, heart pounding when his little speech bubble appears again to show that he's typing something else:

What did you do?

went swimming

What an image to put in my head.

You smile, feeling your cheeks warm. Your face falls however at his next message:

What did you wear?

You grimace, eyeing the ridiculously modest swimsuit hanging off your desk chair, still damp from earlier. Should you be honest or come up with a white lie, put a different image in his head? No, you've already lied enough for one day.

a one piece but i don't like it. it's not very me.

I'll buy you a new one. Tell me what you like.

He'd really do that? You bite your lip and weigh the options in your mind, thinking about the lingerie on those mannequins this morning, the things your roommates back at college wear. You want something you'll feel different in, something that makes you feel more like this sexy version of yourself Joel is helping you discover.

bikini. maybe pink or blue?

You got it. Maybe you can give me another fashion show.

You feel a surge of excitement, of intrigue. You'd wondered at the mall what kind of clothes Joel would want to see you in... he'd loved the dresses this morning - especially the white one - so you can't help but wonder what kind of swimsuit he'll choose for you. You're not completely sheltered; you know there are different types of bikinis. One of your friends had worn a micro sling bikini for Halloween last year as a part of her costume for a party she was attending - you'd taken one look and decided you weren't going.

Would Joel pick a bikini like that for you? The thought makes you feel a bit queasy, suddenly unsure if you'd even want to wear something like that. You want to look good for him but you don't want to sacrifice everything about yourself to do it. You stare at his message, wishing he wasn't just words on a screen right now.

where are you?

At a bar with my crew. But I'd much rather be wherever you are right now, babygirl.

You relax a bit into your sheets at the pet name; the word hasn't even come directly from his mouth but it has you acting like it has. Your body goes loose, that familiar throbbing starting up again in your underwear. You cross your legs and duck underneath the covers to type your reply:

i'm in my bed. i wish you were here

And what do you wish I was doing?

You stare at the text for a moment, biting down hard on your lip and trying to think of exactly how to articulate your thoughts in the best way. You've never done this before, never said or typed dirty things to somebody else. You figure texting is as good a medium as any to finally practice.

i wish you were playing with my pussy

The throbbing gets worse as you type the words. You cross your legs a bit tighter when you hit send, already nervous about what he'll say back. He doesn't waste much time.

You like when I play with your pussy, don't you?

Your cheeks warm as you sink even further beneath your blankets, legs parting slowly. You reach down to pop the button on your jeans, slowly typing out a response with one hand:

yes

The zipper of your jeans is down within seconds, your right hand carefully slipping past the open material and sliding down to cup where you're aching over your underwear. Your phone vibrates again and you hear a small whimper slip past your lips.

And you liked having those big fingers deep in there huh?

yes. it felt so good.

So full, right baby?

You circle your clit slowly with your index finger, mouth popping open at his words. The memory of the way his fingers felt inside of you, the way they'd pushed and prodded you so deep...

really full.

I'll do it again real soon, angel. Promise.

You whimper again, still tracing your pussy through your panties. Your brow furrows when the next message comes in a few seconds later:

I gotta head back now but I'll call you later. Stay up for me, don't fall asleep.

You frown. Oh well, you've gotten off without him a few times so far, what's one more time? You watch as the bubble indicating he's typing again pops up.

And don't touch that pretty pussy until I tell you.

Your hand freezes and you feel your lips turn into a pout despite the fact that he can't even see you.

"Meanie." you murmur at your phone, taking your hand out of your pants and tilting your head back to stare at your ceiling. You look down at the message again and can't help but feel your lips upturn; he's going to call you later... maybe meanie is too strong a word.

You prepare a little too much for your late-night phone call with Joel.

You take a long bath, soothing and relaxing with some lit candles and quiet music, all the while returning to your previous mental state of pretending you don't have anything between your legs. You're just a barbie doll down there, you tell yourself dubiously, there's nothing to touch or feel. That wishful thinking doesn't last very long however when you find yourself re-reading Joel's texts and feeling your pussy begin to pulse again under the water.

After your bath you comb carefully through your hair, counting each stroke to pass the time. You apply more lotion to your skin than you could ever need and then change into a pair of pajamas, just some simple sleep shorts and a t-shirt. You wonder what Joel would think of your old nightdresses, the ones you used to wear when you were a kid, still folded away in your dresser but probably much shorter and more revealing now. You take a quick peek at an old yellow one, lacy and faded; it practically smells of innocence and the bright eyed Jesus loving girl you once were, and you find yourself feeling sad. You shut it away again.

By the time you're freshly bathed and in bed your parents have already said goodnight and are settled in their bedroom down the hall. All you can do is lay back against your pillows and wait for Joel to call.

Nine o'clock passes; you decide to read for a little bit.

Ten o'clock; no big deal, you turn on the TV and quietly watch the beginning of a movie.

Eleven o'clock; you're about halfway into the movie now, feeling sleepy but still checking your phone every few minutes.

Twelve o'clock; the movie ends but you don't pay much attention to the conclusion, staring anxiously at your phone and waiting for it to light up. But still nothing.

It's almost one when you finally begin to face the reality of the situation. He never gave you a specific time, just said he'd call later, but how much later did he mean? Maybe he's already home now, in bed and asleep. He's probably forgotten that he even said he'd call. You're not that important. You're just some kid.

Tears well in your eyes when you finally turn off your bedside lamp and shuffle further beneath the covers, still staring at your phone. Please call, you think pathetically to yourself, or even text. Just do something.

You fall asleep with your phone gripped tightly in your hand.

You wake up to a light buzzing sound and sensation, your eyes squeezing together in confusion. You open them blearily and find yourself facing your bedside clock; 2:23am. It takes a few seconds for you to register that the buzzing is coming from your phone, and when you look down at the screen and see the name Mr. Miller, your eyes go wide. You answer it immediately.

"Hello?" you whisper, burying yourself under the covers again and trying to be as quiet as possible.

"Hey, babygirl," he says softly on the other side, his southern drawl melting smoothly into your ear, "I wake you up?"

"Y-yeah," you mumble, still blinking your eyes and trying to get some alertness back, "Sorry, I know you told me not to fall asleep."

He chuckles and it's the most beautiful sound, charming and gentle, "That's okay, sweetheart. I got back much later than I thought I would, it's my fault," you hear him grunt a little bit, like he's settling onto his couch (or his bed?), "You stay up long waitin' for me?"

You bite your lip, "Um, maybe."

"Aw, baby, I'm sorry," he murmurs, "Poor thing, you must be so sleepy."

"M'not," you say, but your voice betrays you.

"Shh," he whispers, "You go back to sleep, we'll try this again tomorrow."

You try to sit up but you're still half asleep and the blankets are so warm and inviting, "No," you say quickly, "No, I wanna talk to you. I've been waiting."

You can hear the smile in his voice when he replies, "God, you're so fuckin' sweet," he inhales deeply, "What I wouldn't give to have you in my bed right now, angel... all curled up and comfy in my arms."

You smile, eyes closing again as you settle back into the blankets and listen to his voice, "I want that." you murmur.

"I know you do," his voice is so soft and soothing in your ear, almost like a lullaby, "You want so many things with me, don't you?"

"Mm hm," you agree softly, "All of it."

"All of it." he repeats thoughtfully.

The line goes quiet for a moment, both of you just listening to each other breathe evenly. You know you should say something else, try and wake yourself up, but the longer you lie there with the phone to your ear the more tired you seem to be getting.

"Did you touch your pussy, babygirl?" he finally asks, voice still barely a whisper.

Your heart stutters, "No," you reply just as quietly.

"Good girl."

You hum at his praise, melting further into your pillow. You listen as he breathes slowly on the other end. You're starting to drift off again, you can feel it.

"I've got an early start tomorrow," he says softly, "But how 'bout I call you around seven or so, before I leave?"

"Yes," you whisper, "Please."

He laughs quietly, "Okay, sweetheart, you go back to sleep now," he exhales and seems to settle into his bed, just like you, "Sweet dreams."

"'Night," you mumble softly, leaving him to end the call as you fade quickly back to sleep.

You don't make the same mistake you made last night; you wake up promptly at six thirty and make sure you stay awake, washing your face and getting dressed for the day. You hear the shower going in your parents room and hope that miraculously both of them will have already left by the time Joel calls you.

No such luck. You can hear them both bustling around in the kitchen when your phone starts to buzz, and you quietly tiptoe back to bed and yank the covers up over yourself, hoping it'll muffle your conversation.

"Hi," you whisper.

"Mornin'", Joel replies; you can hear a smile in his voice, "Why are you whisperin'?"

You grimace, "My parents are still here."

"Ahh, the same parents who think I'm your guitar teacher, right?"

You bring a hand up to your face in embarrassment, "Oh my god, I forgot I told you that."

He chuckles, "So we're sneakin' around, huh? That what's happenin'? Is this gonna end with me gettin' shot?"

Your eyes widen, "I hope not!"

He laughs again, louder this time, "I'm kiddin', babygirl, don't worry. But you're an adult, you don't need their permission to see me."

"I know that, but as long as I'm under their roof they have rules, and I gotta follow them. Plus..." you make a face, "My mom doesn't like you."

He snorts, "Yeah, I figured."

"I kind of told her that um... that I'm... well..."

"What?"

"That I'm teaching you about God," you close your eyes, feeling your skin burn, "That you borrowed my hymn book and you're gonna help me learn how to play some of them."

There's complete silence on the line after you speak and for a moment you're scared he's hung up. You pull the phone away from your ear and look down at the screen; the call is still active. You bring it back up and he finally says something.

"Jesus, you're naughty," he mutters, voice suddenly dark, rough, "Lyin' about all that, just to see me?"

You swallow, "Y-yeah."

"Naughty," he repeats, "Naughty girl."

Another beat of silence. Then-

"Are you in bed?"

"Yes."

"Take off your panties."

You don't need telling twice, you're already throbbing just from hearing his voice change. You hold your phone against your ear with your shoulder and make quick work of hiking up your dress and tugging your panties down your legs.

"They're off," you whisper, voice shaky.

"Rub your clit," he says immediately, and you hear the unmistakable sound of his belt jangling on the other end, "'Til your pussy's all wet."

Is he...? He must be. You swallow tightly and do as he says, trying to focus on the task at hand and not on the fact that he's most certainly touching his cock right now while he talks to you. Getting wet isn't much of a challenge; as soon as your finger touches your clit you can already feel yourself start to drip.

"I'm wet." you whimper, rubbing your clit slowly.

"Already?" his voice is almost pained.

"Is it...is it weird that I get wet so easily?"

"No," he says immediately and you can almost visualize him shaking his head, "No, it's good. It's just 'cause you're so new to all of it," he groans, low and husky, "Fuck, I can't get enough of you."

You whimper again at his words, rubbing yourself a bit quicker and biting down on your lip. You can still hear the dull sounds of your parents from the kitchen below; you have to be quiet.

"Put a finger inside," Joel murmurs on the other end of the line, rough and scratchy, "Deep as you can go."

You bite down on your lip harder as you carefully push your index finger inside yourself, brow furrowing at the sensation. It's certainly nothing like having Joel's fingers in there and you immediately want to add another one, get that full feeling back.

"Push it in and out," he continues, "With me now, in..." you hear a dull slap, "And out," you follow along, eyes becoming hooded as you listen to what is most certainly Joel jacking himself off, "In....and out..."

He's pretending he's inside you. The thought alone is enough to make you moan, and you have to bring your other hand up to cover your mouth as you fuck yourself along to his pace. You add a second without being asked, whimpering pitifully into the phone and spreading your legs wider.

"Oh, babygirl," he whispers, "Those sounds you make..." he groans, low and deep, "Two fingers now, sweetheart."

"I'm already using two," you admit, still pumping them in and out; he groans again, even louder.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, "Three then, baby. Add your third, that's it." You hear another slap of skin and the sound is enough to make your orgasm begin to build in your belly. You wish he was here with you, holding you, touching you.

"I wish you were inside me," you find yourself whispering, voice shaky and pathetic.

He groans again, "Which part of me, sweetheart? My fingers?"

You shake your head, "No."

"Say it."

"Your cock," you whimper, chest heaving as you feel yourself getting closer and closer, "I want your cock inside me."

"Fuck," his voice is even deeper in your ear, almost like he's right there next to you, "I know you do, angel. Want it so fucking deep, don't you?"

You nod ferociously despite the fact that he can't see you, plunging your three fingers in and out steadily and feeling your legs begin to shake, "Yes, Mr. Miller," you whimper, "I need it."

"You do need it," he groans, "You need this cock, babygirl. Can't believe you never had one before, can't stop thinkin' about it," the slapping is getting faster, louder.

"I wanted it so bad last night," you keen, eyebrows scrunching together in pleasure, "And when you didn't call, I thought maybe-"

"Oh, babygirl," he groans, "Don't think like that, don't ever-" he lets out a deep grunt, almost like a whimper, "Don't think for one second that I don't think about you, about that pussy. Can't wait to be inside you. Gonna fuck you so good, so right," he grunts, his voice becoming more and more strained, "Gonna be so deep inside that sweet little hole, you're gonna feel it in your fuckin' stomach."

Holy fuck. He's never talked this much before, never said things this filthy or graphic. It's too much for you to handle all at once, pussy tightening around your fingers as his words bring you over the edge.

"I'm coming," you manage to squeak out, then slap your hand back down on your mouth as you shake and writhe under the blankets, moaning pitifully into your hand and praying your parents don't hear you.

Joel doesn't tell you he's coming but the slapping sound suddenly comes to a complete stop, and the next thing you know he's groaning loudly in your ear, breathy and rough. You listen to him, closing your eyes and letting his sounds invade your whole body as you come, wrapping around you like another warm blanket. You've never heard him make sounds like this, depraved and guttural and loud. You can only imagine what he looks like right now, what his cock looks like. You know what happens when men come, you know about ejaculation, but the thought of Joel doing that... right now...

"Mmmhmmm," you moan into your hand and feel your eyes roll back, picturing Joel laying in his bed, hand around his cock, "Oh...fuck..." you fuck yourself with your fingers until it's too much, until the sensations are borderline painful. You move your hand away from your pussy and squeeze down on your thigh, trying to get your legs to stop shaking.

There's a few moments of heavy breathing where neither of you speak, both of you coming down from your orgasms and trying to catch your breaths. You open your legs wider and lay there like a starfish, eyes closed, chest heaving. You hear the door slam downstairs, followed by the sound of your father getting in his police car and your mother getting in her SUV.

"My parents just left." you mutter, still breathless.

Joel chuckles softly, "Think they heard you?"

You shake your head, "No way, they'd have already broken down my door if they had any idea what's going on up here."

He laughs again, "Hold on a sec, let me clean myself up here a bit."

You can't help but smile at the image of Joel being vulnerable like that, having to clean up his own mess instead of yours. You shiver at the thought and slowly sit up in bed, body heavy and sated.

"That was... a lot," you say softly, still trying to even out your breaths, "All that... that stuff you said."

You hear the concern in his voice immediately, "Was it too much?"

"No," you say immediately, shaking your head, "No, not at all. I just..." you feel your cheeks burn, "I wasn't expecting....I didn't realize how much you thought about doing that."

"Doin' what?" you can almost hear his smirk.

"...Fucking me," you whisper it, even though your parents are gone, "Putting your...putting your cock in me."

He groans again, softer this time, "I'll be honest, darlin'. It was all I thought about yesterday at work. And it's all I'm gonna be thinkin' about today."

You shiver, lips turning up in a pleased smile, "Really?"

"Really, sweetheart. And I know we're takin' it slow, and that's okay, but fuck if I don't think about how that pussy's gonna feel around me..." he groans again and you feel the undeniable sensation of yourself getting wet again; insatiable.

"What if...what if it doesn't fit?" you ask quietly, unsure just like yesterday, "I know you said we'll make it fit but..."

"It'll fit," he reassures you tenderly, "Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll go real slow, I'll be real gentle, and you just take it," he takes a breath, slow and steady, "You were made to take it, babygirl."

You hear yourself whimper softly, closing your eyes and turning your head into your pillow. God, you could listen to him talk to you like this for hours, just telling you everything he wants to do to you, everything he wants to teach you...

"When can I see you again?" you whisper.

"Well, that's what we need to figure out now, isn't it?" you can hear the hint of a smile in his voice, "When are these guitar lessons gonna take place?"

You wince, sitting up a bit in bed and leaning back against your pillows, "So you're okay with that? With me lying, I mean?"

"If that's what you feel you need to do, then it's okay," he says, and you can tell he means it, "I will probably have to actually teach you some guitar, though."

"I don't mind," you reply with a smile, remembering the way his hands had felt on yours when he'd first shown you those chords, the way you'd settled between his legs and he'd held you so close to him, "...As long as you teach me in your bed."

"Fuck," he murmurs, voice going dark again, "You are a naughty girl, aren't you?"

You can't help but smirk, "It's starting to seem that way, yeah."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #*#fic: feelings on fire

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badly-written-stuff · 7 months ago

Text

Sheep in Wolf's Clothing — Mhin x Monster!Reader (1/?)

context: reader is a monster, possesses ears and a tail; reader is at least a couple hundred of years old, but has amnesia; they recently began working with Kuras at the clinic.

cw: slight and possibly vague depiction of violence; possibly ooc.

To state that your acquaintance with Mhin was... intense... would be an understatement.

Eridia, whilst home to some of the most dangerous Monsters, was far from welcoming for someone like you. Despite your overall docile nature, many would side-eye you on the streets, occasionally hurling a curse or two in your direction.

It helped slightly that you got acquainted with Kuras after an... unfortunate attack, who offered a place at his humble clinic upon learning your situation. Ever since then you've been relatively close.

The helping hand was very much welcome, yet your affiliation with the most respected doctor in Eridia did not assure completely invulnerable to other's wrath.

...So it really shouldn't have been a surprise when... it happened.

You've been running some errands, each one taking just a little bit too long, pushing the day's hours further and further until it was night time. Knowing the dangers of the dark streets lurking in every corner, you made an attempt to get back to Kuras as fast as you could... but-

Misfortune kept a close eye on you at all times, for you've managed to run straight into a Soulless.

True to Vere's words, a cornered beast bites the hardest, and you were no exception. You were a Monster, after all. You knew how to defend yourself.

Unable to escape, you took advantage of your reflexes and strength to strike the Soulless at the right time with a trusty dagger you kept on your person. The fight, although not vicious, leaves you shaking and panting in fright, adrenaline pumping your heart to such aggression you could barely hear anything.

Taking a life, human or not, was never an easy task, and to some degree, guilt bubbled in your gut... however, it was short lived once several pools of blood entered your peripheral vision. You stepped closer.

Corpses. Not of humans, no. Animals. Cats, more specifically. All torn open, the contents of their tiny selves peeping, half-eaten. It seems you have interrupted a feast. Disgusting...

...Just how distracted were you...? To completely miss this smell, something that assaulted your nostrils and made it hard to breathe. Surely, you should've-

You barely register footsteps behind you, your body attempting to make a turn to face the source, only for a sharp pain to course through your entire body. A twists of your head is enough to locate the source of this pain — a pristine blade plunged deep into your side, barely missing your vitals.

An attempt to stay calm is made, however, rationality betrayed you and your monstrous superiority took hold. How dare they. With your fangs bearing, you manage to push whoever attacked you away. Forced into an animalistic state, you hunch over to steady yourself, sharply snapping to the source of your attacker...

That is when you spotted them. Those icy gray eyes, red pupils, silver hair and that cute beauty mark. Mhin. You've ran into them a couple of times before, none of which were pleasant.

There's was always this coldness and disgust every time you two interacted, yet it never moved past a quip or two before they'd leave you be. This time, however, they looked livid, jaw clenched.

There wasn't a moment to make conversation, ask questions or make accusations. Their goal was clear as ever — to kill, for there was no hesitation in their movement as they rushed to gain back the blade stuck on you. The unknown turned into a bloody fight, earning both of you numerous wounds.

Their blade puncturing your body with eerie precision that left you losing blood whilst your bites pierced their clothes, tearing their skin into a bloody mess of tissue.

Perhaps, that is how both of your lives would've ended — in a heated brawl — if not for the esteemed doctor, who had gone on to search for you.

It was the superior presence that stopped the fight, as both of you were brought into his clinic, Kuras' face scrunched the entire time as he treated your wounds.

Despite the fight being over, Mhin still dared to show their dissatisfaction with the situation, protesting against Kuras' care for "someone like you".

Luckily, Kuras did not budge, merely stating that you were a trusted assistant of his and by no means was Mhin allowed to exterminate you.

Their mouth hung open in shock, only for a moment, before it snapped shut and their glare re-appeared. They never looked at you, only addressing Kuras, which was beginning to piss you off. Rightfully so.

"Since when did you get a pet?". That about did it. "What's your problem?!"

Oh boy.

Ever since that night, upon regaining your sober mind, you couldn't help but stress about what had happened. The Soulless, the cats, Mhin, the taste of their blood.

That... bitter taste and tar-like texture... You were certain they were cursed, and thinking more about your encounter, it just made sense. How did they keep up with you, if they didn't have a little secret of their own?

With the realization, came sympathy and guilt. Now, you understood why they were so cold towards Monsters, why they despised Vere. Yet... even so, you didn't understand why did they strike that night?

Did they assume you were on Hunt? Was there a bounty on your head? Or was it the-

Ever since the fight, you began to grow... paranoid. Mhin was there. You could smell them. They were lurking in the general area of the clinic more often, sometimes even following you from a distance.

It was because of Kuras, of course. Mhin cared too much for the doctor, even if they'd rather be tortured than to admit it. Kuras is just about the most sane person in Eridia, why wouldn’t they worry about his new addition to the clinic? Gods... surely, he had went insane, accepting a Monster as an assistant.

Nonetheless, despite them stalking you like a prey, Mhin never made any move to attack you which, for one, eased your anxiety enough to finally relax.

Then, it was you who observed.

Indeed, they were regularly checking up on Kuras while you were away, hidden under the guise of a check-up. It was true that they were making sure that you cause no trouble to anyone else, especially making sure you never stepped into the same alley as the attack again.

Even if you were supposed to be upset, the gesture... warmed your heart, in a way. Mhin was always... distant. Cold. Alone. It was nice to know that they actually cared about someone.

And perhaps this newfound warmth touched you... a bit too much, for you upcoming plans consisted of approaching Mhin on one of their patrols and apologizing... Yeah, you do have a death wish, actually.

There was no guarantee you would survive this, but surely your good-willed gesture couldn't bring your demise... Right?

Only one way to find out.

next >

#touchstarved #touchstarved game #touchstarved mhin #ts mhin #mhin #mhin x reader #touchstarved x reader #touchstarved x oc #ts game #x reader #curse you character limit

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cheshitora · 3 months ago

Text

❝ psycho x killer ❞ ✧ ೃ༄

『 love can be explained in a lot of ways. for hanma, his love was spoken through his devious plans of having you kill him over and over. 』

hanma shuji ver. (2/3 valhalla trio)

on the stand :: hanma shuji x afab!reader

crimes comitted :: DARK CONTENT, aged up characters, muder, mentions of death, blood, stabbing, gun usage, electrocution, explosions (well, you blow him up), you make a bomb, body parts everywhere, immortal hanma, body rejuvenation, Read at your own discretion, MDNI

che's verdict :: oh he's def guilty and he doesn't care either lol. part 1 with baji is up and i have the original with sanzu up as well. also with the way this one was coming out, i didnt wanna add smut to it. its kind of sweet in a twisted and morbid way yk? anyways enjoyy <33

word count :: 1.5k

"we're in a very weird and strange relationship..."

Hanma’s not like Keisuke that he stops you from killing him. No - instead, he encourages it, roots for you, cheers you on to do better, to think cleverly and be as eccentric as you wish to be.

A supportive husband indeed, even if it’s about helping his dear little wife try to find new ways to kill him.

The best part about him - he doesn’t fight back. He casually lets your modes of attack happen as if it were a normal occurrence in your daily life, and at this point, it had been.

When your dark haired lover first informed you of his immortality, you had become slightly more intrigued about the nature of his eternal life. The first death that took place in your home was actually an accident. Really, it was.

There had been a string of robberies going around in the neighborhood that put you on edge, forcing you to become acutely aware of every odd sound and sight that didn’t make sense. Hanma had been out buying you flowers to surprise you with. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his sweet wife that he had come to adore, especially on Valentine's day.

Now imagine his surprise when he arrived home quietly in an attempt to surprise you. He expertly snuck up behind you as you were cutting meat for tonight's dinner, speaking in your ear with a low, hushed voice, catching you by undelighted surprise.

“Surpri-”, that was all he could muster after finding himself at the end of your steel kitchen knife, having been spooked by your own husband and retaliating by instinct. The news of the robberies had you on edge all day and you hadn’t anticipated your husband coming home so suddenly and without notice.

Your blade was plunged in the center of his forehead, blood trickling down from the open slit, coloring his face in red as the blood splattered onto his glasses and down his cheeks and eyes. All he could see was red, the familiar coppery taste dripping onto his tongue and lips, like he had a mouth full of pennies.

In his last moments of consciousness, he struggled to figure out if he was mad or impressed by your reflexes. Either way, he knew he was dead, falling to his knees, his body tilting to the side until he met with the cold, tile floor of your kitchen, dark red fluids pooling around his head as you stared down at him in terror.

Your eyes nearly fell out of your head as you began to scream, piercing cries of sorrow echoing throughout the house as you kneeled down next to your dead husband. You never meant to kill him and it was evident in the way you mourned him, mentally berating yourself for your own carelessness. And no, you hadn’t missed the bouquet of peonies in his grip when you stabbed him, making your heart ache even more.

Your hands shook as you tried to discern what your next course of action should be. Should you call the cops? Clean up the mess? You weren’t in the right headspace to make such a decision. Luckily, you didn’t have to, as Hanma’s once lifeless eyes began to blink rapidly, inhaling a hoarse breath of life as he pushed himself off the ground, his dark and gold locks soaked in his own vital fluid.

Hanma pressed his hand to his temple, a strong pulse making his head throb as he turned to face you, your horrified expression burning into his retinas. He started chuckling, then his chuckles turned into a full on maniacal laughing fit.

“Wow, didn’t think you had that in ya,” he choked out in between laughs. Your face had gone pale, almost ghostlike as you watched Hanma stand up from the ground, readjusting his glasses on his face. He patted your head as he swiped up the discarded bouquet of peonies he had picked out just for you.

“Happy Valentines Day,” he said, an affectionate and loving smile on his face as he handed the bundles of flowers to you, your body still struck with fear.

From then on, any opportunity he saw, he took. It was a game to him at this point - to see how many times he could die and how fast he could rejuvenate. You had merely gone along with your husband’s twisted ideas, though you always hesitated to pull the trigger, literally.

When he handed you a 9mm Luger pistol with its safety off, you could imagine what he wanted you to use it for. He held your hand in his as he guided the barrel to his forehead, a sly grin on his face as he waited for you to take your shot and end his life.

But it was always too much for you to handle and yet, you found yourself slowly easing into murdering him anytime he voiced another idea. His favorite death by far had been electrocution by a defibrillator to his temples, the jolt of electricity coursing through his nervous system, breaking him down by the second before he collapsed to the floor.

Every time you effectively killed Hanma, after allowing his body time to heal, he’d shower you in praise, kissing your cheeks, letting his lips trail down to your neck, whispering against your skin how proud he was of you for being the incredible wife he always wanted, finding joy in the rush adrenaline you gave him.

Twisted love, indeed - morbid, to say the least and yet it was profoundly sweet. You’d cook his favorite meal, dress him in his best clothes like a man heading to Sunday service. In a dark way, you adored the smile that stretched across his lips just seconds before another planned death.

You knew he had enjoyed the electrocution death more but today, you had concocted a devilish plan. You were going to blow him up. In the past week, you secretly had been looking up ways to build a bomb in your own home - a small one with a force destructive enough to rip your lover apart but not strong enough to take you out as well.

You were going to be on the FBI watchlist now but it didn’t matter.

After Hanma returned home from whatever business he attended to, you dragged him outside to your expansive backyard, quickly strapping the makeshift bomb to his chest with an eager smile. He smiled down at you too, his heart thumping from the sight of your excitement.

You swiftly ran away from him, leaving him out in the open as you ran back inside, the small switch in your hand. You sincerely hoped this bomb wouldn’t kill you too but there was only one way to find out.

Without a second to waste, you flicked up the switch, triggering the bomb attached to him. A loud explosion rang through the air, shifting the house on its foundation as the ground. Your small house rattled uncontrollably for a few seconds before resting in its place, the smell of smoke quickly filled your nostrils as it seeped in through the cracks of the windows and doors.

You remembered hearing the sound of debris hit against the frame of your home, inciting you to inspect the damage left behind from your scheme. You tiptoed towards the back door, eyes falling on the sight of smoke clearing in the air. As you pushed the door open, you realized what you had heard was not debris - well, it wasn’t rocks.

Your gaze fell upon the scattered pieces of your husband’s body littering the grass, some splattered against the side of your home while others neatly decorated your bushes and flower beds.

You stepped back inside, shutting the door as you took a seat at your table. He was gone, possibly for good. Was it possible for him to recover from this? Would he be able to put himself back together and if he could, how long would it take?

You didn’t let your mind wander for too long. If in the event he magically respawned, you wanted to uphold your tradition of making him his dinner and wait.

After two hours, he still had yet to pop in. Worry flooded your body as you silently prayed you didn’t actually send him back to the underworld. Another hour rolled by and he wasn’t here. His plate of food had gone cold and you were becoming more and more anxious the longer he stayed away.

You settled your head in your arms on the table, closing your eyes as you silently wept. Maybe you actually killed him this time. The fourth hour flew by and he hadn’t reappeared. Your body went limp with exhaustion, soft sighs leaving your lips as you slept peacefully. And as you slept, the back door creaked open, Hanma’s disheveled figure coming into frame, his eyes finding you resting on your arms.

He smiled softly as he inched closer to you, leaning down to press an affectionate kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m home,” he whispered, and even in your sleep, your heart swelled, immediately recognizing the sweet sound of your doting husband. He didn’t bother to wake you. He sat across from you, pulling his plate of food close, his gaze never leaving your sleeping form.

Your relationship may have been strange but you were the only one who could get his heart racing with adrenaline and that was true love.

©ABOVE WORK BELONGS TO CHESHITORA. PLAGARISM AND STEALING WILL NOT BE TOLERATED. CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR ORIGINAL CREATORS

#hanma shuji #hanma shuuji x reader #hanma x reader #tokyo revengers hanma #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers x reader #tokrev #a 'che' story ✎#psycho x killer series #dividers by strangergraphics

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cressidagrey · 11 months ago

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The Starlight Princess - Chapter 5

Summary:

There is a Pool of Starlight in the Spring Court. A piece of the Night Court that has no business being in the land of Eternal Spring. So how did it come to be?

Or: How the Spymaster of the Night Court starts hearing a voice, realises that no, he is not insane after all, frees a princess, kills a High Lord…and finds his mate all at the same time.

Warnings: Definitely NSFW

She screamed.

And into the world, she poured all her pain and her anger and her fury, her magic lashing out to the world that had taken so much from her. That had kept her prisoner for centuries and now threatened to take him from her.

Seren wasn’t sure what she was doing, she only knew that the only thing she wanted was vengeance.

Vengeance. Death. She wanted him dead.

And she did that.

Azriel plunged the knife and Seren was the one who pointed him in the right direction.

The wards broke. The curse shattered. Her magic exploded.

For just one single moment she felt like she was being flayed alive.

And then…then she was back. Back into her body that she hadn’t felt in centuries. Back to having arms and legs and hands and feet.

Back to feeling cold mud underneath her knees, the wind on her skin.

She looked up, her eyes wide…and then she stared at him.

She felt something inside her snap.

Seren had no idea what it was. She didn’t understand what was happening, couldn’t understand what was happening as it felt like the magic in her body swirled…

She didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t understand what was happening to her.

The only thing…the only thing that she knew was that he was hers.

Hers.

She had never in her life felt anything like that. She had never in her life felt anything like him.

The only thing in her mind that mattered at that moment was he…he mattered.

He mattered because he was hers.

Mate.

Her mate. Hers. Hers and hers alone. Her mate.

It was there. In her brain.

And it was the truth. She could feel that in every fibre of her being. Mate. He was her mate. Her mate.

Mate.

Her eyes met his.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

She covered her body with her own, unable to think, unable to do anything but cling to him…

Her mind reached out, without her permission, unable to even recognise about the dangers she put both of them in as she threw herself against the comfort of his mind with everything she had.

She needed…she needed…

The rhythm of his mind that she knew better than her own…the feeling of it under her mental touch, the love, the power it projected…it was the only home she needed.

And so she blanketed it with her own, wanting to cradle it in safety, needing to feel it, needing to…

*Home. Safety. Protection,* he seemingly chanted. And while she agreed, she needed him first. She fit her mouth over his with a growl, needing him to touch her, needing his attention on her like she needed air to breathe.

She tasted his blood and the salty and iron taste soothed something inside her.

One hand cupped the back of her head and she shuddered, leaning her forward against his, breathing in cedar and mist and something that was irrevocably him.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

He kept a tight grip on him, even when she could feel the magic swirl, grabbed her and they hit the stone floor in a house.

Not that it mattered.

Nothing mattered, but him.

She straddled him, the need rising to a fever pitch, her nails scoring against his warm skin, stretched over rock-hard muscles, and she pushed away the leather falling off his shoulders in rags, the fabric disintegrating under her fingertips.

Her lips pressed against his again, her tongue tangling with his as she needed to have him bare underneath her. Now.

She needed him. She needed him as close to her as she possibly could, her body nearly aching, heat curling low in her belly, burning her from the inside out.

Her instincts were screaming at her, to take and fuck and claim and have him.

She needed him. She needed him.

*Seren.* Her name in his mind only fanned the flames, only made her fingernails score against his skin, his skin slick with blood and sweat and she didn’t care.

He pulled back from the kiss and she growled, staring at him. “Seren, wait.”

“Why?” It was a guttural sound ripped from her throat. Wait? Wait for what? Why should they wait?

If she was going to wait, she would die.

She couldn’t wait.

She attacked his throat instead, nipping the delicate skin there with her sharp teeth, tasting salt and sweat and Azriel and wanting, needing more. Her hands slid over his torso and she could feel him shudder underneath him, could feel the arousal thrumming on his side of the bond…she bit back a smile.

*I need you,* she cooed at him. Hers. She needed him. She needed him.

She could feel his mind, could feel him hover in indecision, could feel him get ready to push her off but she clung to him even tighter. *Please, Azriel.*

Desperation bled through her, as she shifted…and the flames built into an inferno, as she could feel him notch against her there, even with layers of clothing separating him…She could feel him, rock hard and ready for her, ready for her taking.

Her instincts shot into overdrive. *Big. Strong. Will give me strong children,* something inside her purred, pure undiluted need rushing into the cradle of her thighs, her body growing slick and warm in seconds, a throbbing pain making itself a home there. Empty. She was so empty.

She needed…

That’s how far she came.

He twisted them, her body suddenly buried underneath him, before he flipped her over, and dragged her hips up into the air until she was propped up on her knees.

A thin, needy whine escaped her at his manhandling, the arousal suddenly at an even worse fever pitch than it had been before, one broad, scarred hand, shoving her head down, her hands squabbling for purchase against the rough stone.

She fought against him, but she had no chance. Absolutely none, against the pure muscle mass and bulk off him as he leaned over her and pinned her to the floor, one hand grasping her hair, and twisting it around his hand like a rope, yanking her head to the side, his teeth against her neck.

She could see him, could see the dark eyes, the snarl on his face as he buried her body underneath his, her heart thumping inside her chest, like a rabbit caught in the snare of an apex predator.

Seren wasn’t scared. That didn’t even cross her mind.

He growled, the sound feral, a warning.

She whimpered in response, her thighs growing slick with her wetness.

Azriel’s nostrils flared and she knew the moment he caught her arousal.

“Mine,” he snarled at her, magic enveloping them once again, her whole body trembling… enveloping the

And just like that she was at his mercy, her heart pounding in his chest as suddenly he was bare, the thick line of his cock dragging against her cunt, her whole body trembling at the shocking touch, her breath catching in her throat.

His other hand, the one that was not buried in her hair, slid over her hip…pressing his fingers between her thighs, finding that needy, throbbing bud there that was driving her to the brink of insanity. She couldn’t help but jerk as he circled it, a whine escaping her.

She was caught between the insistent press of his cock, still sliding slowly against her, never entering her, and the touch of his fingers that were…

He clucked his tongue at her as she tried to get away from him, the hand in her hair pulling her back sharply. *You’ll take what I give you,* he snapped in her mind, the order like a whip crack and she had no choice but to submit.

Not that she wanted to. a part of her mind was purring in response, more than pleased by him taking control.

*Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate will take care of me,* her mind purred, her trembling only intensifying.

She whimpered, pushing back against him, his fingers having ceased their slow circled

*I will. I will take care of you. What does my mate need?* he purred into her mind. *Do you need my cock?*

Yes. Yes. Yes. Maybe that would finally help against the incessant emptiness that was gaping inside her, maybe then she would no longer feel quite as…

He pulled back and that was all the warning, she would get as he plunged inside her, ripping apart her maidenhead with one deep stroke. Her back bowed, a scream escaped her, at the pure size of him, the width and length that was forced inside her with brutal pressure.

Her walls fluttered helplessly against him, straining and failing.

She tried to shift away, and bucked her hips against his, as everything hovered over the knife's edge of being too much, whimpering pitifully.

He kept her pinned underneath him, so easily it would probably been amusing under any other circumstances. Panic clawed up into her chest, but as she could feel a low growl rumbling from his throat…He forced her body to adjust, to submit, and suddenly something inside her relaxed.

Her body grew lax, no longer fighting him.

But something…something inside her slid into place… something inside her relaxed at the biting heat and pressure and pain and pleasure that this brought her…something inside her slotted right where it should, the bond between them flexing and shifting…

*Such a good little mate, princess,* he purred into her mind and she wanted nothing more than to hear that every day for the rest of her life.

Her instincts purred, satisfaction turning languid…like a cat stretching out in front of a fireplace.

Her thoughts grew hazy, heat pooling low inside her belly as her cunt clenched around him, against the sheer size of him…pinned into place between him and the floor. She wriggled, but she didn’t really want to escape his grip…just wanted to see if she could move…and she couldn't.

Desire pulsed through her at that, at how helpless she truly was in the face of his strength…how heavy and big her mate was as he pinned her to the floor, surrounded her…utterly and completely.

“Mine,” he growled against her throat and she felt his teeth prick against her skin.

“Yours,” she agreed, the words coming out of her mouth in a soft whine, just as he went back to circle that nub begging for attention…

He pulled back slightly and snapped his hips forward, making her gasp. She was quite sure that he was going to bruise her, and she couldn’t fucking care less. Seren could hardly draw breath to scream, her nails scratching against the stone floor as he fucked her hard and mercilessly. It was almost too much to bear.

Almost.

But she revelled in it. She loved every fucking second of it, every second of gasping for breath, her body aching, climbing towards that peak that she was barreling towards too.

This was…this was more than simply taking pleasure from each other, this was a claiming.

And she gave each other over to him with every fibre of her being.

“Mine,” he snarled once again, his teeth snapping closed against her neck and she arched into that sweet pain, as she choked out an affirmative, a high-pitched cry escaping her mouth, as he picked up the pace.

He was ravaging her.

“My mate. Mine.”

Hard punishing thrusts, until finally, her body hit that point where…that point everything went white surrounded her, a wordless high-pitched scream on her lips.

He didn’t stop.

She didn’t stop either. Her body started clenching around his again and again and again, and she wasn’t sure when one climax ended or another began. Peak after Peal, rolling into each other, again and again, until it was one constant cresting wave that destroyed every last bit of her sanity.

She was a prisoner to the pleasure he gave her, every thrust of his giving her another peak or maybe just lengthening that one until her body violently shook in his grasp.

Her mind reached out on its own accord, cracking open, every bit of pleasure he was giving her, pouring out of her and into him and into the world, sharing it, making it stronger….

Two, three thrusts later, he came with a roar. There was no other word for it.

His fingers imprinted on her skin with the force of his touch, bruising her and she sobbed with pleasure as she could feel his pleasure pouring all over her, the molten heat that he poured deep inside her as his cock twitched.

She was utterly surrounded by him, inside and out, his scent covering her.

He collapsed on top of hers, and she could feel that ravaging need deep within her subside slightly.

For just a moment, she only existed, catching her breath, her mind blissedly empty as the only thing she felt was Azriel’s weight on top of her, the mating bond thrumming between them into one golden bond.

Seren was safe. Seren was home.

And then suddenly, Azriel’s feelings poured all over her, shock, horror, an absolutely ridiculous amount of self-loathing, fear and…

“Gods, I am so sorry, Seren,” he choked out as he lifted off her and she managed to crack open one eye, not understanding what he had now.

“Hm?“ She couldn’t even manage to build a complete sentence. To blissed out.

Too…pleased.

“Seren,” Azriel’s hands fluttered around her, not daring to touch and she managed to push up on a pair of shaking arms, her body still thrumming with aftershocks, to catch his hands.

*What’s wrong? Why are you sorry?* she demanded. What was...

“What’s wrong?” Azriel asked her incredulously. “I fucked you like some kind of animal! I bit you!”

“Yeah, and you don’t hear me complain,” Seren shot back, somehow managing to sit up, flinging a blob of mud from her shoulder down onto the floor. She really wasn’t going to complain. Not when she had loved every fucking second of this.

“I can smell your blood,” Azriel choked out and she stared, watching the self-hatred that made himself a home on his face.

*Azriel,* she said pointedly, pushing her mind against his, pushing into his mind, showing him exactly how it had felt…the pleasure he had wrung from her. How much she had loved.

*I am so sorry,* he whispered into her mind and she somehow managed to drape herself half over his lap, pressing herself against his body.

*You don’t need to apologise. There is nothing that you did wrong. But if you need to hear it: I’ll forgive you,* she whispered into his brain. Quite frankly, their first kiss had been her nearly biting off his tongue, so…maybe this wasn’t quite the first time she had expected but that didn’t mean that she didn’t enjoy it.

*This was your first time,* Azriel realised weakly.

*And it was perfect,* she cut him off before he could start it up again. *Though I could use a bath…I do not enjoy being covered in mud.*

He bit out a laugh at that, weak and thin and still lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing. She was quite certain that they trailed mud and blood all over this house as she tipped her head back against his chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath her touch.

*Where are we?* she asked idly, taking in the comfortable furnishing of wooden furniture and thick carpets over the rough stone floor. It was a far cry from the luxurious appointed House of Wind where she had grown up. Or even the Moonstone Palace on top of the Hewn City.

It was…home.

She quite liked it.

*My house in Velaris,* Azriel answered as he pushed open the door to the bathing chamber. His home?

He had lived in the House of Wind before. Since when did he have that house?

But that question went unanswered, as Seren blinked twice at the absolute massive pool that doubled as a bathtub.

*Makes it easier to wash my wings,* he admitted unashamedly and she grinned as he carefully put her down, dragging him in with her.

Not just his wings. Her wings too.

He indulged her, as she pressed a soft kiss against his mouth, stepping into the steaming water behind her as the pool filled magically. He cradled her face, soft and sweet and languid as the pool filled with warm water and she could feel the mud washing away from her

*You deserved it to be courted like a princess,* he still thought weakly at her as she cupped the water in her hands and gently started to wash him, taking in the sluggishly bleeding scratches on his chest as she cleaned them carefully. She was sure they would scar, disrupting the Illyrian tattoos that marked his skin with scars gained for her.

*Well, I have never turned down a gift,* she quipped, making him bark out a burst of laughter. *You can just make it up to me.* She suggested brightly. *You can be as sickening sweet and doting as you want after we have cleaned up. I am prepared to endure your thorough attentions.*

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x rhys!sister #the starlight princess #the starlight princess story

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