#under southern trees | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

azuneekun · 10 months ago

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STARDEW VALLEY BACHELOR/BACHELORETTE (personal) HEADCANONS:

Maru

Is a registered nurse, but is working to become a medicinal and environmental researcher like her father (Professor Demetrius).

Robotics, Electrical engineering and Astronomy are just a few of her hobbies and passions.

Afraid of getting real piercings, so Sebastian gifted her clip-ons.

Doesn’t trust newer computers, unlike her brother.

She is nearsighted and has astigmatism.

She goes stargazing in hopes of finding signs of extraterrestrial life. Or just to see if she can spot a certain flying robot.

Used to follow her brother Sebastian around a lot when she was very young, but his troublemaking behavior made Maru distance herself. She still cares about him.

Loves helping the farmer with building farming machines.

Loves spending time with her best friend Penny and talking about books and trivia together.

Other than tinkering with gadgets, she also enjoys doing puzzles.

Penny

Could not afford finishing her teaching course in college due to financial troubles.

Saving up money in her tutoring job to become an elementary school teacher.

Her father abandoned them due to feeling ‘trapped’. It happened around fall—so she feels melancholic during that season.

Likes cooking but is a novice at it.

She and Emily do arts and crafts together in the library and or the (fixed) community center. (For the kids and for event decorations.)

She has a slight southern accent.

Elliott and her like to swap book recommendations.

Loves listening to Maru infodumping about her trivia and interests. She teaches them to Jas and Vincent in return.

She likes to do crossword puzzles under the tree near the graveyard.

She prefers to wear skirts.

She influenced Jas and Vincent to have an interest in archeology, thanks to her own fondness of it.

Abigail

Pets every animal they see. Sanitizes herself right away before going home due to Pierre's allergies.

Sometimes helps her dad with the general store. Pierre gives her some money in return.

Abigail loves to draw and sometimes likes to join art competitions.

Enjoys the occult and fortune telling. Has some magical ability, but is not fully aware of it.

She plays the flute and the drums.

Loves adventuring, but feels guilty killing monsters (even out of self defense). Will make graves or offer prayers to put their souls to rest.

Very interested in monsters and loves reading about them.

She has a sweet tooth; minerals taste like candy to her. She also loves spicy food from time to time.

Gets sunburnt easily.

Leah

Used to be hired as an illustrator for books in Zuzu City.

Is under apprenticeship with Robin.

Loves using different painting mediums. Current favorites are charcoal, oil painting, and watercolors.

Experienced forager—she adores making vegetable/fruit salads and stir-frys out of them.

Likes to drink the wine sold by the farmer and the saloon.

She is left handed.

She makes her own special homemade vinaigrette.

Has her own mini-garden.

Loves to help the farmer with crafting artisan equipment that involves wood (eg: kegs, preserve jars, casks, and etc.)

Emily

The unofficial hair stylist (and barberess) of the townies. (HC adopted from @/moon-boat)

Has some real spiritual power and foresight.

Her prophetic visions mostly appear in her dreams.

Knows supernatural beings and Junimo exist (and has seen them) but opts not to tell anyone directly for the creatures’ safety. (Likes to give subtle hints, though.)

Can genuinely communicate with birds and flowers.

Is very good at arts and crafts and helps decorate the festivals often.

Vegetarian. Likes to cook vegetarian dishes.

She's a very talented dancer, and she likes to do her choreography in secret.

Sandy sells the clothes she makes. Haley advertises them on her blog.

Loves all animals—especially birds.

She likes clowns and circuses.

Is very meticulous about cleanliness and housework.

Is incredibly scared of watching horror movies.

Haley

A talented cook that loves baking sweets.

Is a social media influencer. She has a popular Instagram account called StarfruitHaley and a Youtube channel named Cooking Junimo.

Likes drinking peppermint coffee and eating cupcakes.

She is a picky eater.

Learned to dance from Emily.

She and Emily are taiwanese-americans.

Her hair is dyed blonde and she wears contacts.

Freelance model, but likes doing photography more.

Does photography gigs sometimes.

Secretly admires her sister's dancing, but doesn't want to lose to her during the Flower dance.

Likes to go surfing during the summer time. (HC adopted from @/sofiaruelle )

Closeted lesbian, but came out proudly once she started to live in the valley.

Bunnies and Ponies are her favorite animals.

Shane

Prefers keeping people at a distance (so it doesn’t hurt him if he loses them), but is weak to persistent people. (eg: Emily, Sam, the farmer)

Is very good friends with Emily. Likes to joke around and share chicken stories with her.

Lost a sports scholarship in university due to injury, so he dropped out. (He took a course in multimedia arts, hence his 7 ♡ event.)

Likes to collect funny printed boxers.

Wears old clothes until they tear apart.

Doesn't bother combing his hair much.

Takes care of the animals when Marnie's not around, and teaches Jas about the ranch while he’s at it.

Most of his savings are for Jas and Marnie.

Has calloused hands from hard work.

He likes to use nicknames. Both derogatively and affectionately. (e.g. Sweetheart, Chickadee, Doll, Buddy , Asshole, Jockstrap (Alex specific), Dickhead, Kid)

Shane has excellent upper body strength due to lifting heavy boxes at work, and sacks of feed at the ranch.

Jas’ mother is his older sibling. Marnie is his father's younger sister.

In the future, his beautiful blue chickens will become recognized as a standardized breed by the farming community.

Harvey

Used to be a surgical oncologist. Left this position due to emotional distress.

Came from a prestigious family of doctors, lawyers, and professors.

Has a twin brother. ( HC adopted from @/coinly )

Loves science, history, and the documentary channels.

He used to be in a long term relationship but it ended due to LDR.

He can cook but doesn't feel happy eating by himself—so he just heats up frozen meals.

He smells like nice soap and hand sanitizer.

Has a wonderful singing deep voice. (HC adopted from @/hannahstumble )

Likes to drink wine every once in a while to relax.

Jazz music is calming to him. He owns many cassettes of the classics.

Elliott

Was a music professor in a private university.

Is from a wealthy family, but left to become more independent.

Humble and isn't very materialistic, but is very strict with his well-kept appearance.

Keeps his pencils so sharp it might as well be a weapon.

Isn't very good at taking care of plants, but is learning how to.

A little clumsy with housework and repairs, but tries to keep tidy.

His favorite pastime with his father was fishing.

Likes to drink, but can’t hold his liquor at all.

In his youth, he has gotten some recognition for his published short stories and poetry, but has yet to make a full length novel.

Commissions and collaborates with Leah on art and ideas for his books.

His piano actually came from Robin's. Sebastian used to own it but preferred playing the synth now.

Sebastian

Is very skillfull at using a knife (for fish and seafood).

He is a lazy genius.

His Korean name is Seojun. His biological father tried bringing him to his home country when he and Robin divorced, but Sebastian opted to stay with his mother.

He loves cats as much as frogs and bats.

Sleeps very messily. Ends up in weird positions on the bed, with pillows dropped onto the floor.

Loves exploring the mines and wants to join the Adventurer's guild in the future.

Does his (and his friends') piercings.

Has a long deep scar on his left leg due to a rock crab.

The town go-to mechanic, alongside Maru.

He’s jealous of Maru, but doesn’t hate her. Doesn’t know how to express himself, so they end up fighting. He thinks he’s not the best older brother to have.

Insomniac. Needs medication to help sleep, sometimes.

Likes to tease and scare people.

Also gets sunburnt easily—but in return doesn’t get affected by the cold weather as much.

Best billiards player in Stardew.

Alex

Has dyslexia, but is not aware of it (until the farmer points it out).

Likes to help cook with his grandma.

Makes and sells his own icecream.

Is the local town mailman. (HC adopted from @/ryllen )

Childhood friends with Haley, but pretended to be her boyfriend in HS to shield her from men (as per her wishes).

Not only was he a varsity quarterback for gridball, but he was also an ace baseball player.

One of his favorite pastimes is watching the gridball game every Sunday.

Thinking about saving money to go to a vocational college or getting a scholarship.

Interested in becoming a physical fitness coach if his dreams to go to the league fall through.

Afraid of being vulnerable to people, because he wants to be seen as strong and reliable.

Sam

A popular boy in school.

Was influenced into loving music due to Sebastian.

Likes flowers but has severe hay fever.

Has a scar on his eyebrow from a skateboard accident.

Loves his mom's largemouth bass fish casserole.

Thinks being a submarine captain might be cool as a job (thanks to the night market), but would prefer being in the music industry.

Likes to DJ and compose his own music.

A little forgetful, so his wrists and hands are full of scribbles and rubber bands as reminders.

Likes cactuses and the flowers that bloom from it (and especially loves cactus fruit).

Him and Alex both like to collect branded sports shoes, and talk about it together sometimes.

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hellishjoel · 5 months ago

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wild like the west

3.3k / pairing: cowboy!joel miller x cowgirl!reader

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summary: joel and his cowgirl warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), implied but unspecified age gap, joel is technically reader's boss (so power dynamic stuff), swearing, dirty talk, pet names (baby girl, brat, etc.), unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, asphyxiation kink, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, clean up on aisle reader's stomach, reader is described having hair but otherwise (I believe) reader is a blank slate, no use of y/n, barely edited A/N: I unfortunately have not stopped thinking about a game joel miller x yellowstone crossover, and I feel like he would like this to be his long, happy life. I also haven't written for joel since may which feels like a sin! sorry baby!

It doesn’t matter how many ass bruises you get, or the pain of repeated thrashes to your knees from getting bucked off; this unruly horse will bend its spirit to your will.

Half the job of purchasing new horses for the Miller Ridge Ranch is breaking them in like a pair of new shoes.

Any cowboy, or for you, cowgirl, knows that a horse can sense your personality and fear from a mile away. If you sprout fear, it won’t trust you to be the guide on its back. It’s a mutual thing to trust one another. It’s the trust Joel thrust upon you after loyally working at the ranch for a handful of years. Sure, you were young, but you had a good head on your shoulders.

He perches his cowboy boot on the low fence rail, teeth gnawing at a toothpick as he watches you with careful eyes. The morning dew settles over the long grass and tall trees, untouched by man, fostered by nature. With the sun clawing at the horizon, the land turns from a pale blue to a beaming orange glow. It’s beautiful here, peaceful. You imagine this is the life that Joel always wanted, craved. He’s not from around here, he’s got too much Southern twang to be from these northern Montana woods.

Life guided him up here and he never turned back.

You can feel the horse grow agitated under your haunches, whinnying with anxiety as it takes a few rough steps backward in the ground-up dirt.

“S’okay, boy, take it easy, easy,” you coo in a gentle voice that lets the horse breathe through its panic. You grip the colt’s mane at the very base of his neck, right by the horn of your saddle, gently scratching that sweet spot that seems to bring him some tranquility.

You’re the only one who seems to calm these beautiful boys.

“You got a habit of gettin’ in’ta trouble before it even knows to start lookin’ for ya.” Joel’s southern drawl rumbles deep from his chest, stepping into the training ring and crooking his first two fingers in your direction.

“I got it, Joel,” you say insistently, guiding the horse by a little squeeze of your boots to its belly in Joel’s direction.

“Know ya do.” Joel stops at the horse’s chest and pats its neck, large and calloused hand stroking down its coarse mane as he stares up at you, squinting from the morning sunlight.

His eyes are starkly brilliant in this light, typically a dark brown, now a glowy amber under the brim of his black cowboy hat. “You know that part of learnin’ how to be a cowboy is lettin’ them break in their own horse. Hop down.”

A sigh leaves your parted lips as you unhook one boot from the stirrups and throw yourself off. Taking the reigns, you walk with Joel back to the main fence.

“You’re too nice to ‘em. I hired you to be a bit more…” He pauses indefinitely, tilting his head.

“Ruthless. I know.” Your eyes connect, both hardened after years of this long life. One day of being a cowboy felt like a year at any other job.

The plan was plain and simple, a route you’d taken a hundred times with a crew that changed on and off for the past couple of years. The cattle were in need of fresh resources, lush grass to graze on, and streams of pristine crystal water. Up through the valley they’d go.

The cowboys and cowgirls were gathered on their horses, Joel sat atop his beautiful black mare, eyes piercing his crew even behind his tinted sunglasses. Any season besides summer in this state demanded thick, warm work wear. Joel adorned a chocolate brown Carhartt and thick denim jeans under old, worn-out brown chaps.

“I want Wyatt and Jack to take front, Bo and Sadie, swing, Jess and June on the flank, Tucker and Sammy on the drag. Wear your bandanas, it’s gonna get dusty back there,” your eyes flick up to a string of confused faces, “any questions?”

“Why do we have to go through the valley? We’d have to push hundreds of cows through open water,” Bo mutters, disdain for a woman making all these choices for him, perhaps.

“Yeah, n’I can’t swim. Never learned.” Another pipes in.

“Then you’re a goddamn idiot,” old man Wyatt gurgles up a chuckle. Wyatt has been a cowboy longer than you have been alive. He raised you up to be tough with a streak of kindness that could never be washed away. He gives you a tight nod of reassurance as you sigh weakly.

All this tomfoolery seems to be a bit much for Joel’s taste. “She’s takin’ questions about the plan, not your ‘pinions on it. I tell her what to do, she tells ya’ll what to do. You question her, you question me. So do as she says, or you answer to me.”

Joel’s always had a tight hand on the crew. He intimidates them. He is their boss, after all. They have a problem with you or this ranch or anyone else, they answer to him. Joel takes off his sunglasses and narrows his eyes on Bo, the newest cowboy with a pretty big mouth on him who bucks just as bad as your new colts. And his dead eyes are set on you.

The rest of the crew sets off towards the direction of the cattle herd, everyone except Bo.

Your head jerks upward in his direction, your own eyes narrowed. “You wanna say somethin’?” You ride alongside Bo, who seems to be wrestling with his stupid thoughts. But before he gets a chance to say anything, Joel intervenes.

“Got a fight in you? It starts an’ ends with me.”

Bo looks between both of you, simply scoffing before he backs his horse off and trots along towards the crew.

The view from the top of the valley is beautiful, all yellow and golden, with a pale blue sky and tall trees that harbor the secrets of the forest. Joel used to tell you it would whisper to him, warn him. Your chestnut-colored horse stands tall next to Joel’s, and both of you are overseeing the herd and the crew working together.

“Not as bad as I thought this was gonna be,” Joel mutters, turning his head in your direction. You’re unrecognizably quiet. He’s never known you to be so still.

He watches as your fingers anxiously twirl your horse’s mane. “You undermine me in front of them, and they don’t respect me, Joel.”

So that’s what got you so stiff. He takes in a deep breath of mountain air, crossing his wrists over the horn of his saddle and glancing over at you out of the corner of his eye. Your hair blows in the wind, gentle and flowing. Almost graceful if it wasn’t in this wild west. Your beauty was city beauty, he was surprised you ever found your way out here.

“Bo’s as green as grass. He needs to learn not t’talk to you like that. And if he needs to learn from me, so be it.”

Keeping your lips zipped, your eyes scan the points that use the dogs to guide the herd in the right direction. The swings and flanks work the mid to back-mid to maintain movement, and the drags stationed at the back ensure that any loose stragglers keep up.

Joel rolls his eyes and sighs, reaching his hand across to your horse’s reigns, keeping your horse tucked to his side.

“C’mon, Cowgirl. Spit it out.”

“You go about defendin’ me, it looks like we’re sleepin’ together,” you gripe, “and I don’t need our crew slingin’ the slander that I got my job fuckin’ the boss. I don’t want that shit, Joel.”

Joel shifts his jaw from side to side, silent as he usually is. His tongue muscles over the right words, the words that will settle that ball of uncertainty you have nestled in your gut.

He settles on the truth.

“We are sleepin’ together.”

Shaking your head, you steal your reigns back from Joel and gently nuzzle your boots against the horse’s underbelly. “Well, maybe that should end.”

Joel watches on with a small smirk as your horse is set in motion down the grassy hill. He shouts loud enough for his voice to carry down from the high ground. “You set those boys straight, or I’ll have to keep doin’ it for ya.”

You sling back your middle finger in his direction, both of your horses riding side by side now as you follow the crew through to the valley.

Joel sighs upon entering his large, private cabin, resting his cowboy hat to air out on a hook by the front door. His clothes wreak of his musky sweat, and the shower calls his name. He walks stiffly. Joel’s thick thigh muscles are as strong as iron from riding his horse, and his back cracks each time he inhales.

But he can’t deny that this life was made for him.

Training to be a carpenter, earning pennies on the dollar to work in the hot Texas sun, and for what? Building someone else’s dream property? He had his own dreams.

The ranch was his dream.

He always had a profound appreciation for nature and the outdoors.

Fuck the city, fuck car horns honking obnoxiously, fuck the traffic. He found more fulfillment in listening to the wind flutter through the trees and would much rather hear the moos of his cattle than impatient commuters at six in the morning.

Plus, he’s never felt more free or independent. This was his land, and he made the decisions on how it was run. Hiring the sassy cowgirl from the metropolis just happened to be a nice bonus on lonely nights when there wasn’t much left to his whiskey bottle, and the ride into town was more than twenty minutes for a new one. She sated him all the same, better, even.

Despite years of riding and wrangling, you’re so fucking soft. You have soft eyes, a pretty voice, and satiny thighs. Your lips are plush against his weathered ones, and you don’t seem to mind sitting in his lap with his rougher-than-barbwire hands feeling over your body.

But in turn, you’ve made a little soft spot in his wild like the west heart of his. And he swore he’d never settle down; you seem to have the same intentions.

Things were easy. Nice and easy. Almost routine.

The bunkhouse would be busy with cowboys and cowgirls playing card games, drinking their beers, singing to the music on the radio, and talking nonsense. You’d slip out after dark and wind up upstairs in his bed.

He recalls you saying something about how his bed is more comfy than the ones in the bunkhouse.

“Whatever you say, darlin’.”

Tonight was no different. Fresh from his shower with a towel secured low on his waist, he hums curiously at the sight of you sprawled out across his bed. No more than a minute later, you are tugging it loose from his frame and letting it pool around his ankles.

“Thought you said you were done,” Joel muses with a hint of teasing. You sit up from the bed on your knees and wrap your arms around his broad trap and shoulder muscles.

“I ain’t a quitter,” you mutter against Joel’s mouth, feeling his tongue glide along yours as he explores you freely.

He sheds your clothes, feeling your freshly showered skin and hair under his rough palms. He can’t help but touch you like you’re his, like he owns you. But no man can possess the wind.

You kiss as he slips you under the bed’s cool sheets, drunk on the way you move so pliantly under his guidance. His lips move to the slope of your neck, his greying whiskers scratching your skin before he washes over the irritation with more kisses.

Joel’s hands slip between your legs, cupping your clothed center in one hand. Your eyes light up at the friction, mewling up a moan of his name as he massages over the wet spot growing on your panties.

“She’s already soaked, darlin’. You been thinkin’ ‘bout this?” Joel muses, sitting up properly to peel your shirt off your body, two fingers curling around the hem of your panties and chucking them mindlessly on the floor.

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly as he’s about to slip down between those pretty legs of yours.

“What?” He asks, damn near annoyed.

“I can’t wait,” you beg breathlessly, his eyes meeting yours. “I-I can’t, I’m beggin’ you, please. It’s been a long day.”

Joel sighs but ultimately nods. It’s not what he wants, but sometimes you both need a quick fix.

Joel’s body parts your legs, a grunt escaping the depth of his throat as he ruts his hips against your own.

“Good idea,” he mutters against your mouth, leaning down and distracting himself with your kisses as he lines his length up and down your soaking center.

You sharply inhale as he enters and the sound is music to his ears. He feels your nails carving into his back muscles as he sinks himself in deeper deeper deeper, both of you panting with eagerness by the time his hips are flush with your own, lost in where you end and he begins.

You let out a string of moans as he reels himself back, only to return to your depths with a snap of his hips that releases a shrill whine of his name from your throat. His forearms are buried in the fluff of the pillows on either side of your head, forehead against forehead, his hips grinding against you now.

The friction is enough to make your head spin. You can feel the coarse hair of his happy trail tickling your already anxious pearl.

“Fuck,” you huff out, letting your hands slip down his back, knowing that if you want him to pick up the pace, you’ll have to ignite his fire. In one quick movement, your hands drag themselves up Joel’s back, your nails creating etched lines that raise red once you finish at the very tops of his shoulders.

Joel releases a long, low groan in response as his eyes snap open to meet yours. The sting of pain creates heat along Joel’s spine. His jaw is wound tight as he brings his large hand to wrap around your pretty throat, thumb on your chin to force you into staring straight at him.

“Such a goddamn brat,” he growls, adding pressure to the column of your throat as he begins to pound into you harder and harder with each thrust of his hips. You cry out his name, a cacophony of your panting moans and your slick squelching against his hips fill your ears. The ecstasy of losing just a smidge of air is enough to make your eyes roll into the back of your head.

He’s obsessed with the way your eyes gloss over in lust, your body jerking up the bed with each powerful thrust he gives you. Your mouth hangs open, gasping for air that’s just out of your reach.

“You take it, baby girl, you keep takin’ it. She’s so fuckin’- goddamit, so fuckin’ good for me,” he pants, feeling the warm air dissolve against your skin as Joel begins to swell fatter inside of you.

Perfectly slick and warm, he loses himself in your pussy. You squeeze and choke him, his orgasm only building as you whimper how good he feels.

“Holy fuck, Joel, please please please, right there, ohmygod you’re gonna make me-” you gasp, your back arching off the mattress as you grip onto his forearm that’s still holding your delicate throat, your other hand gripping the hair at the nape of his neck. He knows to squeeze a little harder as you fall apart, the euphoria of the combination sending you over the edge.

Joel’s holding on for dear life, always focused on putting you first, always trying to prove your jokes of him being an old man wrong. But he can’t deny he’s nearly finished twice now, your pretty cunt all nice and warm for him.

What’s wrong with pushing you over the edge a little?

Joel abandons the hold on your throat as you still are witnessing the aftershocks of your orgasm, his two thick fingers circling over your swollen clit.

Joel smirks as your eyes snap open, your jaw dropping wide as you silently scream in pleasure. He nods sadistically, smirking as he overstimulates your already twitchy clit.

“You’re gonna give me another, right here, right now,” Joel grunts, stilling his hips as he’s buried to the hilt inside you, feeling your pussy clench around his cock as your gasps and strangled moans fill the room.

“Fuck, Joel I don’t think I can,” you cry out, bracing the wrist of the hand that’s still working figure-eights around your pearl. Joel watches as your chest rises and falls quickly, nipples at peaks as you continue to clench repeatedly around his cock.

“Know you can, baby, cum on this cock again. You’re a strong cowgirl, ain’t’cha? You been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day, getting this pretty girl drilled by me, know ya have.”

And he’s right. Shamefully so. Denying Joel looks good in and out of his cowboy attire is just nonsense. The way he rides his horse with his thighs snagged tight around its middle, gnawing on his toothpicks to ward off the need to smoke a cigarette or chew; at this point, it’s everything that he does that turns you on.

And maybe that’s why it’s so easy to give him a second one.

Your nails pierce into his skin as your hands grip his biceps, mewling and moaning something wrecked, feeling the warmth gather deep in your belly once more.

“Keep fuckin’ me, I didn’t say to stop,” you pant.

Joel disguises his laughter by meeting your lips with his own, giving you messy kisses that taste better than perfect ones. His hips and fingers work in tandem to force you over the edge. You’re shaking under him, your thigh muscles twitching with excitement, legs wrapping around his middle as he grows closer to his own finish.

Just as he feels like he’s going to give way, he can feel your pussy clenching around his aching cock, his tip brushing so perfectly against that spongy spot that sets your insides alight.

“Fuck,” he grits, ripping himself loose of your perfectly wasted cunt as he yanks over his length. One, two, three more times, and he’s spilling warm spend across your belly. The pretty splatters are like a Jackson Pollock. He stares in awe at how pretty you look getting finished on.

The bed dips as he falls into place beside you. He doesn’t lay idle. He reaches for some tissues from his bedside table, politely wiping away his mess as you stare at him with lustful eyes. You were so fucked out. Sorta cute.

“Quit,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes.

“You ain’t as old as I thought you were.” You whisper, a smirk tugging on the corners of your mouth.

Joel chuckles softly at your familiar tease. He's heard it countless times, but it never ceases to make him roll his eyes and pull you closer to him. He kisses your forehead affectionately, his voice carrying a hint of playful banter.

“You gonna keep remindin' me about my age every chance you get? Don’t stop ya from comin’ back each night.”

You lay your head on his chest and listen to his heart thump.

Joel’s got one arm slung around your shoulders, the other on your thigh that’s draped across his middle. His strong hand works slowly into your tired muscles. You play with the greying curls on his chest, taking note of the dark, nearly black ones still speckled throughout.

“Goodnight, old cowboy.” You say, patting his chest, hearing his slow laughter rumble from his chest.

“G’night, pain in my ass.”

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#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal the last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel tlou

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adore-laur · 12 days ago

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Omgg I would love to see different times dadrry gets protective !! Like I can so see him being one of those dads that set boundaries the first time the baby is being introduced to family. He’d be like “no kissing on the face, no taking her away from mom without asking her first and wash your hands before holding her” etc etc. Or him getting defensive when people start to pity him when they find out he’s having a third girl and he gets annoyed and defends his girls 😭😭

Also ofc need to say your dadrry series is the best thing ever I still have tumblr solely to read your writing ☺️☺️

PROTECTOR

——

Pacific loons wailed hauntingly near the shoreline as you sat in the patio's swing chair, listening to the sundry sounds of nature. The oceanic view was a calm presence, one that often lulled you into a hypnotic trance with the endless ebb of waves and the horizon's dying light. Above the railing, brass wind chimes produced a plinking melody in the wind. The atmosphere of home engulfed you like a warm hug.

It was a moment of serenity while Harry went on a grocery run with the girls. He had offered to take the after work, and it was sweet of him to give you time to decompress after parenting alone all day. Plus, it got them out of the house. You would usually be able to take them somewhere for fresh air and fun sights to see, but pregnancy fatigue prevented any hopes of traveling past the front door.

A month had elapsed since you surprised Harry with the news of a third baby. Two weeks since you both had found out it was a girl. In that time, life had coasted by blissfully between the routine of working part-time, daycare drop-off and pick-up, and bonding with your little family over the weekend.

As much as you cherished the hustle and bustle, it was necessary to prioritize personal time. Sometimes it came in the form of sinking into a hot bath, venturing to the beach with a novel, or catching up on much-needed sleep. Today, it consisted of feeling the breeze pass through your hair and appreciating the beauty of southern California.

It would be easy to fall asleep out here. The crashing waves, birdsong, and rustling trees were a lullaby. But you knew the moment you closed your eyes, you would miss the last streaks of the sunset, with its delicate wisps and golden clouds. So you shifted slightly to wake your limbs that were becoming jelly-like, and as you did, the blanket previously draped across your collarbones pooled into your lap. You stared down at it, smiling. The bedroom's storage ottoman held approximately a dozen different blankets, all with some sort of sentimental value attached to them. The crocheted quilt your first daughter had come home from the hospital with; the heated one with Mom embroidered on it; the oversized fleece one Harry liked to specifically use for cuddling either you or his girls.

The one you had chosen for your peaceful patio time was a ragged, faded patchwork quilt that Harry had kept (possibly stole) from the walk-up apartment you lived in together nearly eight years ago. It had watched your love for him grow beyond your wildest dreams. Had seen moments of rib-aching laughter, frustrated tears, pain and passion, and a commitment that would always withstand rough waters. Neither of you had wanted to part with that blanket, so now it stayed in a special place in the home that had once been a far-fetched fantasy.

As your fingers plucked loose threads from the fabric, you felt your phone vibrate with an incoming call. It was hidden somewhere under the thick blanket, and after a moment of searching, you picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Harry, made evident by his contact photo—a family picture on the Temescal Canyon Trail, your youngest strapped to your chest in a carrier and Harry carrying your oldest on his shoulders. A generous elderly couple had offered to take it, with the stunning backdrop of the expansive coastline. You especially loved the picture because it showed off Harry's legs in his athletic shorts, all long and tanned.

"Hey," you answered, assuming he was calling from the grocery store. He often did with ideas for meals or questions about kiddie snacks. Sometimes he'd ask what desserts you were craving, and then he'd spoil you by bringing home more than you could even fathom eating.

"Hi, baby," he said, sounding winded. "Can you unlock the door for me? Both girls are out like a light in my arms."

"Oh!" you said, not expecting him back so soon. Nature's hypnosis made you lose track of time. "Okay, I'll be right there."

"Thank you. I'd hang up, but my phone is balancing rather precariously on my shoulder."

You laughed and hung up for him, then untangled yourself from the cozy confines of the swing chair before heading inside. You were careful to hop over the dolls and picture books and blocks scattered across the living room carpet.

When you reached the front door and opened it slowly, your heart melted. Harry stood there holding one daughter on each hip, their little bodies slumped against him as they slept. You could tell your youngest was in a deep sleep. Your eldest, though, was definitely pretending so she could be carried inside like a princess. The sunset's pink light peeked into the garage and softened Harry's handsome features ethereally. Who else could look this good after grocery shopping?

"We're home," he whispered, and those two simple words filled your heart with an unspeakable amount of happiness.

"I'll help put stuff away," you replied quietly, taking his phone to relieve him from his uncomfortable position. "You go tuck the girls in." It was nearing their bedtime anyway, so better to take advantage of a smooth transition.

Harry smiled with that attentive look on his face, then bent to tenderly kiss the sweet spot on your neck. "You're glowing," he murmured in your ear, then walked past you, leaving your cheeks flushing like a besotted teenager.

Once the groceries were put away and the kids were down for the night, you and Harry went to relax in the bedroom. The sky was now devoid of color with stars twinkling faintly, and the full moon spilled its light through the bay window.

You were already in your pajamas, collapsing onto the comforter, when Harry asked, "How was your day?" He shut the closet light off, dressed in just a T-shirt and black boxers. There were those legs again, the lean muscles a feast for your eyes.

"Mellow," you said. "We stayed inside mostly. Morning sickness has been kicking my ass."

"Good thing you didn't have to work today."

You nodded. That was the nice part about working part-time and partially from home—it allowed for the freedom to be with the kids more often. You didn't mind taking them to daycare, especially since it was imperative for socialization, but it lessened your anxiety when you had them under your supervision. It was a suitable balance.

"Did everyone behave at the store?" you asked, sliding your socks off under the sheets.

"Yeah. No tantrums." Harry raised his eyebrows proudly, and you both shared an air-five. "They seemed knackered. Slept all the way home."

"I tried my best to tire them out."

"Well, you succeeded," he said appreciatively, then joined you in bed, stretching his limbs. You were so thankful for his diligence. To work ten hours and then parent to take some responsibility off your plate was admired more than you could ever put into words.

Harry reached his hand over to the nightstand to resume the book he'd been engrossed in recently but paused and turned to you instead. "Can I gossip with you?" he asked.

You quirked your brows. "What happened?"

He breathed deeply and stared into the distance. "So, I was in the cereal aisle, right?"

You laughed while cuddling up to him. "This is juicy so far."

"It's not even gossip, really," he said. "Just something that irked me."

"Please continue."

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and painted a picture of the scene. "I had the girls sitting in the shopping cart, and an old lady nearby started fawning over them. Which is fine, because they're adorable. Anyway, she started asking a bunch of questions. How old they are, what their personalities are like. Somehow I accidentally let it slip that we have a third one on the way, and I know we're telling our families next week, but I got caught up in the conversation and—"

"You're so bad at keeping secrets," you interrupted with a good-natured groan.

Harry kissed your forehead apologetically. "The worst. So, the lady had the audacity to act all surprised that I was going to be a father of three girls. Gave me a face like she pitied me. And then guess what she said..."

"I assume something mildly offensive," you replied.

"She goes, 'I bet you were hoping for a boy. To bring some balance to your home.'"

You scoffed and said, "More like chaos. What did she even mean by that?"

He shook his head, equally puzzled. "I don't know, but I just said, 'I'm very happy with my life,' then grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs and went on with my day."

You frowned. "Why do some people think having daughters is such a burden?" It was mind-boggling. They had taught you so much and would continue to as they grew and spread their wings. It was your purpose to shape them into resilient, kind, and empathetic women. What a beautiful honor anyone would be lucky to experience.

"I'll never understand," Harry mused, locking eyes with you. "It's the most..." He trailed off with an emotional smile, and you stroked his cheek, letting him take his time. It wasn't often you or he could speak so rawly about the life you'd created together. "It's just the best feeling imaginable, you know? I can't describe it. All I know is that I wouldn't want it any other way."

You softly kissed him, feeling the sincerity of his words in the way he gracefully slipped his tongue past yours. With your palm still cradling his cheek, you halted his kisses using your thumb to say, "You're this family's heartbeat."

His lustful green eyes opened, his pupils dilating as if absorbing your admission. "If I'm the heartbeat, then you're the lungs."

"Sweet-talker," you teased.

"You started this love fest."

After a stretch of comfortable silence, Harry settled his hand on your small bump, a warm and knowing touch. "Please don't think I'm waiting on a son," he said.

You snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I know more than anyone else how much you wanted daughters. You told me during our first date."

"I did?"

"We talked each other's ears off that night about our futures. The universe must have been listening." The conversation was burned into your brain. In that dim oceanside restaurant, you had known he was a keeper.

"Yeah," Harry whispered, kissing all over your stomach, leaving no skin unmarked by his gentle lips. He then rested his head in your lap. "I can't wait to meet her."

You hummed. "Have you ever thought about what she'll be like?"

"A combination of all four of us."

A ghost of a smile spread on your lips. "We're going to have our hands full then."

"I'm ready."

"I know you are," you said while playing with his hair. "That's why I chose you."

He was a protector, down to the fibers of his being. You didn't have to be in the room for him to remind the world of his devotion to being your husband. To being a father. He laid it all bare, and you could only hope that it would be passed down to your daughters like an heirloom blanket.

——

#harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #dad harry #dadrry #dad!harry #harry styles fanfic #harry styles #adore-laur

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thoughtfulfiction · 25 days ago

Text

Carpe Diem

Author’s Note: We all miss him. So I wrote the most romantic thing I’ve ever written.

A glass of chilled Savasana California Rosé sat in front of you, its diluted pink hue a stark contrast to the sweet yet crisp taste. With a fork in hand you begin to dig into the chicken parmesan with strozzapreti pasta, the chunky tomato sauce brings a rich and comforting smell that shifts your attention from the constant hum of the plane's engine. Eating dinner on a plane like this—silverware instead of plastic cutlery, wine served in real glass—felt oddly surreal. This whole trip did, like you’d stumbled into someone else’s life.

You hadn’t always pictured yourself in this life—a corner office in Berkeley, managing accounts worth millions and rubbing elbows with executives. The internship you’d applied for during your junior year of college was meant to be a stepping stone, a way to pad your resume and have something cool to look back on the future. You hadn’t expected it to become the foundation of a career at a place ranked 7th among the largest biomedical companies by revenue in the world. And here you were sipping rosé in first class on your way to a solo vacation in Greece. Somehow, it had all come together. Your first year making six figures was surreal enough, but now the freedom to spend it on something like this felt even more unbelievable.

The hotel room you would be calling home for the next few days was stretched out like it came straight out of a travel magazine. Everything about it screamed neutral paradise, highlighting the warmth of the space. Plush pillows stacked neatly atop the Temper-Pedic king sized bed that earned the hotel all five of its stars with just one glance. The open layout gave the impression of a private condo, complete with a sleek mini bar and an espresso machine that practically begged to be used. The view from the top floor was breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling glass windows that made way for the vibrant blue skies that allowed the sun to shine at it's greatest capacity, reflecting off the marble from the streets of southern Athens below. And the colors were so dynamic; olive groves, fields of breathtaking wildflowers and citrus trees brought the city to life. Everything reminded you of a landscape painting, it was all so perfect you almost had to pinch yourself to make sure you were really here.

But before your Athens takeover could really commence, you needed a nap. Or three.

Day one passed in a blissful haze of recovery. After a nap that could have doubled as a small coma, you walked by the hotel’s pool, taking in the sparkling water and the soft chatter of other guests lounging under striped umbrellas. Breakfast that morning was a feast fit for royalty, an omelet folded to perfection, fresh fruit that tasted like sunshine, and Moustokouloura, a pastry so rich and sweet it felt like dessert at dawn. The concierge insisted you try Greek coffee, and when the steaming cup arrived at your door, its strong, earthy aroma greeted you like a wake-up call from the gods. You took it to the patio, sipping as you let the city below slowly introduce itself. This is exactly where you're supposed to be. Athens was filled with color, sound, and possibility. This was freedom, pure and simple.

Feeling refreshed on your second morning after some extensive Tik Tok research about things to do in Athens, you walked around the streets of Plaka, by far the most recommended place on the site. And it didn't take long for you to understand why. The neighborhood was a collection of some of the most beautiful brick buildings, an array of restaurants with uniquely placed outdoor seating. The air carried the mingling scents of fresh pita, grilling souvlaki, and blooming jasmine. Laughter and snippets of conversation floated from café tables spilling onto the sidewalks, where diners lingered over plates of mezes and glasses of ouzo. You walked slowly, admiring every square inch of the place like you were going to commit every detail to memory, stumbling upon a store with random trinkets you figured you could take home to your friends and tell them what they were getting themselves into when you all would be in Greece together eventually. Now that you'd experienced this on your own, you couldn't wait to share this experience with them next time. The first person you spotted when you walked in was a tall man, well over six feet, broad shoulders with his back facing the door. He was sexy from the back which meant...no. You shook yourself out of the daydream about what this man could possibly look like because of course men in Greece looked better. That was some sort of law or something based on every movie you'd ever seen. The book shelf at the front of the store caught your eye first, a Greek guide book with common phrases for tourists to know, things that maybe Duolingo wouldn't think of so you grabbed it, scanning the pages for useful information. You tried to focus on the guidebook in your hands, but your nerves betrayed you. An older man’s gaze prickled at your skin, a quiet warning sounding in your mind. Maybe it was nothing, you told yourself. He could just be a curious local. But by the third lap around the shop and you could still feel his eyes in you, the goosebumps on your arms had turned into a full-blown alarm.

The man was closer now, his steps too deliberate to be a coincidence. By the time he spoke, his voice was low and overly familiar, the kind of tone that made your stomach twist. “Hi. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I just... couldn’t help noticing you.”

You swallowed thickly, hoping to keep the conversation short, sweet and with as little personal information exchanged as humanly possible. "Yes. Just visiting," you force out a smile.

"Ah I see, those are pretty," he gestures toward the necklaces in your hand, "pretty necklaces for a pretty lady. Does the pretty lady have a name?"

"Um," you wanted to take a step back, you wanted to walk away, but there was literally no way out of this situation because he was standing in between you and the exit. And for some reason you couldn't think of a fake name off the top of your head to give him. "It's—”

“Oh hey, babe. There you are,” a deep voice interrupted. Your head whipped around, and there he was—broad shoulders, a jawline sharp enough to rival a Greek statue. He had the kind of easy confidence that made your heart skip a beat. Mr. Broad Shoulders slid his arm around you, his touch casual but protective, the warmth of his hand anchoring you in place but doubling your pulse rate for a different reason. “Thought you wanted those charm bracelets, but you disappeared on me.”

“I got distracted.” Your gaze flickered upward, caught on the sun-kissed curl falling across his forehead. He smelled faintly of cinnamon, like he’d been leaning over a freshly lit candle moments before swooping in to save you.

The man takes a look at the two of you and apologizes, walking away without a second glance. You let out a sigh of relief, "thanks for the save, I really didn't know what to do and you just-I really appreciate it."

"No worries, I saw him following you around and thought it was weird. Glad I could help."

You look around to make sure the man from before, spotting him circling the back area with the pasties. "It's...very weird. He didn’t seem like he’d back down that easily."

“I’m Joe, by the way. Since I’m your boyfriend now, that seems like something you should know.”

You laughed, the tension in your chest finally easing. “Yeah, probably. Nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Y/N, your very grateful girlfriend.”

Joe leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant just for you. “He’s still watching us. Mind if I sell this a little more?” Without waiting for an answer, he adjusted his grip, his arm tightening around your shoulders like he’d been holding you this way forever. It was seamless, effortless, entirely too convincing. And it left you speechless. All you could do was nod, looking up at him, thinking about how this guy might be the most gorgeous person you've ever seen.

The two of you moved around the store aimlessly, the conversation flowing like you’d known each other for longer than half an hour. Joe explained he’d been in Greece for a few days, taking time to decompress after a grueling work season. “Sometimes, I just need to step away,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity that struck a chord.

“I get that,” you replied, sharing your own story of navigating your career and this newfound independence. You admitted, almost sheepishly, that sometimes your job didn’t feel like work because it aligned with your passions so perfectly. Joe nodded, his expression softening. “That’s how I feel,” he said. “I mean, this year it really magnified that for me. But sometimes when things don't go the way you hoped or planned, it makes the sacrifices worth more. Like not having as much free time when I'm working. Now, I have endless free time."

There was something magnetic about him—not just the broad shoulders and effortless charm, but the way he seemed so present. Every touch felt intentional, whether it was his hand on your back as you navigated tight spaces or his offer to buy the travel book you’d been thumbing through. You felt a strange sense of familiarity, like you’d seen him somewhere before but couldn’t quite place it.

After carefully deliberating over the trinkets, you settled on matching necklaces for your friends. On your way to the register, a woman approached, her expression warm and animated.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she began, “but I just had to tell you—you two make the most stunning couple. The way you look at each other, it’s just... beautiful. Are you here on an anniversary trip?”

“One year,” Joe answered without hesitation, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he squeezed your hand.

“That’s incredible! Congratulations!” the woman gushed. “Athens is the perfect place to explore as a couple. Do you have plans yet?”

You chimed in, “Not really. We were just going to see where the day takes us.”

The woman nodded enthusiastically and rattled off recommendations, from must-visit landmarks to hidden culinary gems. You took notes on your phone, her suggestions igniting your excitement for the day ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe watched you with a kind of awe. The way your face lit up when you talked about exploring the city tugged at something deep inside him.

He’d spent the last four days locked away in his room, trying to process a season that had been equal parts triumph and heartbreak. It wasn’t just the physical toll of the game—it was the sting of being so close to the pinnacle and falling short. They had gone from 4-8 to 9-8 in what felt like the blink of an eye. The unmet expectations that he had for the team dulled his personal success a bit and he needed to escape after watching other teams prepare for their playoff runs while he cleaned out his locker. He just wanted to recharge and regroup…alone. And here you were, an unexpected spark in the midst of his self-imposed solitude.

When the woman finally bid you goodbye, you hesitated. Should you ask him to join you? The idea of spending the day with a stranger—no matter how kind and gorgeous—felt bold, maybe too bold. But being alone again felt... unbearable. You decided against asking because the thought of rejection was a step above unbearable, if at all possible.

“Well,” you began, your voice faltering slightly, “I guess this is it. I should probably head to my next stop now that I have a to-do list.” You forced a small laugh, keeping your gaze on the floor.

Joe nodded, his smile tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I hope you check off everything on your list.”

He watched you walk away, his chest tightening with each step. He wanted to stop you, to ask you to stay, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was stand there, frozen, as the door swung open.

You paused just before stepping outside. Something tugged at you—a feeling that walking away now would be a mistake.

Turning back, you smiled shyly. “I just realized... how am I supposed to experience Athens to its full potential without my boyfriend? On our anniversary trip, no less?”

Joe’s laugh was warm, easy. “No idea. Luckily, I think I know someone who can help.”

“You’re always so helpful. I feel like I won the dating lottery.”

“Can’t disagree,” he teased, his grin widening.

“Alright,” you said, nudging him playfully, “let’s get out of here before your head gets so big it doesn’t fit through the door.”

He walked out with you, allowing you to lead the way to your first stop.

Fairytale Athens looked like an intense mix between the Garden of Eden and Alice in Wonderland. "This is...wow," Joe quips, the vast array of flowers on the ceiling, the pink bar area and the flamingos. So many flamingos.

You could tell by his tight expression that this place isn't really his scene. "We're not here for two hours of afternoon tea or anything," you reassure him with a smile, "Dimitra said that we should grab drinks before walking around Acropolis and that..." you glance at the menu in front of you, "...strawberry ginger lemonade? That might be calling my name." He shakes his head and orders a mint and cucumber lemonade for himself, your lemonade and two waters as you walk around the princess castle, taking as many pictures as possible before Joe walked back over with all four drinks in hand before heading to the incredibly famous tourist attraction.

The package you paid for allowed you to skip the line and head through a side entrance, your tour guide walking you through the history of the ancient sights along with details about the architectural styles, construction techniques, and the symbolism of the monuments. The faint echo of the voices highlighted the rich history of the place you were standing in, the warm air a stark contrast to the cool lemonade in your hand. It seemed like Joe was hanging onto every word as he helped you up some steep ancient steps, his eyes lighting up as the guide drove you over to the museum, going into depth about the Gods.

"This exhibit is Gods, Worship and Magic, one of the most popular sites this year. You guys can walk around and read about the different deities featured." Artemis' exhibit, caught your eye first.

Glancing down at the steel plaque, "goddess of the hunt, devoted to nature. Were you ever a Percy Jackson fan growing up?"

"I was more of a SpongeBob guy. And Star Wars. Definitely had a dinosaur phase that lasted a lot longer than I care to share," he looks up, wondering why in the hell he just told you that. "Do—do you have any humiliating stories you'd like to share with the class?"

He nudged you as you walked alongside him, his hand so dangerously close to yours. You had the biggest urge to reach out and touch him. So you did. Reaching out maybe an inch, you interlocked your pinky with his, making his heart take a leap in his chest, swinging your hands happily towards the Eros exhibit. "The god of—”

"Love and desire," he finishes for you. Just because he wasn’t a Percy Jackson fanatic, doesn’t mean he didn’t pay close attention to the Greek mythology unit in school.

"Look at the hands," you said softly, leaning in closer. "It's like they're...perfectly fit for each other, you know?"

Joe's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. He was standing so close now, the faint scent of mint and cucumber from his lemonade mingling with the earthy air of the exhibit. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice warm and low, "I know what you mean."

Your pinkies were still hooked, but now the little space between you felt electrified. You didn't dare turn to meet his eyes, afraid of what you might see—or what he might see in yours.

"I do have an embarrassing thing to share with the class," you turn to face him and admire the excited look on his face, like what you're about to say is the most important thing in the world. "When I was little I was obsessed with Mama Mia." He gives you a puzzled look. "It's a musical that they turned into a movie. Anyway...it's about a girl that's getting married in a small town in Greece and the views just..." you pause, smiling at the memory, "...changed my life. I've always wanted that magical movie moment feeling. The music, the views, the…”

"Romance?" he finishes softly, a knowing look in his eyes.

You exhale, your cheeks warming as you nod. "Yeah...the romance. It was nice too." You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. "Doesn’t really compare to the real thing, though," you add, barely above a whisper.

The weight of the moment lingers between you. His gaze searches yours, his expression softening like he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. Your heart stumbles, and suddenly you feel too seen. You clear your throat, breaking the spell. "I'm, uh, getting kind of hungry. We should grab lunch and head to the next spot."

Joe blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, like he wasn't ready for the shift. "Yeah, sure," he says, his voice gentler now. He watches you for a second longer than you'd expect, then nods. As you walk back to meet the tour guide, Joe finds himself wondering how you’ve managed to unravel him so quickly, leaving him wondering why he already feels so invested in figuring you out.

When you get into the Uber it's like a weight has been lifted off your chest. The museum, which was supposed to be a calm and educational experience was too stuffy and intimate by the end of the visit. In the car, you could have your own space, sitting as close to the door as you could to gather yourself and your thoughts. The driver was nice enough, he had chargers in the car and gave you water bottles, noting that the heat would steadily increase throughout the day. You noticed him stealing glances at Joe in the rearview mirror, his hands tightening on the wheel like he was holding back words. The silence stretched until finally—“I’m sorry, man. I just gotta say…” he finally utters out, "I've been a Bengals fan since I was 8. And I woke up at ungodly hours to watch you play every week. Huge, huge fan."

You laughed at yourself in your seat, the pieces of the puzzle being put together. All of your focus had been on the day, spending every waking minute together and you didn't even fully process why he looked so familiar because the odds of that just sounded too insane to be real. Joe managed a polite smile, his usual ease replaced with a flicker of discomfort. You glanced at him, watching his jaw tighten just slightly as he signed the hat, the faintest blush creeping up his neck. Did he worry you’d see him differently now?

The car stopped near a bustling square lined with food trucks and small cafes. The aroma of grilled meat and spices wafted through the air as you wandered, your eyes drawn to colorful menus. It didn’t take long for the debate to begin.

"Joseph, the mini burgers are definitely better than the souvlaki cones. Be serious."

"No they aren't!" He argues, "you just need to try another one, here."

The souvlaki cone was tender and smoky, the tzatziki tangy and cool against the heat of the pork. But the burger—crispy bacon, the creamy richness of the mayo—felt indulgent, almost sinful. You savored every bite, laughing at Joe’s mock-offended gasp when you declared it the winner. "I hear you and I respect your wrong opinion. But the burger is just better I'm sorry. Do you want another bite?"

He shakes his head slowly, admiring you while you did such a mundane task, silently cursing himself at the fact that he chartered a plane to leave early the next morning. The two of you needed more time together. One day just wasn't going to be enough and the more time he spent with you the more apparent that fact became.

And then you took him on a boat.

It rocked gently, but Joe’s hands gripped the edge of the seat like the waves were threatening to tip them over. His gaze darted toward the horizon, avoiding the churning water below. “You’re really not a boat guy, huh?” you teased, your voice softening when his fingers tightened further. "I'm so sorry I had no idea. But Joe? We're literally in Greece, it's like, treason not to get on a boat here."

"Exactly, so I'm abiding by the law. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it."

Your hand found his thigh in a quiet attempt to reassure him, and you felt the tension slowly drain from his muscles. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable, but the way his leg leaned ever so slightly into your touch sent a warmth through you that lingered long after. Aegina’s coastline unfolded before you, the white-washed buildings glowing under the sun, expansive trees swaying in the breeze. Joe stepped out first, offering his hand. His grip was firm, steadying you until your feet found the solid ground. You smiled up at him, the unspoken connection between you stronger than ever.

Just as Dimitra had described to you before, the pottery studio was tucked in a quiet corner of the island. Inside, the walls were lined with vibrant pottery, each bowl and vase a testament to countless hands shaping their stories, their glazes gleaming softly in the sunlight as you and Joe grabbed seats toward the back of the room. The instructor's notes were simple, to mold an item of your choice to keep at the end of the session, giving everyone creative freedom to produce a piece of their heart's desire. The clay felt cool to the touch, it's sticky and wet texture balanced wonderfully with the earthy smell that made your experience all the more relaxing and fun. Joe on the other hand, was creating a bowl with a lopsided shape, "it's supposed to look like this," he said firmly, biting back a laugh as you tried (and failed) to keep a straight face.

"Abstract art is still art. I just thought maybe...a quarterback would be better with his hands," you teased.

"Oh yeah? Let's see your work, Picasso." He took a break from his work station to scoot closer to yours, "shit, that actually looks pretty good."

You clean your hands off and move over to his station when he sets his chair back down. "I worked at my uncle's ceramic shop when I was little. It was his passion project so we all had to pitch in as a family and take turns," you helped guide his hand along the bowl, allowing him to smooth over the ridges efficiently evening out some of the misshapen parts. "I'm not saying I’m an expert by any means but I can get you to a point where your bowl can sit up by itself." Your fingers brushed his as you guided his hand, the soft pressure of your touch steadying his movements. Together, the ridges of the bowl began to smooth, though neither of you seemed in a hurry to let go. By the end of the session both bowls were done to the best of your ability, sort of bowl shaped, sort of not and full of personality.

"You’re good at this," Joe says, watching as continued to shape your bowl.

"Good at pottery?" you ask, laughing.

"Good at making things feel...easier," he replies softly. The pottery, he thought to himself, sort of mirrored your time together-unpolished, imperfect, but full of potential and that was both exciting and daunting. After your hands were clean, he grabbed your phone and snapped a picture of the two of you showing off your bowls.

"I was scared when you mentioned doing this at first, but I actually really enjoyed that. This," he gestures to his masterpiece, "is going up somewhere, maybe next to the trophy case at my parent's house. Funny enough, they also live in Athens. Ohio, not Greece," he clarifies.

"You might've missed your true calling," you tell him with a laugh, "here you are wasting your talents on football when the art community needs you."

"Yeah...sure," he laughs, holding onto the bags with your now fully dry bowls in them. "Unfortunately, I don't think I'm ready to quit my day job. Quite frankly, I don't think the art world is ready for me yet. Although working that clay could have been really good wrist rehab."

There it was, that can of worms you'd been trying to navigate. You didn't want to push him to talk about the season or his job if he didn't want to. And now the door was open for you to ask. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to but...was it scary? You know, putting your entire life, all of your free time, your dedication to this one thing that you're obviously really good at. Putting in all that work and then one day it's all just...taken away from you?"

He stops walking for a bit and your breath hitches in your throat, fearing that you've pushed him too far. At the end of the day you were still a stranger to him and maybe that was too personal?

You could tell the question was kind of eating at him, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

"No it's fine. I just…yeah. I was terrified for a little bit. No one had been through this before—not at my position, not at this level. I had no blueprint, no one to turn to for advice. It felt like— walking on a tightrope in the dark, hoping I wouldn’t fall.

“The scariest part wasn’t the pain or the rehab," Joe admits. "It was not knowing if I’d still be...me when it was all over."

You tilt your head, searching his face. "You mean, the quarterback?"

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "No. Just...me. Without football, I really didn’t know who that was, how I was going to navigate fame and my private life and everything in between that comes with being me. Whatever that means. And I had an uncomfortably long amount of time to figure it out. Now that the wrist and my health is not an issue anymore and with everything that happened during the season I just felt drained afterwards. Exhausted honestly. And today's been exactly what I needed.”

"Today's been a breath a fresh air for me too. Obviously I didn't have 500 pounds of man laying on top of me but I get it on a smaller scale. Feeling like work is drowning you and nothing you do is good enough so you need to escape. This trip isn’t just a celebration," you confess. "It’s a reminder that I’m more than my deadlines and titles. My boss once called me at 11 p.m. on a Sunday, and I didn’t even blink before picking up. I guess I forgot what it felt like to just...be. I really needed a—”

"Reset," the two of you say at the same time, a comfortable silence washing over you as you continue to walk. "That’s kind of why I came here," you confess. "Not to figure out who I am, but...to remind myself I’m more than my job. More than what other people expect of me."

"Feels like everyone’s always watching, doesn’t it?" Joe says, his voice quieter. "Waiting for you to fail or...prove them right."

"Yeah. But I think we deserve more than that."

Joe sighs, nodding quietly, "We do," Joe says with a small smile. "And one day, when we get it, we’ll look back on this trip as the start of something different." He didn’t say everything he was thinking—some things needed more time to come to the surface.

"Sounds perfect, lead the way."

After you shared the world's greatest chicken gyro, you walked around Aegina a little more, realizing that you had no time to change before dinner and you'd been wearing the same clothes all day long. You walked into a small store, grabbing things off the shelf to try on. Joe was easy, settling for gray cargo pants and a blue striped knit top. Rummaging through clothes and anything that wasn't instant online shopping had become a bit of a chore and you were on a time crunch which made you feel even more rushed. You grabbed three or four dresses and had Joe sit outside the fitting room while you tried the stuff on, only stepping out to show him your favorite.

"What do you think about this?”

The baby blue square neck A-line dress hugged your body like it was created just for you to wear, it's length accentuating your curves in a way that almost had him physically picking his jaw up off the floor. He didn't think you could look any better before but you'd just shattered his expectations. "You look absolutely amazing," he says sincerely, his mouth feeling dry.

You glance at him, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. Compliments weren’t new, but the way he said it—like it was the only thing in the world that mattered—left you speechless. You managed a soft laugh, pretending to study your reflection. "Thanks." After heading back to the fitting room to change, you grabbed all of your items and headed to the front to pay with Joe standing behind you in line. The cashier rung up your items and was getting ready to bag it when Joe added his clothes to the mix.

"Joe what are you doing? You're not paying for my clothes."

He handed over his card without hesitation, ignoring your protests. "I’ve got this," he said, his voice casual but his eyes portraying something deeper, like this was the most natural thing in the world to him. "Boyfriends are supposed to buy things. I think it’s in the constitution.”

"It's definitely not. And seriously, you don't have to do this."

"I got it, don't worry babe." The word slipped out so effortlessly that for a second, you wondered if you’d misheard him. But the way his eyes flicked to yours, briefly widening, told you everything. He realized it too—and yet, he didn’t take it back.You thanked him the entire walk back to the boat, his soft laugh sending warm and fuzzy feelings in your chest.

You were starting to acknowledge the growing warmth between you two, the way Joe’s presence seemed to make every moment feel right. The idea of saying goodbye felt heavier than it should after just one day, but somehow, it seemed inevitable. The next spot was inside a resort, they allowed you to change your clothes and head upstairs to the rooftop bar to watch the sunset. The drinks and the view had nothing on you, he quickly realized, finding himself unable to tear his eyes away. Everything just made sense today, the museum walk, the easy conversation, the boat ride. He didn't want to leave before but now the mere thought of packing his suitcase tonight made him upset.

"What are you thinking about over there?" Your words snap him out of his thoughts.

"Nothing, just how much I'm going to miss it here. The peace, the incredible sunset..."

You. The word hung in the air for a while before he pushed it down and tried to move on.

"We should head over to there and get closer to the view, you can literally see the entire city from glass railing." You stood up first and grabbed his hand, practically dragging him over there. Luckily there wasn't anyone else in the area. "This is the most insane scenery. I don't get how anyone could get tired of seeing this everyday, I'd never be inside. I feel like we’ve been the physical representation of carpe diem."

He looks at you confused, "what does that even mean?"

"Carpe diem? It’s Latin for 'seize the day.' Basically saying not to focus too much on the future and live in the present to the fullest capacity.”

"I like that," he chuckles.

Long after the sun went down and most of your dishes were cleared from the table, the lingering sweetness of caramel on your lips was all you could think about, a fleeting pleasure that only made the impending goodbye sting even more.

"Joe I have to tell you something," he looks at you as you head over to stand in one of the private lounge areas, giving you his undivided attention. "I saw you this morning in the store. Your back was facing me but I don't know, you caught my eye. And I told myself I wouldn't say anything, I wouldn't go up to you and make small talk because I'm here on a solo vacation to be one with myself and-now I'm really glad that I know you."

A smile forms on the corner of his mouth, "I've been telling myself all day that this isn't real. That I could just let my guard down because in Greece, I don't have to be Joe Burrow. I can just be...Joe. You let me be exactly who I am, nothing more, nothing less. And honestly? This might've been the single greatest day of my life. I've had good ones, really good ones. But today is up there for sure." You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten until you could feel his arm against yours, his breath soft and warm on your cheek. His eyes dropped to your lips again, this time lingering a moment longer, as if the air between you had thickened. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, his breath just a whisper away, as his hand hovered near your cheek. His fingers brushed against your skin, sending a spark through you, and for a moment, you thought he might pull you in.

You couldn't allow yourself to go there. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not now, not like this—but the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, made it hard to think clearly. As much as you wanted this, to feel him close, to taste the sweetness of that kiss, the weight of knowing how fleeting it all was crushed down on you. This wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything you were afraid to want, a piece of yourself that you couldn’t let slip away so easily. If you already felt this strongly about him after a day, how were you going to make it through the rest of the vacation without him knowing how his lips tasted and how his strong hands pulled you in close, holding onto you like he'd rather lose everything than let you go. There was no way in the world you'd recover.

"We can't," you whisper, watching him drop his hand that had just been lightly caressing your cheek. "You're gonna leave tomorrow and I'm gonna be thinking about this kiss for a long time. And I can't," your voice trembles. "I don't want you to go, so I can't kiss you. I'm sorry."

"No don't—don't apologize. I get it." He still hadn't taken a step back, biting his lip to keep his emotions in check. "I can walk you back to your hotel? I haven't packed yet and I need to.”

"Sure, yeah that's fine."

The 15 minute walk felt like three seconds. You didn't want him to go. He no longer wanted to leave. "Y/N I—”

You wrapped him up in a bone crushing hug, silently begging him to stay, just for a few more days. His grip on you was just as strong, his heartbeat thumping rapidly against your body. There weren't enough words in the English, or Greek dictionary to describe how much you were going to miss him. To miss this day. "Bye Joe." That was it. That was all you could manage. The moment you let go of him felt like a piece of your heart stayed in his arms. There was no way to explain the ache in your chest as you watched him turn away, the pull to stay stronger than any rational thought.

Going to sleep that night sounded impossible. The day had started out so innocent and special and the adventure and emotional rollercoaster you'd been on during the day made it feel like you'd experienced a series of days all wrapped into one. You set your bags down on the ground when you got to your room, too tired to change out of your clothes and falling asleep on top of the covers as soon as you laid down.

The next morning you checked the time on your phone, it was 8am. Joe had told you yesterday he was leaving at 10. That meek little goodbye wasn't going to cut it. You didn't even have his number. After your teeth were brushed and your clothes were changed, you rushed out of your hotel and got in an Uber, on your way to Joe's resort. The 46 minute ride allowed you to come up with everything you wanted to say, how this was only meant to be for a day but maybe it could be more? Maybe you could come see him in Cincinnati or he could come to Berkeley or someway somehow you could figure out a way to make it work.

You thanked your driver, opting to speed walk into the lobby. The person at the front desk couldn't give you access to the room without a reason, even when you gave them the name Joe used for his reservation. Pulling out your phone, you showed her the picture of you and Joe that he took at the pottery place and she finally believed you.

"I'm sorry ma'am, he actually left this morning a bit earlier than planned. He checked out at 7am to get on the plane."

Your chest tightened as the words settled in—he was gone. Just like that, in the span of a few hours, everything had shifted. The chance to say what was left unsaid, the connection you had just begun to explore, all slipped away before you could even hold onto it.

It felt like a dark cloud loomed over you throughout the rest of the day. The sun, once so warm on your skin, now felt distant and cold. The flowers that had seemed so alive that morning now appeared dull, their colors muted, as though even nature understood the weight on your heart. While you ate lunch, you tried to people watch, although you quickly discovered that there were only couples surrounding you, sharing meals and laughing at each other's jokes which made you miss him even more. The only real bright spot of the day was your flower garden excursion, taking pictures of the newly bloomed bulbs and taking in their fresh scent. As the hours passed, you allowed yourself to breathe a little deeper, letting the moments of regret slip away as you focused on the simple joys of your surroundings. The beauty of the flowers, the calm of the gardens, it all reminded you that there was still peace to be found in this unexpected chapter of your life.

You were just beginning to let go of the weight on your chest, convincing yourself that maybe, just maybe, this was how things were meant to be. But as you laid your phone down beside you, the familiar ping of a message broke the stillness.

It was an DM request on Instagram. The message had two simple words.

Carpe diem.

For a second, your heart skipped, and you couldn’t help but smile. That phrase, so simple and yet so loaded with meaning, sent a wave of warmth through you. It was him. In a way, he had left his mark on you after all, even if he wasn’t here to say the words aloud. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end. And though you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring or if this connection would ever evolve beyond this brief encounter, in that moment, with his words glowing on your screen, you allowed yourself one final thought: Maybe this was only the beginning.

#Joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fic

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messenger-of-babel · 2 months ago

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If I Could Turn Back Time

Summary: Dick wishes he could turn back time, anything to win you back. (Dick Grayson x fem!reader)

Word Count: 2.5K

Notes: I'm baaacck~! I'm gonna filter out some posts for y'all in between work and prepping for a Christmas countdown. I hope that y'all in the northern hemisphere are enjoying the winter months, and that the heat is manageable for the rest of us in the southern. Hope I didn't make anyone wait too long, and thank you for being patient!

~RiRi <33

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Dick Grayson swore that he wasn't as big of a romantic as people made him out to be. After your breakup he had returned to the manor, unwilling to commit to the long drive back to Bludhaven. He milled around the kitchen, face sullen, telling a concerned Alfred he was just too tired to make the trip and didn't want to drive in the dark. He didn't tell him that he was worried that the image of you crying at the kitchen sink would distract him so badly that he'd either crash or turn back to see you.

He defended himself when Jason came by to drop something off for Bruce and catching the eldest in a state of disarray and blatant bedhead, shambling around in the living room. The younger man rolled his eyes and scoffed, striding past him.

"She break up with you?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"I broke up with her." He said softly. "But I'm fine." he waved off, taking another sip of his coffee.

"You're an idiot." Jason sighed, kissing his teeth and shaking his head as he strode past in heavy footfalls.

He swore that he was able to move on. That it had been for your best interest. It had only been fourteen days, six hours and twenty-three minutes since he'd driven away. Now he was banging his head against the steering wheel, stuck in the late afternoon traffic between Bludhaven and Gotham. He had the persistent itch under his skin to pull out the suit, weave his way through traffic on his bike just so he could get back to you faster. But he knew that was an abuse of his identity, and could raise some pretty heavy eyebrows from Bruce and even Clark if they found out he took the suit just for a house call.

So, he sat there, stewing in his own thoughts. The late sunset flickered off the water and into the interior of his car. His bangs fluttered with a heavy exhale; hands sweaty as they tapped a mindless rhythm on the wheel. He wished he had a clock that wasn't just the digital numbers of the car display. A clock where he could turn back time.

He'd turn it back to your first date, where you both spent hours wandering the park in Gotham. You had dressed up nicely for a picnic, and it was like you had just walked out of the greenery. The only thought that Dick had while watching you that afternoon was how stunning you looked, so natural in the park with a beaming smile. He had seen Poison Ivy in all of her glory, and her deep connection with the green. If he didn't know better, he would have thought you were born of nature the same way, the way you seemed so in tune with the scenery.

You had surprised him by adjusting your clothes with a cheeky grin and racing hand and hand with him through the park, weaving in and out of the trees with a beaming smile. He had to catch his breath from the way you stole it from under him, taking him to what you had dubbed your 'favourite tree'.

"Why is this one your favourite?" he had asked, hands on his hips and eyebrows quirked. You cast him a glance over your shoulder, looking at him like it should be obvious. Fingers deftly pried your feet from your shoes and you tossed them aside, walking in front of him. "Because it's the best for climbing, of course." you chided, like he was silly for even asking. Swiftly, you proceeded to hoist your way into the low hanging branches, graceful as you traced a path you clearly knew. He couldn't help but let his eyes wander, heart warming oddly. As if he was no longer in control, he reached down to undo his own shoes, hands running along the rough bark before pulling himself up after you.

Being a vigilante and circus performer, the movements themselves were easy enough, but despite all of his training he didn't even move with a fraction of your ease. When he caught up you were already nestled in a nook, leaning against a thick branch. You looked at him, late sunset beginning to flicker across the angle of your face. The golden light made your eyes glow, and you wore a soft, lazy smile, like a cat lounging on a bough. "Made it, I see." you hummed playfully, and he huffed.

"Was I not supposed to?" he quipped back, pulling himself up so he could sit next to you. You just shake your head, eyes closing with a gentle smile. "Not 'not supposed to', you've just been the first to follow. Normally my dates either just wait at the bottom or leave. No one really tries to come up, and the ones that do usually struggle to make it this far."

Dick shrugged, heart fluttering as he pushes his hair back with a hand. "Well, I'm used to this kind of the thing."

You give him a sceptical glance and he laughs. "The circus." He explains.

You grin. "Explains the runaway vibe."

"Hey!" he protests, hand to his heart. "I was raised there, thank you very much."

He spent so long up there he didn't realise you had been talking at the top of the tree for hours until the sunset began to filter into dusk, lost in the view of Gotham city park and its skyline.

Well, you might have been. He was too busy watching the way your mouth moved when you spoke or what actions your hands made when you spoke.

The second place that he would turn back time is the day he left you.

He'd take back every emotional scar he lashed you with, every word that cut into the soft flesh of your heart. He'd go back in an instant to pick up the pieces of you that he shattered, stop them from falling into the sink alongside your tears. He wouldn't have left the moment that your broken voice had asked him to leave, to give you space. He'd trade anything to have you in his arms again, to shush you and mumble his apologies into your hair.

The same apologies he was rehearsing to himself as he inched forward in the traffic for two painstaking hours. He practiced the cadence of his sentences by tapping them into his leg as he jogged up the stairs to your apartment. He steeled himself for a slap, a hiss, a scathing remark that would likely greet him when, no, if, you opened the door to him. He'd bear anything you threw at him, as long as he didn't have to see you cry. When you didn't respond to his knuckles rapping against the door, he sucked his teeth. Maybe you were out? Maybe you were ignoring him? He wouldn't blame you if you did.

Frustrated, he kicked the door frame, head thudding onto the door. He didn't know how to keep a relationship alive, if he was being perfectly honest. He had been enamoured with Kory, but the flame they had fizzled out. He and Babs had ended as natural as you could manage between coworkers. Yet, both of them had both ended the same way deep down. The anger that he failed to let go of deep inside that came out when he truly let himself be vulnerable. The little boy in his heart with his little fists clenched so tightly onto that ball of rage. The anger and hurt of losing his parents. It was a ball that Bruce and Alfred had managed to lessen, managed to pry those young fingers off little by little and helping him to redirect it, but it was never fully gone.

All it took was one relationship argument that carried on for a little too long or burned a little too hot, and that little ball moved into his throat. The fear would shake in his hands again, that there was always the possibility that he'd lose them too. Dick Grayson wouldn't really call himself a romantic. He was just someone who always fell in love, who made the person he was with always fall into him without a safety net.

Then, he'd push them off that tightrope, and he'd flee.

Irritated with himself he practiced breathing techniques to calm himself, unclenching his fists and unhunching his shoulders from his ears. He wanted to fix this. For you. For him. For that little boy holding onto that little ball of hurt. He waited another fifteen minutes before he jogged back to his car. He worried his lip in between his teeth as he cruised around, leg bouncing as he visited your favourite spots. You weren't at work, and you weren't visiting the library either. Your favourite bar wasn't open yet, and your favourite cafe had already closed for the day.

He felt stupid. He felt guilty. Stupid for leaving, and guilty for chasing you so pitifully. His behaviour was getting borderline obsessive, but he couldn't help himself. He felt like he was going to go insane if he didn't get the chance to even talk to you again. With an angry sigh he threw the car into park, breaking loudly. He slammed the car door a little harder than he would have liked.

Gotham City Park.

A part of him hoped that you weren't here, honestly. It was dark, and everyone knew Gotham was worse after hours. You were alone, presumably unarmed, and a complete fool if you were. His feet traced the path that he knew so well, but it felt weird without having your weight looped around his arm. Hands shoved deep into pockets he fiddled with the lining, chewing his cheek till he got to your tree.

The massive boughs stretched before him, blocking most of the city light. However, he knew that as soon as he got up there, he'd be able to see almost everything. With a pained exhale Dick ran his fingers over the smooth bark before reaching up for the nearest branch and hoisting himself up. Even if you weren't here, he needed somewhere to gather his thoughts. Somewhere to figure out how to fix his fuck up.

He navigated clumsily upwards, the dark making it hard to see. He hadn't realised how naturally his body followed yours when you climbed up, now getting lost by himself. Branches smacked him in the face as he ascended, dense foliage hiding his next foothold from him. Eventually his head poked through the entrance, and he took a deep lungful of crisp air, eyes closing.

"You looked like an idiot climbing around in circles down there, you know."

His eyes fly open, heart catching as he sees you. You're still in your work uniform, knees to your chest. Your eyes are dull despite the starlight. Dick revered your eyes, telling you many times that you could make even a stone glimmer if you gave it a fraction of your light. Now they were like a dying bulb, burnt out and dim.

"Hey," he said softly, as if you'd disappear if he raised his voice any louder. "I was looking for you."

"Well, you found me." You say, shifting your eyes from him to the city. "What do you want?"

His throat closed up, burning. He could feel that bright little ball being shoved into his throat, and he had to grimace to push it back down.

He needed to do this.

"I'm here to apologise." he said quietly, pulling himself up and sitting a respectable distance from you. His fingers suddenly became interesting as he toyed with them, picking at the skin. "I don't expect you to take me back or anything, but I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." he chokes out, looking up at you. "I was- I was scared. I was scared someone was going to take you away from me, that it wasn't worth it. But I was wrong. I'm sorry-" he swallowed harshly as your eyes met his, and the softening at the corners of yours made him want to fold. "I'm sorry for everything I said, for everything I did. You didn’t deserve that; you deserve something better."

"Dick-"

he held up his hand. "You deserve the world, sweetheart." he said, choked at the softness and pain in his own voice. "If I was Superman, I would fly to your window every morning and take you into the clouds just so you could experience what it's like for a heart to fly, like you make mine do. I'd go across the ends of the earth to find the sun after the sunset just to realise it can't be brighter than the smile that you give me in the morning. So, I came to tell you that I made a mistake." he says, quiet and unable to hold your gaze any longer. "I made the biggest mistake of my life. I want another chance." he takes a deep breath, nose burning as he tried to hold back his tears. "And if you don't want me back, I want you to know you deserve all that. Even if it's not me, never settle for anyone that will give you less than that." His voice cracked as he finished, and he swallowed.

He needed to leave. He had done his piece.

The shame swirled in his veins like a cloud and hurrying him to find his way down. His senses were dulled like he was struck with a concussion, thoughts echoing like they were in a tunnel. It was only when he felt the soft skin of your palm on his that his head snapped up. The moment his face was tilted up the light was blocked, and his face was warm.

It took him a good second to recognise the familiar feeling.

You were kissing him.

With a relieved sigh he let out a sigh straight from his chest, chasing after your touch desperately. He thought he may have been in a dream, but when he reached up to cradle your face with a palm, he knew that it wasn't true.

"You idiot." you breathe out, eyes fluttering as you part from the kiss. "You grade A, boy wonder, spandex clad idiot." your rest your forehead against his. "Tell me next time." your murmur, hand coming down to grip his and place it on your chest. “You’re not alone anymore, you know?"

A faint flicker of a smile danced its way across his lips, and his shoulders shook lightly as he laughed at himself. He leant up and brushed his lips against yours once more and finally, that little ball of rage fell through the fingers of that hurt young boy.

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thetriumphantpanda · 1 year ago

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i saw mommy kissing santa claus | joel miller

Summary | Your daughter catches you kissing santa... or does she?

Word Count | 1.3K

Warnings | Mentions of traditional Christmas (A tree, gift giving ect), Joel dressed as Santa, Joel being a daddy again, Joel AS A HUSBAND, smut but not super explicit - oral sex (f) and unprotected PiV, just general fluff really.

Authors note | Firstly, I have to give a huge shoutout to @wildemaven - the Dave York piece she posted recently definitely inspired this little Drabble, along with being stuck in a car with my bestie for three hours with the Christmas radio blaring. This is just some sweet Christmas fluff for us all!

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi.

amazing divider by @saradika

The way the snow flurries fall outside are still a wonder to you, even after seven years of winters in Jackson. The warmth you remember from Christmas before the end of the world is a distant memory now, the open windows and the light breeze of December now replaced with the biting cold and the four layers you must wear inside your home to keep as warm as possible. It’s magical though, the way it looks picture perfect, just like the movies you would watch back then. If you could, you’d take a photo of it, use it as the family Christmas card.

Turning around from the window, the room is bathed in the orange glow from the fire you set a few hours earlier. The lamp, on Joel’s side of the couch is also helping, as are the frosty lights wrapped haphazardly around the tree, in making it feel normal. Because really it is. This has been your life for the past five years, putting up a tree, setting small gifts under it like you always had before all of this. The three stockings set above the fireplace, ready to be filled in the next few hours – the precursor of joy the following morning.

Sofia had thankfully gone to bed with little fuss tonight. Finally old enough to understand that the earlier she went to sleep, the earlier she could wake up to find out if Santa had paid her a visit. She hadn’t been planned, but then when were children ever a plan in this new world? You’d been scared, Joel had been terrified, but in the end, she had been the most wonderful thing to happen to the both of you.

You settle on the couch, letting the warmth from the fire soothe the aches that the cold now settles across your bones. You’re almost able to fall asleep, when, with clockwork timing, Joel tears open the front door, a flurry of snow and cold following him in as he closes it behind him. You struggled to stifle a giggle as you turn to look at him.

Dressed head to toe in a Santa costume that is far too big for him, not enough time for the town seamstress to do anything other than pin the sides of the trousers in. The hat on his head is almost covering his eyes, his hand pushing it back to sit properly, as he deposits the sack, once full of tiny gifts but now empty, on the ground. He’s got a fake beard on to cover most of his face so that none of the children that did see him would know it was Joel.

“Wow,” You muse lightly, standing from the couch, “I thought it was customary to wait for everyone to go to sleep before you turned up?”

There’s a slight grumble from under his beard as you step closer to him, watching as he pulls the fake beard down to sit around his neck, his beautiful face finally revealed. You set your back against the closed door, leaning against it, fluttering your eyelashes slightly.

“Did you bring us presents, Santa?” You ask, voice sultry and low.

“Depends,” Joel says, voice just as low, “Have you been a good girl this year?”

That low, southern drawl shoots straight between your legs, thighs rubbing together as you shrug at him, wrinkle your nose a little, “You’d have to ask my husband.”

You watch as he smirks, steps a little closer to you, his gloved hand wrapping around your waist, “What would he say?”

“That I can be a handful,” You bite at your bottom lip, “But ultimately, I always do as I’m told.”

Joel leans down, as slowly as possible, mouth so close you can feel his breath across your lips, your body tugged closely to his own now, “Well then,” He muses, “If you’ve been a good girl, it’s only right you get your gift.”

His mouth is on yours in no time, softly pressed against yours, his hand clutching your body close to his as you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing up on your tiptoes so your mouth is finally flush with his own. You open your mouths at the same time, tongues meeting as Joel groans into your mouth, hands pulled from your body just long enough to tear the gloves off his hands, shoving them straight under the hem of your shirt, resting at your waist to move you gently from the door to the couch.

He sets you down on your back, fumbling his big body to cover yours as those hands of his work to undo your jeans - tearing them down your legs enough so he can put his mouth on you. You feel weirdly like a teenager, fumbling with someone on the couch like this, biting down on your fist in order to keep quiet as Joel’s tongue works across your soaked cunt, drinking you down, tipping you over the edge twice with his mouth - the second, with his fingers buried deep inside you - trying to keep yourself as quiet as you can, you know the other option is waking your daughter and having to spend the rest of the night trying to get her to go back to sleep.

It gets harder to hold that noise in when Joel pulls you onto his lap, trousers pushed down just enough for you to sink down onto his cock, that stupid Santa jacket unbuttoned, pushed off his shoulders, your mouth biting down on his skin as he fucks up into you, his hands gripping the meat of your ass to keep you still.

It’s messy, it lasts probably less than five minutes, Joel spilling himself inside of you, your mouth pulled from his shoulder, bite mark evident as he moves you gently, puts himself right so he can carry you up the stairs, tuck you both into bed, his warm body next to yours as you both drift off to sleep, sated and happy.

Then, the next morning, with Sofia on her knees in front of the tree, you sat on the couch, curled into Joel’s side with a smile on your face at the elation your daughter finds in tearing the paper off her gifts, she says something no-one expects.

“Daddy?” She says, big brown eyes looking up at the two of you.

“Yes, Darlin’?”

“Mommy was kissing Santa last night.”

You almost choke on your coffee, spluttering to try and keep your composure, praying to the Almighty that it was just the kissing she saw. Joel though, is cool as a cucumber.

“Is that right?” He asks, looking down at you with a wink.

“Yeah!” Sofia exclaims, “I saw her last night.”

“You were supposed to be in bed.” You chastise her lightly, “What were you doing up?”

“I heard the door open,” She says, so matter-of-factly that it’s like having a conversation with an adult, “I wanted to meet him.”

“Well, you see,” Joel speaks, “Sometimes, to get your presents from Santa, he’s gotta ask for somethin’ in return, all that travellin’ in one night and he sees your pretty mama?” He shakes his head, “I’d ask her for a kiss too.”

She mulls it over a little, small hands holding onto an unopened gift, then clearly accepts the explanation as she tears into the paper.

“Nicely saved,” You whisper into his ear, lips pressing a kiss to the delicate skin behind it, “Christmas is saved.”

“Oh baby,” He whispers back, taking the lull in Sofia’s attention on the two of you to look down at you, “You can’t think you can kiss Santa and get away with it?” His low voice sends a silver down your spine, “You’re gonna have to make up for that later."

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antichrists-plus1 · 1 month ago

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"Sometimes when animals die, they don't know they are dead. They simply roam the woods forever."

Edwin and Charles had been sent to a forest in the Southern countryside following reports of something taking unsuspecting ghosts that strolled through them at night, and thought it best to scope out the area and search for clues before it got dark.

On the outskirts of where the trees fade into country plain, they come across a summer home attached with vacant horse stables. The owners do not appear to be present and the land looks overgrown and unkept, so it's safe to assume the place is abandoned. As the two walk out and look to the vast plain outside the forest, they see something peculiar in the distance.

They've seen a few animal spirits in their years of investigating, but never have they seen one of a horse. Edwin looks at the creature with awestricken eyes and approaches it slowly.

"When i was alive, my family kept a a horse for me in a stable outside our estate." Edwin is careful not to startle the creature as he moves closer, Charles following a few steps back. The cool light it radiates contrasts with the orange hues in the now setting sky. "I never had many friends in life and my parents never kept pets, so i found her one of my only companions throughout my childhood. My father sold her once i began public school."

"And this one, it reminds you of her, does it?" Charles asks quietly, as not to disturb both the creature and whatever state Edwin is in that he feels compelled to open up about his past.

Edwin considers for a moment. "Yes, actually, I..." He pauses.

It's been so long that he doesn't realize it at first, but the summerhouse is all the sudden very familiar. It starts to come back to him, distant memories of the old cottage of the family friend his horse was sold to that he visited during summer break. The summer of 1915 was the last time he visited his old friend in these stables.

There's no evidence that this is his horse, there's probably been dozens of horses here in the years since. Still, the way it responds to Edwin's touch when he finally comes close enough to gently rest a hand on it's skeletal neck: relaxed, almost leaning into it, makes hope bloom in his chest. It's when she leans her head forward, pressing her muzzle against his chest, that Edwin knows it's her. It was a strange gesture, and one he used to complain would dirty the front of his vest, but it was always her strange way of greeting.

Charles rests a hand on his shoulder, and Edwin is startled out of his nostalgia-induced trance. "Y'know mate, i might have some horse riding equipment still in my bag from the case of the disappearing farm. Might be easier to get around these woods at night with a glowing horse." Charles's smile is bright, and Edwin feels impossibly warm under the companionship of his two oldest friends. Edwin turns to him with a sparkle in his eyes, only partially from the glow of the horse in front of him.

"Brilliant idea, Charles."

#Ficlet under the cut #Deeply sorry for the quality please click #If anyone has horse name ideas feel free to drop em #Edwin will always be my favorite horsegirl #dead boy detectives #payneland #charles rowland #edwin payne #save dead boy detectives #dbda #dbda fanart #dbda fic #antichrists art

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xoxo-surfergirl · 1 month ago

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dawn of winter

aemond targaryen x fem!stark!reader

abstract: just moons ago, the realm was at peace and you were stealing kisses with aemond in the red keep. now, the dance of the dragons has begun, aemond has arrived at winterfell knowing your brother would bend to rhaenyra, and nothing feels certain. themes: winter vibes, lovers to enemies to lovers, light smut, romance, angst (because they enemies!), forbidden romance if you squint, hand stuff, you are lady stark, aemond goes for what he wants, the northman not being happy abt it

lucy's notes: ao3 link. just a little something for the new year :) the north is cold and that is my holiday connection 😤 (that's what i'm telling myself because I really wanted to write SOMETHING for this time of year but didn't fully know what). jacaerys did not leave for his mission quick enough and aemond beat him to winterfell 🫢 cregan still hates him tho. and since aemond didn't go to the stormlands lucerys lives too. this will probably be a one shot, though I started a short epilogue which might be posted. it's just an excuse for romance and vibes. i hope you enjoy this story! any interaction is deeply appreciated <3

word count: 7.2k

What little sun there was fettered a white glow in the ever-churning snowfall. The winds of winter had begun their journey south from beyond the wall just a few moons ago, but their strength had built furiously since then. The treetops hadn’t seen a pale morning’s dawn in over three moons, and the wolf’s choir had grown in numbers near Moat Cailin. The elders of Wintertown had spoken of a harsh winter then, noting the heavy fog in late summer, thicker tails on the burrow rats, and tougher skins on the onions.

It had certainly come. The storm that had hung low over Winterfell, carrying all the way from Castle Cerwyn to Deepwood Motte, had settled thick winds and heavy snows on every stone, tree, and fort. And to mark the special occasion, the Great Hall of the castle would be set alight for winterfest.

All families of bannermen were being called to share in the centuries honored tradition of hosting a great feast and celebration in honor of the coming snows. And, as happenstance may have it, there was urgency to discuss the matter of succession in the south.

As if the usurpation of your Queen wasn’t enough, unexpected guests had descended upon Winterfell. One of which had bronze wings as wide as a small keep, and another bearing a halo of Targaryen silver hair.

Upon your return home, you had dreamed of a moment like this: Vhagar bared in the snow, each frozen flake blistering against her scaled skin. A mountain of her own, even the closest ground to her steaming from her eternal heat.

But things were not as they were those moons ago, hands and touch lingering under the beat of the southern sun. The water there had been warm enough to swim in, ankles brushing against the lapping tongues of the break and toes worming through the sand. There was no snow, and the realm was united.

The men had armed themselves at the sight of her shadow, hands gripping their weapons tight. Movement in the castle was always a flurry of feet, but now all were either frozen or frenzied at the arrival. All the feelings of summer pooled in your belly, the taint of winter now upon them. Shouts of men filled the battlements, calling for the warden of the north to meet the crown prince of the realm, the unspoken part following in silence: brother to the usurper. Your belly sank, dragging your heart with it.

Any pleasant thoughts of Aemond’s arrival had long faded the moment a raven had arrived from White Harbor. Things were different now. Vhagar’s proximity to the gates of the castle had to be an intentional act of dominance, her wings spread to their fullest length in a show of size and prowess. The thought certainly soured things more than they already were.

Men in heavy blue wools and leathers ran past you, gathering at all posts. Servants gathered the young children and corralled them inside. Your feet caught on the ground, unsure whether you should run or join the entourage gathering to meet him. Watching from above, you could see the doormen heeding orders to open the gates to the castle, hesitation in their every crank of the pulley for what awaited them on the other side. As the gate lifted, so did what felt like your last defenses, no matter how meager they felt against a dragon.

The Umbers and Flints flanked your brother on their exit from the Great Keep, and you knew you must act now. It calmed you to watch them: each northman walked with pride, furs sitting as a second skin against their long dark hair. It was a show of strength you needed, though you were sure you were not alone.

Your boots clicked in a scurry down the steps of the battlements, pushing hurriedly past any servant or workman that stood in your way. Ultimately, you decided that if Aemond did have any care left for you, your presence might de-escalate any arising tension. By the time you had entered the courtyard, the east gate had opened and Aemond stood as one against many in greeting.

A black fur sat wide on his shoulders, but the large cloak that fell beneath it hardly concealed the hilt of the swords he carried at each hip. He looked every bit as lethal as his dragon’s head rearing over the gates. Your heart ached against your rational judgement at the sight of him, and you slowed your movements.

A figure made in the image of Gods, you were sure of it. Imagining his silver hair and sharpness in your mind’s eye did no service to the beacon of beauty he was in the flesh. For a moment, it was summer again, and your stomach bubbled in cheerful anticipation and not caution.

Tentatively, you emerged from behind your brother’s side, snow crunching lightly beneath your boots. The moment he noticed you, the air turned warmer.

“My Lady Stark,” he bowed to you, his eye fixed loyally to yours.

It was beneath him to honor you with a bow. Your belly twinged at the thought of him being so brazen, and the eyes that gazed upon you with a new peculiar interest.

The formalities felt foreign and out of place, but arising more suspicion with familiarities felt worse. “Prince Aemond, I welcome you to my home.”

Before another word could be spoken, Cregan placed a firm hand on the back of your shoulder. “The prince is here to talk over some official matters. Come, let us get warm inside.”

Introductions were passed away from you, Cregan continuing his tight lead on your shoulder.

Northern furs suit him quite well, you thought.

—

The sun had long descended over the hills, the icy night’s breath beyond the wall welcoming anyone who stepped outside. The Great Hall was adorned in pine wreaths and winter berries, and cedar cones and noble fir dressing for the festivities. Candle holders layered upon another to flay light across the walls, the wax of days upon moons dripping down the sides of the holders like heavy icing on cakes.

It felt like ages since all of the Stark bannermen had been together, and old friends across families traded stories and card games over spiced ale and honey mead. The raucous had already begun, the succession crisis and Aemond’s presence be damned.

But you were less immune than the others to southron matters. If it was any other night, you would have abandoned your seat to join the Mormonts the moment dessert had been served. You had hardly flinched from your seat, Aemond sitting on the other side of Cregan.

It wasn’t just you that struggled to enjoy the festivities. Rickon sat solemnly, and though you couldn’t see her, you could feel Alysanne’s itch from across the table. In your memory, there had not been a sup as tense as the one before you now. Not even during the most raucous moments of Bennard’s regency.

From what you could see, Aemond sat chin up at your brother’s right hand in the Great Hall, daring to meet the eye of anyone who looked directly at him for too long.

Did he remember? Joining in the merriment felt far as Aemond’s closeness held your mind and heart in the great bind that you had all fallen into at the defiance of Aegon’s coronation. Between the warmth of your southron days in a peaceful realm and the uncertain tidings of the inevitability of your families splitting across enemy lines, your stomach turned at the matters in Aemond’s head.

Cregan stood, the jolly room following the attention of their liege loyally. “Prince Aemond Targaryen has graced us with his presence for our winter festivities.”

“The honor is mine to be in the north at such an important time.” At his own recognition he stood, raising his cup.

“Hear, hear!” Cregan cheered, the tension in his jaw visible to no one but you. Cups flew in celebration, horns clattering and ale spilling. With a signalling of his hand, the bards began fiddling with strings and bells.

Dismissing himself from the table in what you knew was an act meant to soothe himself before he swung Ice at the nearest unlucky post, your brother stepped down to greet the Reeds. Mulled wine danced in your cup, the dark purple echoing cinnamon and anise. There was now nothing between you and Aemond besides the empty chair of the head of house Stark. The hearths were lit—the giant towering stone was hardly cold—but there was no stopping the twinge of a shiver.

So many words had been shared before Aegon had stolen the crown, and you wondered if he remembered all of them. It had been moons since you had seen each other last, and there was no promise of what played in his intentions anymore.

Your mouth was in front of your head. “These are curious times, but winter comes anyway. The one force we must all bow to.”

“And you celebrate instead of damning it?”

You had imagined begging the gods to bring you two together again. But winds can switch within weeks, days even. It was a child’s folly, or a wish upon a monkey’s paw—you couldn’t decide which.

“Aye, we do. The longer nights, nature calls us to rest and gain our strength,” you paused. “We could stare at it for the death it brings, but it’s more than that.”

“Hmm,” his eye washed over the scene below: jubilant dancers shedding their furs, others shoving their faces with cranberry roast goose while the songs bounced in the high halls of the winter kings. There was a carefree nature of your fellow northmen that you had never seen in the south, and you wondered if the warmth built up more layers than it shed.

“I know you southerners don’t understand our ways. I’m sure this is very new to you.”

He turned, eye dancing over your face. “I find it interesting.”

Dragons rarely came north. Aemond stood lone.

Perhaps it was the merry presence of all those you loved dearly, or the choke of death you could sense from miles away, but the distance between you and Aemond felt treacherous. Or worse, traitorous.

You met Aemond’s eye. For so long, he had been a figure in your mind, his presence almost a hypothetical. He existed in a warmer land, one where the sun and sea sparkled off of one another and the dirt sprouted grass and red brick rose the heights of the cliffs to the heavens. Crisis in the south were always so far away, great rivers and mountain passes requiring over a moon’s journey lying between. But he was here now: skin flickering in the flames burning not for light but for warmth as well, Targaryen silver hair feathered down his back like the hands of a ghost, scar dividing his face, as beautiful as the day you had first seen him.

He studied you just the same. Between you, wintry tunes twiddled by the practiced fingers of the musicians sung of the kings of winter, slayers of skinchangers and defenders of what lies beyond the wall, the keepers of knowledge that southerners can not begin to grasp find their home here carried through your blood.

This was your time to share those stories, celebrate the old kings and the promise of winter’s darkness with the singers and all of those that had gathered here for what is thoroughly a northerner’s celebration. Yet here you were at an invisible crossroads with the prince of the realm who would not stand to be denied in mind or matter. His royal blood continuously pulled at you to attend as if you were still in the Red Keep and not in your very own halls.

A Targaryen or two had visited Winterfell once, though the last was under much less grievous circumstances. Alysanne’s was the last dragon to brave the frozen lands, her and Jaehaerys on a true diplomatic mission with no threat of doom hanging over their heads.

You lot were wolves, fur thick and jaws tight, sturdy and hard enough to endure the ice—and yet dragons cowed the winter kings. Aemond’s presence was a cold reminder of that. Dragonfire had never teased Winterfell with ash, but the threat of it lingered now like a stubborn ember in the hearth ready to erupt if a nasty draught came through.

Cregan settled back to the table, his face stern and carrying judgement. He took his seat between you once more, dissolving your attentions.

“My father swore an oath to Rhaenyra,” he began, unbreaking of his eye contact and at a level only detectable by those sitting closest to him. “A Stark never forgets an oath. I would have assumed our reputation would be well met.”

“I understand this, Lord Stark.” Aemond began. There was no hesitation spared from the proud dragon prince. “I simply wanted to make our stances official in the name of the crown.”

Apprehension and distrust hung in the low firelight. The bells beat on behind the attention of the table, singers caroling the haunt of winter between the silence of the prince and the lord.

“Your dragon may be fierce, my prince, but we will not be intimidated.” At Cregan’s declaration, you could feel the ears of the northmen sitting the closest to your table perk up, straightening their backs and harden their own faces—an assertion of pride and a foregoing of the fear that painstakingly had etched itself in their movements at Vhagar’s every grumble.

“I do not seek to intimidate you. Only to draw our lines.” Aemond sat back in his chair, eyeing you.

“Very well then. Our lines are drawn.” Cregan’s brow tensed, and you knew he was biting down hard in restraint.

The singers sang their songs of winter’s past, and the promise of an eventual spring.

—

“He wants us to see that fire breathing monster—

“He’s come to sabotage our army, or count our numbers, or—”

“Aye, I don’t trust him. There’s something not quite right, the Targaryen madness—”

The hour was late. Spittle had spattered across the table, fists flying, heads nodding, voices climbing higher and higher to be heard. The bards had returned to Wintertown, and all the celebration left with them. The northmen were restless, and understandably so with bellies full of too much ale and a dubious dragon prince lurking in the halls. All you lot had prayed the days of clandestine meetings were over once Cregan took the seat of Winterfell, but it had been too soon to hope.

Volleys of theories here or there made their rounds back and forth from all ends of the table. A pack of barking dogs was no better than the fur cloaked rowdy men who were in the heat of spitting at each other now. Cregan’s fist slamming on the wood was enough to draw quiet. “Enough. I demand order to this conversation.”

The hounds had been admonished, tails sinking between their legs at the scolding of their master. There was a moment of reprieve, where sensibility was able to override unordered chatter.

Satisfied with the settlement, Cregan nodded. “Aye, let us speak about this reasonably.”

It was most prudent to speak quietly anyways, considering the halls reeked of dragon. The candle marks were ever shrinking and your energy with it into what had to be the longest night you’d endured in ages. No amount of shouting could awaken you, though you prayed a reigned conversation would allow you to slip into your chambers faster.

Until the words spilled from Wylis Manderly’s mouth and promptly stole not only any draft of sleep in your body, but the breath in your chest as well.

“I know why he’s here,” Manderly started. “Her.”

It wasn’t supposed to be an accusation, but it sure did feel like one, the way it made your chest nearly cave and your defenses rise. The finger he pointed at your forehead felt like an arrow finding its target: lethal and sure of itself. The rest of the eyes at the table followed suit, curious.

“He’s here for her.” Manderly repeated, as if his pointing wasn’t enough.

There were very few times that you had been the subject of a council meeting, and you preferred it that way. It was no fun to have yourself torn apart and examined, no matter the purpose. Your eyes found those of your brother’s reflexively, breath catching in your throat in disbelief.

He returned it carefully. “Explain, Wylis.”

“His eye finds ‘ers. I know the look. He fancies her.” Manderly cocked his head. “She spent more than a few sun’s turns in the South. ‘Twas not more than about seven moons do I remember you comin’ home. Enough time to court our fine lady of the north, don’t ya think?”

The Lord of White Harbor might as well have stripped you bare, prying each layer of your dress with his claw-like hands to leave you exposed in view of the table. It wouldn’t feel any different.

“Is it true, sister?”

Fingers danced across your flesh, platinum hair sliding through your fingers. His thick, masculine moan vibrated on your tongue as his hands tested the weight of the flesh of your hips through squeezes and shakes. It wasn’t a sennight before that when your own fingers twirled your bud and you discreetly thought of him, despite everything.

“Prince Aemond and I were acquainted as friends. Nothing more.”

There was hesitancy in the way the men looked at you now, men of your own blood and land. A separation only possible between those with a cock and those without: the innate distrust that comes with the potential of reaching across enemy lines for the sake of living in a singer's tale. If you could sink down between the floorboards, you would have.

Cregan furrowed his brows, eyes never leaving you. “To you, maybe. The prince may feel differently.”

A bow of your head was all you knew to do. There was no need to deny anything further and spin a mummer’s tale. Lies never sat well in your stomach, to your brother no less.

The lords were dismissed per the late hour and the dreadful sense that Manderly was right. The back of your chair scraped along with the others, but your leave was halted.

“Not you, sister.”

It felt like being a little girl again, and your shoulders tensed to be scolded.

Voice small, you obliged. “Yes, brother.”

He walked towards you, placing his hands on your shoulders. Cregan’s grey stormed eyes passed through yours in a knowing, but you dared not say a word. Once the door had shut behind the very last man, he exhaled.

“He’s a dangerous man.” You could see the other words on his tongue, but you never heard them.

“I know.”

He held you there for a moment, and you wondered if he would tell you what was on his mind, what exactly he believed, and you wondered how you would react if he did. All you needed to spill yourself was one more weak push. One more word and he would know how you knew Aemond cared for you, he had promised several moons ago that he would come see you.

But he never asked, and the truth stayed buried in your throat.

—

In the darkest cave of the night, silence was unyielding. Every wolf’s howl was clamped over the mouth by snow, each sound buried alive in the cold white. It made each scurry of a mouse or crackle of a hearth in the castle stiffeningly louder.

Including your footsteps, which you were carefully navigating for discretion all the way to Aemond’s chambers. There would be no sleeping without putting your own matters to rest.

Unthinking, you reached for the door handle and rattled against the lock that held it tight. Your urgency felt out of place in the quiet tranquility of the night. His footsteps within were hesitant and slow. When the door opened, Aemond stood dagger pointed. For a moment, you felt what it was like to be on the other end of his blade, neck laid for the slaughter and his own eye hardened at the intruder who dared seek him at this hour.

At your wide eyes, he softened.

“Lady Stark.”

You didn’t want to waste any time. “Why are you here?”

“Hmm. I think you know why I’m here.” Aemond stalked closer. “I told you I’d come, little wolf.”

“They know.”

“Do they now?” a faint smirk played on his lips now. He stepped aside to welcome you in. “And what did they say about their fairest maiden and their newfound enemy?”

You stepped inside, unable to meet him. “I did not tell them.”

Aemond’s movements stopped. “Why not?”

For all the time you knew him, Aemond was supposed to be smart. A learned man who you could count on not just for knowledge but strategy and cleverness. His stubbornness to see your reasoning surprised you.

“It’s too dangerous. We’re entering war times.”

He scoffed. “If Winterfell wasn’t the safest place for you to be, I’d drag you on dragonback to King’s Landing. The second most safe place to be is by my side.”

“My father swore an oath to Rhaenyra.”

Aemond hardened then, cocking his head. His silhouette reflected that of his warrior nature.

“Are you sure you Starks are strong in your word?” His glare tore through you and you knew the memory he had held on so tightly to come all this way. So he did remember everything.

“I never promised my hand.” The moment the words left your lips, you felt their harshness. Guilt crept in, sinking in your heart.

Aemond exhaled sharply. “Did you have to? Was a pledge of your feelings not enough?”

“Aemond,” you warned, a careful hush of urgency in your voice, “I can’t.”

He burned. You could see it plain. “War is coming. You will stay here in Winterfell.”

It wasn’t as if you wouldn’t—he had told you nothing you were not already beholden to. But you saw Cregan and the others, thick in furs and heavy swords strapped to their backs marching south. Every further thought sickened you: dragons overhead, iron-melting flames casting over them.

There was a promise in his words, unspoken but just as present in the implication of safety. I will not bring war to Winterfell.

“I don’t want this.” The words slipped mindlessly. It was helpless to speak aloud. Aemond knew it, as did you.

He stalked towards you, face solemn yet set in the firmness of him. Gently, he took your hand in his, raising it to his lips. “I will come for you when the war is done.”

“But my brothers—”

“I don’t give a shit about your brothers.”

“Aemond,” you scolded.

“Do you not want this?” Aemond said in both query and anger, as if he could not fathom the idea of not being with him.

In truth, you couldn’t either. Memory melted in the sun, the cold that knocked on the gates of the castle chased away by the bright burn of a summer’s passion. Days watching the sweat on his brow as he swung his sword at Ser Cole, using the trivial training yard victories as reason to celebrate with your hands on his chest and his on your waist. Feasts spent sending cheeky looks to each other in a tease as he sat on the high table with the royal family, until he could come down and join the likes of you.

There was something precious between you, far beyond drunk desire in flesh. It made each kiss you shared all the sweeter.

You enjoyed it, the way that at first, he pretended like he wasn’t desperate for your affections. It made things fun, because the truth rested in his eye the moment of your first meeting. Over time, the mask melted and the truth was in his words, actions—and nothing he felt for you wasn’t returned.

At the time, your secret tongues and lips found themselves in the only shadow that you knew existed. but there were many more beyond your knowledge, whispering about what you had believed to be a decided matter of succession.

Winter had come and things were so, painfully different now.

“I want this, but I can’t.” Every bit of what you felt was evident in your voice. “How can you not see that?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“We are on opposite sides, Aemond.”

He shrugged. “You’re a lady. It’s not like you’re going to fight.”

“My brothers are. My men are. They will be on the battlefield, as will you.”

He pursed his lips, looking away from you in resignation of the truth. “Let us hope that our paths do not cross.”

The sink of your stomach was heavy enough that you took small steps backing away. The depths of the winter night whipped at your window. The wind sang a deathly tale, a warning to any who may try to brave it. Or maybe it was for you, the old gods finding a way to tell you that you were damned, as was he, as was whatever it was that lay between you both. Aemond stood, all of the fire in the hearth catching in his long starlight hair, the determination of the warrior he was—and would soon become—deep in his being.

“Don’t look so afraid of me.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? You’ll be commanding armies against mine. And you have a dragon.”

He took careful steps towards you, reaching a tender hand towards your face. “I would never hurt you.”

Words came to your tongue, but the feeling of his skin on your cheek dissolved any refute. He was even nearer now, the bend in your neck needed to find his eye. Aemond’s other hand found your bare cheek, and you stopped yourself from melting in the comfort of his gentle hold.

“Let me just be Aemond, not a prince,” his thumb caressed the pillow of your cheek lightly. “Let yourself just be you, not Lady Stark. Just this once.”

It was a nice thought: an escape from the lurking turmoil of metal on metal, metal on skin. The sword at his hip pressed into the side of your belly, the very thing that by winter’s end will have the blood of hundreds soaked through. Prince Aemond Targaryen, the deliverer of souls to their eternal sleep, whether it be damning them for choosing black or for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dragonflame was like that, wild and uncontrolled.

And you, Lady Stark, sister to the keeper of the north who had chosen black, who must follow in the steps of your kin for the sake of upholding honor. Who will sit in the dead of the north by the weirwood each day and pray to the gods that her brother will return, that her burly friends will join her by the fire once more to shoot the shit, that no one will be so unlucky to be caught beneath the wings of the beast that lay outside the castle walls or under the blade of the man in front of her.

No, you couldn’t be her. Not right now. Your lips parted in a pitiful protest—the very last you had in you, you knew—but his desperation silenced you.

“Please,” he nearly panted. His lips came closer, breath hot on your lips.

Was it honorable to feel the tongue of someone your family had sworn against? No, perhaps not. But—you reminded yourself, in a sorry attempt to make excuses—for now he was just Aemond.

And ‘just’ Aemond had delightfully silky locks to lightly twist your fingers in as your kiss deepended.

His doublet was thick and you wondered if he had it made for his visit. His visit to you. Running your hands along the sides of him, you felt the daggers at his hip, subtle but ready. Aemond was already feeling through your own dress, sifting through the layers to get to your skin. Each of you searching for one another’s flesh.

The heel of your foot lifted out of your slipper with the help of your other toes. Aemond was reaching to unclasp the buckles of his doublet, the both of you doing your own part while keeping your mouths on each other in your climb to get close.

Of all your frolicking, you had yet to see each other so bare. Your time in the Red Keep hadn’t allowed for many private moments. Kisses were frequently stolen between training sessions and feasts, but the risk of being found in Aemond’s chambers—or him in yours—could be far too incriminating for your reputation. The one or two moments where you did find yourself alone in his chambers solely to see a book or another in his favor, and you were never there over a candle mark.

Winterfell was different from the Red Keep. There were far fewer vipers and spiders on the hunt. The hour was late, even later than any potential vipers may burden themselves to stay awake for. If one happened to see you, they served wolves and not dragons anyway. It was freeing to have him like this, a moment you had been long waiting for.

Aemond’s kiss was a seal of your condemnation, for from the first touch of your tongues those moons ago, you knew that at no point after tasting such a sweet nectar would you not seek it out over and over again. It was just as mind bending as it had been every other time: soft at first and leading into fullness. You had dreamed of his tongue on yours again, down your throat and lips on yours to consume you. He was hungry and you gladly fed the beast within him. The blood beneath his flesh burned hot, and the buds on your chest hardened at the feel of your bareness against his.

Long platinum locks lightly brushed over your shoulders in a sensual dance. Your hands roamed his body in curiosity and a thirst for closeness. It was hardened and soft all at once, the shape of him only feeding the burn of your desire.

It was difficult to admit to yourself how much you had needed this, having pushed it down when the sun set day after day and you struggled to remind yourself that Aemond was now a traitor to your queen and therefore your honor. His hands in your hair, feeling the dips and curves of your own body. Now, such things dissolved in the spit that passed from your lips to his, the animal of desire breaking through any code you clung to.

Holding you by your hips, Aemond backed you against his bed. His hands urged your thighs upward so your back may rest on the bed, as if he was preparing you for himself. You followed his lead dutifully, each graze of his fingers along your bare legs sending your belly alight.

Aemond leaned above you now, having joined you on the bed. “You’re all mine.”

“Yours,” you replied, rejoining your fingers to lace in his locks, holding his face as if it were a holy grail.

His fingers trailed lower across your stomach, past the heat between your legs and the dip where your leg met your hip. At their slight movement, you could feel more wetness begin to drip out of you, the teasing motion of his hands feeling so close…yet so far. Wide palms and lithe fingers moved to caress the skin just deeper than the inside of your knee. Featherlight touches on your skin reached outward towards your

Aemond moved patiently over your wetness with time to spare, despite your squirms and soft moans telling him that you were more than ready to feel the pads of his fingers. Soft kisses lined your cheek before dipping his lips and tongue into your mouth in deep union. His cock, covered by the cotton of his small clothes, sat heated and heavy on your leg. Every feel of him made you want him more.

Breaking you free from your prison of desire, his fingers finally brushed over your center. They most delicately gathered the nectar at your lips, playing with it against the flower of your entrance. The simple movement, yet another tease of his touch, weakened you into a puddle beneath his hand. His thumb found your clit, beginning slow circles there.

He was winding you up like a toy, playing you on his hand to make pretty noises. If he had asked you to do anything at that moment, you would have said yes.

Aemond’s other had reached up to meet your bottom lip, letting the pad of his thumb rest there. With wide eyes you accepted it to sit on your tongue, drawing it softly into your mouth before pulling back once more.

“That’s it, my little wolf” he said, releasing your lips their fixation.

There was little else you cared for, sitting on your bed in the humble guest chambers, hearth warmed and Aemond’s fingers sinking deep into your core and curling deliciously.

“Shh. You don’t want your northmen to hear, do you?” He said it, punching his words with another tight movement at the perfect place deep within you in a smug maneuver that he knew would have a moan choking from your throat despite the deep silence that surrounded you.

He was right, you didn’t, but you hardly cared if it meant his hands continued their sync. Every drop of hesitation and secrecy you had so desired earlier had been drowned out by the tight wanting of your core, wetness slipping down his fingers and coating the very inside of your thighs.

When your pleasure peaked into ecstasy, your honey soaked walls squeezed and fluttered around him, arms looped and holding him tight to you in breathy moans that were meant for him only. There were truly no boundaries wrapped between you now, even if just for a moment, the long absence of his touch and feel sinking deep into your essence.

Humming in satisfaction, Aemond slid his forefingers coated in your syrupy sex into his mouth. “I didn’t know the honor of a Stark tasted so delicious”

All the furs that had once sat heavily on the bed had slid off. Flesh against flesh, you were content in your afterglow, pushing away thoughts of tomorrow or the day after. Aemond’s hands were hungry more, his own desire hardly satiated. His cock weighed on your stomach, hips needily pressing into yours.

“Baby, you’re so soaked. Your body needs me inside you,” Aemond brushed his nose with yours, cock sliding over your pillowy lips.

He must have been a devil of some kind, the enemy, for trying to convince you that your maidenhead could be sacrificed while he was on a diplomatic mission.

Sensing your hesitation, he hummed into your mouth, drawing you into another kiss.

“Who would I be to leave you like this? You need to be fucked.” he purred into your ear, and your own hips flexed in release.

It was tempting. It was. But your virtue remained imperatively prudent, and no amount of Aemond’s want would change it. “I’m a maiden. You know this.”

“Does it matter if I want to marry you anyway?” His voice was lust-drunk, buried in your neck and leaving traces of kisses there.

You giggled, shifting under him. “Yes, Aemond.”

“Hmm.” He grumbled, lifting himself onto his elbows to look you in the face. “Guess I’ll just have to do it now then.”

It passed between you then, a faint look of heartbreak at the reality of what such things would mean, or what they would take. The betrayal of your brother, of your fellow bannermen—the question of Aemond’s truest allegiances, marriage or not, always sitting in the back of your mind. Roiling dragonfire and singing blades sliding against another in strain.

“I don’t care where we stand. You’re mine, Lady Stark. Nothing will ever change that.”

A kiss was your only reply, caught in the trouble and pleasure of his words, a sentence that fulfilled everything and nothing that you wanted to hear. Desperate and searching it was, searching for an end to the madness you were both inevitably walking towards and away from your unity.

With your limbs intertwined, heart to heart, each of you felt all of the possible flesh you could. You let yourself close your eyes in his embrace, candles dying in the latest hours of the night. Maybe, you thought, this moment could be eternal if you let it: if you were truly present in his warmth and flesh, it could anchor you both in time, allowing you both to feel and hold each other for centuries. No blood would soak into the dirt nor stain your hands. Never had you clung to an idea of peace so hard.

In another world, Rhaenyra ascended the throne just as the realm had thought. Your journey south would have been fulfilled just the same. Someone of importance would take note of your affinity for each other, and given that you were not being clearly stowed away for one dragon versus another, a marriage proposal would be signed and sent to your brother north. He would read it and scowl at the thought of his sister being tied to the Targaryen blood almost all Starks were partial to hating, but at the sight of your ease, he would relent. A wedding would be hosted in the Great Sept to please your prince and southron overlords, and another at the heart tree of Winterfell’s godswood.

You clung to your fantasy in the low hours until your knuckles turned white, Aemond’s soft breathing warming your cheek. But clinging to anything fleeting often meant bloodying your hands or being dragged until you let go.

Those in the south lived in an endless summer, whether they realized it or not. Many would claim a chill or swear they felt the winds change. Perhaps snow even fell occasionally—but such a faint dusting would cower in the face of the fronts from beyond the wall. Such a front scratched at the window of Aemond’s chamber now. It was a most cruel master to any bare skin unlucky enough to bear it, beating it raw until cracks formed and blood spurred. A similar iciness was threatening to drown you from the inside, only made stronger by the beat of Aemond’s blood in your ears.

No matter how much you wished it not be true, your honor could not allow you to stay in his arms for another moment. Especially not after you had indulged yourself on his fingers and lips.

Sloughing off the furs, you crept carefully to the mess of layers of your dress on the floor. It was late—or early, put differently—enough that you could do your best to get away with not wearing your full dress back to your room. As long as your previous state of savagery wasn’t obvious, the essentials would do.

When your eyes awoke once more in your own bed, it was to the ancient cry of a dragon. Your heavy legs and eyes ran to catch up with what you knew was happening, what you must confirm quickly in a hazy winter’s light. From the window, you could see Vhagar lifted her bronze head into the sky, fire threatening to leave the cavern of her throat. Her solemn grumbling echoed through the valley, swirling with the wind singing through the trees.

Cradles of snowflakes fell as falling stars, silver embers burning in the early light. It was still night—constellations just barely beginning to fade. Grabbing your furs to quickly wrap around your shoulders, you rushed out of your chambers. The torches in the hallway burned low. It was the last hour before they would be re-lit for another day’s warmth. Flames flickered past you in your hasty steps to the outermost walls of the castle.

You caught sight of Aemond, stalking into the arms of the frosted northern wild, a sickened determination—or resignation, you didn’t know which—in his steps. The black of his furs cradled his silver hair, a delicate, feathery mix of dark and light.

A goodbye wouldn’t have been wise, for you knew if you hadn’t left his chambers you would both wake up and refuse to leave each other’s side—or rather, he’d refuse you to leave his. If he was in front of you, he knew he could convince you of anything. There was too deep of suspicion for the prince to arouse the maiden Lady Stark, and Aemond was a smart man.

Or at least you told yourself so, hoping that he wasn’t bitter like he was in your fears, and that he understood.

The battlements on which you stood were tall enough to rise over any enemy that Winterfell might face. Thousands of years had seen enemies fall in front of the stone giants that guarded the innermost castle. Enemies of centuries past faltered against all kings of winter, sound in their defenses and strong in their charge. Any enemy but Aemond.

Heavy wings wafted through the north wind, the shadow of Vhagar draining the moon and snowlight from the sky in the shape of war-torn wings. With a large curl of her body, she turned to the walls on which you stood. Muscled and bronzed, Aemond and his beast came closer. You had never seen a dragon in flight so near to you. Her heavy legs hung in the air, the claws themselves thicker than your largest studs.

A few men below began howling in fear, but you knew something they did not. Even as she drew nearer and her wings covered Winterfell in shadow and her maw roared close enough you could see her blood soaked teeth and feel her boiling breath in the chapped air. It was warm against your cheek, a balm against the pale morning’s frost, comfort blooming where it touched. Near everything but the foundation of the castle itself shook against the dragon’s cry, mountainous wings curling wind through your hair.

There was a time when Harren the Black had seen a similar sight: the interchange between day and night, a beast larger than a small keep looming over his home, an impenetrable castle. Fire had burned deep in Balerion’s chest, and his black teeth were the gates of hellfire to all those who rested in Harrenhal. Aemond and Vhagar loomed above Winterfell now in a fierce stand, leaving you and all of your men as nothing but ash in the wind if he so desired.

You knew he didn’t.

Vhagar roared again, something painful desperately clawing from her chest, and you could feel the solemn echo of Aemond’s own turmoil. Her wings lifted higher through her cry, large body clawing through the sky until the darkness of her ascended into the heavy snow clouds.

The next time you saw the prince, the crown of the conqueror sat on his head as if it was made for him, and winter had licked your skin raw.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x fem!stark!reader #ewan mitchell smut #i was slightly unhappy with this #but alas it must be posted eventually #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen/reader #aemond targaryen smut

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dazzlerwriting · 3 months ago

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cowboy take me away

j.seresin x reader

pictures not mine, credits to pinterest

1k words

summary: sort of inspired by “Cowboy Take Me Away” by The Chicks. (great song you should check it out!) what was supposed to be a celebratory night, turns into reader sitting alone at a bar in texas. that is until a blonde aviator, visiting home, notices her.

Warnings: fluff! reader has not great friends. talks about an ex boyfriend. Alcohol consumption. Jake Seresin being a charming man? She/her pronouns are used and reader is said to be shorter than jake! no use of y/n!

authors note: first fic!! lmk what you think!

Sitting alone in a bar in the middle of Austin, Texas was not how you thought your Saturday was going to go. You had recently graduated from University of Texas in Austin so you thought you would be out with your boyfriend and friends, celebrating the fact that you were finally going to go to the University of California San Diego to get your masters in Educational Studies. But you just broke up with your boyfriend due to his extreme lack of interest in your relationship. He literally shrugged when you told him it was over. On top of that your friends seemingly forgot that you had plans, go figure.

So now you were sitting in some bar, under the soft disco lighting, with cowboy hats everywhere, fiddling with the straw in your drink, wondering how it could all go sour so fast.

“Is this seat taken?” a strong voice with a southern drawl asked. You whipped your head so fast you thought you could see the looney tunes birds flying, but no, what you saw was a man with sandy blonde hair and eyes that could rival the trees in the Ozarks. “Oh! Um N-no. No, it’s not.” He took his seat with a devilish smirk and waved down the bartender to order another drink for himself. While doing so you missed the part where he ordered you another drink. You were too busy roaming your eyes from the black Stetson that sat on top of his head, to the shirt that said “US Navy” & “H_ngm_n” on the pocket, and finally to the steel-toed cowboy boots that sat on his feet.

You heard a cough, and that’s when you realized he had been talking to you and was a bit closer now. Get it together he just asked a simple question and you just got out of a relationship, you scolded yourself. “Sorry, sorry what did you say?”

The smirk on his face just grows a bit bigger while replying, “I was just asking why a pretty girl like you looks so defeated in the most lively bar in all of Austin?”

Great. He’s charming and astute apparently. Now you can either lie to this very handsome man, or you can become the stereotypical person who dumps everything at the bar. Saved by the bell, or bartender in this case, because he delivers the drinks to you both, making the smirk on this man’s face slide to a polite smile, and also giving you a sense of reprieve at this moment.

“I’m Jake by the way, sorry if the question was too intense for an introduction. Can’t help but be curious.” You give him your name and the smirk is back way too quickly. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he replied, his smirk turning to a kind smile. “Does that work on all of the girls?” you snap back quickly. He looks a bit taken aback by the question, but that doesn’t deter him one bit, “Wouldn’t know, did it work on you?”

Sighing you finally turn to face him fully, taking in his form once again. After the day you’ve had, you decide you’ll entertain him for a bit, “Ya know what cowboy, it might’ve but don’t let that get to your head. We don’t need that cowboy hat to fall off.” Jake takes you in for a minute and gives you a smile that might be the sweetest thing you’ve seen in a bit. “So you gonna tell me why you’re lookin’ all sad in the middle of this bar?” he asks you once again, and you finally decide you need to at least tell someone or you might cry. So with your head down and while fidgeting with your hands, you tell him, “I just got accepted into the master’s program I applied for and to celebrate I was gonna meet my boyfriend and friends here. As you can see neither are here. I broke up with him and my friends all forgot or something, who knows.” You finally take a breath and look back up to see him looking at you with the slightest hint of concern.

He shakes his head and laughs gently. “Well, I guess congratulations are in order for the graduate, and for getting rid of the boyfriend who didn’t appreciate the beauty in his life.” With a soft smile, he tips his beer towards you and you do the same.

He abruptly stands up and holds out his hand, a silent question for a dance. You take it with a quizzical look on your face, and he drags you to the middle of the dance floor; now that you’re there, you look around and see that this place has cleared out a bit since you first got here. He looks down at you with a bit of adoration and says “A congratulatory dance is a necessity.”

He grabs your hips, while you wrap your arms around his neck, and it’s at this moment you realize that you would much rather be here, wrapped in this stranger’s arms, dancing to “Cowboy Take Me Away” than in the silence that your ex would’ve given. Looking at Jake with a smirk on your face, “The song is real fitting if you ask me, cowboy.” Your fingers are playing with the soft hair at the bottom of his head, and for a second it’s like a cat reacting to someone scratching their head. You’d be shocked if he didn’t start purring.

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed,” he replies with a soft chuckle. Looking into each other’s eyes, you stand on your toes, and you both lean in… but of course, nothing would go as planned. His cowboy hat hits you right in the forehead.

You pull back from each other and both break out into a fit of giggles. Jake looks at you with a soft smile, tips his cowboy hat back, and leans in again. This time your lips meet in a delicate kiss, his lips are soft and you can smell a hint of cologne on him. Warmth fills your cheeks, the kiss lasting only a matter of seconds, but it's just enough time for everything around you to disappear. When the kiss is over, your foreheads meet and you both continue swaying under the reflected disco lighting. Maybe tonight is way better than you originally planned.

#jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman fic #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman imagine #hangman x reader #top gun maverick #top gun hangman #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #hangman imagine

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pandapetals · 24 days ago

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Gossip Session

The girls are gossiping about Mrs. Howlett when Logan overhears them.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - established relationship (y'all married), cute, fluff, teasing, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

Rogue leaned casually against a tree, her arms crossed and a knowing smirk on her face as Kitty and Jubilee stopped walking and turned to her. The afternoon sun cast a soft glow over the garden, but the conversation between the three was anything but innocent.

“Let me guess,” Rogue said, cocking an eyebrow. “Y’all heard about that rumor.”

Jubilee’s eyes widened in excitement. “Oh, you mean about Mrs. Howlett?” She practically bounced on her heels, her voice dripping with playful intrigue.

Kitty’s mouth fell open in mock shock, her hand flying to her chest. “Wait, what ? There’s a rumor about her? Spill!”

Rogue rolled her eyes but grinned. “Apparently, some of the students are sayin’ she’s got Logan wrapped around her finger so tight he even started gardening. Gardening! Can you imagine Logan pickin’ out flowers and planting seeds?”

Jubilee giggled, doubling over slightly as she imagined it. “Oh my God. Logan with a little sunhat on, maybe some gloves. You think he talks to the plants, too?”

“‘Grow faster, bub,’” Kitty added, her voice gruff as she imitated Logan, sending all three into peals of laughter.

Unbeknownst to them, Logan was walking back from the greenhouse, a bundle of herbs and fresh vegetables tucked under his arm. He caught the tail end of their conversation and stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes.

For a moment, he stood there, deciding whether or not to interrupt. But when Jubilee’s voice drifted over with, “I bet she makes him do it! Like, ‘Logan, go plant me some tulips,’” Logan couldn’t resist.

With a low chuckle, he stepped out from behind the hedge. “Well, ain’t this a nice little gossip club.”

The girls froze like deer caught in headlights, their laughter cutting off instantly. Kitty’s face turned bright red, Jubilee let out a nervous laugh, and Rogue smirked, not at all fazed.

“Logan!” Kitty squeaked, trying to recover. “We weren’t… uh… we weren’t talking about you. Or Mrs. Howlett. Nope. Not at all.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, stepping closer and towering over the three of them. “Uh-huh. So, I didn’t just hear somethin’ about me wearin’ a sunhat in the garden?” His gruff voice carried a hint of amusement, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

Jubilee couldn’t hold it in any longer and started laughing again. “Okay, okay! But in our defense, you were coming from the greenhouse just now. And we all know Mrs. Howlett has you on a leash. A cute leash, but still a leash.”

Logan scoffed, though his smirk betrayed him. “First off, no one’s got me on a leash. Second, you think I’d be caught dead in a sunhat?”

“I mean…” Rogue began, her Southern drawl playful. “If she asked nicely enough, maybe?”

Logan pointed a warning finger at her, but the grin on his face was unmistakable. “Watch it, Rogue.”

Kitty tilted her head, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Wait, so do you actually garden for her? Or was that part of the rumor made up?”

Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he set the bundle of herbs and veggies down on a nearby bench. “Look, she likes fresh stuff for cookin’. So, yeah, I planted a little somethin’ out back. Big deal.”

The girls exchanged glances, grinning like they’d just uncovered a juicy secret. “Aww, he’s blushing!” Jubilee teased, pointing at Logan’s faintly flushed face.

Logan rolled his eyes but chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. At least I don’t go around spreadin’ rumors.”

Rogue raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “Oh, we don’t spread ‘em, sugar. We just enjoy listenin’ to ‘em.”

Logan crossed his arms, giving them his best mock glare. “You’re all trouble, you know that?”

Jubilee stepped closer, her grin turning mischievous. “Hey, speaking of Mrs. Howlett… is it true she used to write poetry? Like, super romantic, flowery stuff? Someone said she read a poem to you once and you almost cried.”

Logan blinked, his jaw tightening slightly, but then he surprised them by chuckling. “Yeah, she does…sometimes. For the record, I didn’t cry. Just… got somethin’ in my eye.”

Kitty gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Wait, wait, wait. She does write poetry? Oh my God, that’s so sweet!”

Rogue leaned closer, grinning. “What’d it say? Spill it, Logan.”

Logan shook his head, his smirk growing as he backed away toward the mansion. “Nope. Not happenin’. If you wanna know, you ask her yourself. She writes all sorts of stuff. But good luck with that—she doesn’t tell me half the stuff I learn about her.”

Jubilee narrowed her eyes, her tone dripping with mock offense. “You mean to tell me you’re married to her, and there’s stuff you don’t know?”

Logan gave Jubilee a lopsided grin, his tone playful. “Marriage is a lifelong mystery, kid. And I’m just lucky she puts up with me.”

The girls burst into laughter, their amusement ringing through the garden as Logan turned to leave. Before he could, Jubilee called out, stopping him in his tracks.

“Hey, Logan! Did you know your wife has a question box in her classroom?” she asked, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

Kitty immediately chimed in, doubling over with laughter. “Oh, he knows! I heard he even helped her answer some of the questions one time.”

Logan froze mid-step, glancing over his shoulder at them. His brow quirked in mock suspicion. “Yeah, I know. It’s her clever way of getting the students to ‘focus.’” He folded his arms, though his smirk gave away his amusement. “What about it?”

Jubilee leaned forward, her eyes glinting with delight. “Oh, just that… some of the questions in that box are about you .”

Rogue raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Did ya know the kids asked her what you do to make her blush? Or what her favorite thing about you is?”

Logan’s smirk faltered, replaced by a mix of curiosity and slight embarrassment. “What’d she say?” he asked, his gruff voice dropping a notch, though he tried to sound casual.

Jubilee and Kitty exchanged mischievous glances, dragging out the suspense. “Well,” Jubilee began, tilting her head dramatically, “she said you don’t even have to try to make her blush—just the way you look at her sometimes is enough.”

Logan blinked, his rough exterior softening for a moment. He wasn’t expecting that. “She said that?” he asked quietly.

“And that’s not all,” Rogue added, stepping closer, clearly enjoying the moment. “Did ya know she leaves little notes for the students who seem upset? Kitty said she caught her leaving a note and a snack on a student’s desk after class one day. The kid was smilin’ all week.”

Logan’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “I… didn’t know that,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “But I should’ve known...she loves her little notes.”

“And!” Jubilee added excitedly, bouncing on her heels, “Did you know she asked Hank to set up a whole telescope lesson for the kids just because she overheard one of them say they liked astronomy? I mean, who does that?”

Kitty grinned, crossing her arms. “Oh, and remember that time you had a crappy week? She totally reorganized her schedule just so she could bring you lunch every day, but she didn’t tell you. She told Jean she didn’t want you to think she was fussin’ too much.”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck, his smirk returning but tinged with something softer, something deeper. “You three been keepin’ tabs on her or somethin’?”

“Logan, we’re girls. We notice things,” Jubilee said with a grin. “And don’t act like you’re not smitten. You’re practically walking around like a lovesick puppy half the time.”

Logan scoffed, his gruff demeanor kicking back in, though it was half-hearted at best. “I ain’t smitten. I’m just… lucky.” His gaze softened as he looked toward the mansion. “She’s somethin’ else, isn’t she?”

The girls nodded in unison, their teasing giving way to genuine smiles. Rogue patted Logan on the arm. “She’s a keeper, sugar. Not that ya didn’t already know that.”

“Damn right I know,” Logan replied, his voice a quiet rumble. He glanced back at the garden, then toward the mansion where he knew you were probably grading papers or planning a lesson. After a beat, he gave the girls a sly grin. “You three keep gossipin’ all you want. Just don’t tell her you spilled all this, or she’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Jubilee laughed, rolling her eyes. “Please. She’ll probably blush and call you ‘tough guy.’”

Logan smirked, shaking his head as he turned toward the mansion. “Yeah, probably.”

As he walked away, Rogue called after him. “Hey, Logan, don’t forget to tell her all this! Women like to hear it, ya know!”

Logan raised a hand in acknowledgment but didn’t turn around, his heart swelling at the thought of all the little things you did—things he hadn’t even realized. For the rest of the day, he carried those new pieces of you close, already planning how to make sure you knew just how much he appreciated you.

#logan howlett #wolverine #x men logan #x men wolverine #fluff #james logan howlett #logan howlett x you #logan x reader #hugh jackman #marvel #days of future past #professor logan #professor howlett #logan howlett fluff

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